'The Tourists' Book Party At The Box
"Poised for success in the literary community: Not only is Jeff Hobbs dedicating The Tourists to his mentor Bret Easton Ellis, but The Tourists has a plot and depth that makes it comparable to some of today's finest literary fiction," according to the copy on the galley of 27-year-old's debut novel. These statements are not entirely untrue! The literary community, or something like it, did turn out in full force last night to celebrate the book's publication. Jonathan Franzen was there! (Supposedly: we didn't actually glimpse him). And so was, for some reason, Aaron Eckhart!
Why was the star of Thank You For Smoking celebrating the publication of a literary novel at a much-ballyhooed Lower East Side club? For that matter, why was the party located at said ballyhooed club? And why was it sponsored by "Leblon Capirinhas," a drink which required labor-intensive hand-muddling by a team of beleagured, vintageish-costumed bartenders and which one partygoer was overheard describing as tasting "like poison"? The answer to all these questions was that Jeff Hobbs is married to a lady movie producer, who has lots of "connections," according to his Simon & Schuster publicist.
Jeff and his connected wife stood in the center of the thronged, dimly lit bar area of the Box, nodding shyly when approached. "Have you met Jeff? He's the nicest person in the world!" Jeff's agent David Halpern said repeatedly. This turned out to be pretty much true, which makes it hard to say anything about his novel, which explores how the plot points of The Great Gatsby would play out in 2007 if the Nick and Gatsby characters had been gay with each other in college. Here is a representative excerpt.
An editor at The Observer who has a long-standing crush on me and has thrown a significant amount of paying work my way because of that crush invites me to a Chelsea gallery opening filled with young and pretentious New Yorkers, and I know it will be painful and hard to endure—the usual—but because of the way the city works, I find myself in the position of not being able to say no to the editor at The Observer who is burdened with the crush.
Ethan sees me first. I am waiting at the bar for my fifth glass of wine.
"Things fall apart." The voice is behind me.
"The center cannot ... hold?" I reply haltingly.
"Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world."
It is the preface to the one class we took together—Literature of Imperialism, fall semester, junior year.
One of the fun conceits of The Box is that it's about 'redemocratizing' nightlife by providing a safe place for rich people to sit at tables drinking $500 bottles of vodka while caged remnants of the old Lower East Side prance before them on the stage of a restored vaudeville theater. The book party took place so early in the evening, though, that bottle service was not yet in effect. This meant that the publishing assistants occupying the coveted tables were only charged $13 for the non-capirinha beverages which they inevitably found themselves switching to as the party wore on. "Now I can say that I've been here!" one of them gushed. Two of them were tasked with selling copies of the book. Guests, perhaps feeling that their $24 would be better spent on almost two cocktails, seemed hesitant to buy.
By this point, Hobbs and his wife had made their way to the epicenter of the party. Hobbs smiled blithely into the crowd with a searching look in his eyes, occasionally running a hand through his boyish blond 90s hair. Perhaps he was finding the party painful and hard to endure, but because of the way the city works, had found himself in the position of not being able to say no.
