Jay Fox - THE WALLS

“What was the ( caesura ) position for?”

She flashes her teeth. “Administrative assistant.”

“That's about as vague as you can get.”

“You know, answering phones, responding to emails, assisting some rich asshole with his daily life.”

“So secretary.”

“Sure,” derisively, “if you’re stuck in the fifties.”

“What industry?”

“Publishing. I don't even know what they specialize in.”

“Was it an agency or a publishing house?”

“It was an agency. I don't know anyone they represent. No one good, I assume. I wanted to get a job with the people who handle Tom Robbins, but they aren't based in the City.” Something catches her eye. “Hey, the Frick is coming up, right?” I respond in the affirmative. “Remember the one portrait we liked so much, the one with the drag queen?”

“Ah, yes,” I nod; “Gainsborough's Mrs. Elliot .”

“Oh my God,” she swoons; “I though we were going to get kicked out we were laughing so hard. Have you been in there lately?”

“The Frick?”

“Yeah…to see if Coprolalia has…I guess marked his territory.”

“That's not exactly his style.”

I can't tell if the subsequent silence is awkward. It's not silence, of course, just a suspension of conversation. The cars continue to hiss past, kicking up rainwater and coagulated soot and pebbles that have arrived in this city from God knows where. Others out sauntering in the drizzle are speaking in a multitude of languages, as it is the tourist season. A lot of them are wearing garbage bags as a consequence of the rain. I've always believed Europeans to be more fashion conscious than us, but I guess that generalization only applies when the sun's out. Vendors listen to radios at full volume. One hums along with a Chopin etude; others are listening to that modern stuff from the East, which sound like tracks from a Bollywood film. A pauper asks the man in front of us for change, but requests nothing from either Connie or myself. He checks her out with his whole body as we pass. He does not simply follow her with his eyes; rather, he turns his entire body with that sexual deviant posture that a lot of bassists are known to exhibit. A helicopter can be heard overhead. A French bulldog mounts a Pomeranian, which arouses a series of shrieks and laughs. Connie seems oblivious.

“I also remember,” she begins, “You started calling me Gabrielle after that. You said I reminded you of…who was that? One of someone's models?”

“Renoir.”

“I still don't see the resemblance. It wasn't exactly flattering to compare the two of us, you know. She was kind of…I don't know…big-boned.”

“You two have similar faces.”

“She was his cousin, right?”

“The family nanny.”

She is quiet for a moment.

“So what have you been up to besides chasing this artist around?”

“That's about all I've had time for,” I respond. “As I've said, it's not exactly a part-time gig.”

“Jessica tells me you've been hanging around Tomas Bennington a lot.”

“Yeah.” I want to follow this up with something, but nothing comes to mind.

“What's he like?”

“I don't know. He's a pretty normal guy.” I pause. “Same with Aberdeen.”

“Who?”

“James Aberdeen. He's another artist.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He's best friends with Tomas. Actually, they're roommates.”

“I see.”

“I met Willis Faxo, too, if you know him.”

“Never heard of him, either.” She laughs. “You were always such a snob when it came to art.”

Another pause, suspension. She motions for me to cross the street with her. I follow obediently.

She's pensive; she has something important to tell me . This is not prescience; it is more of a syllogism (though the conditional proposition that validates the argument is here only implied). Prescience would at least kill the suspicion and the anticipation. Of course, prescience (perhaps even clairvoyance) would have allowed me the chance to save what we once had. I would have been able to remedy whatever it was that forced me out the door so many months ago. Because it wasn't distance. It's never distance. It's something that you've done, though they won't tell you the catalyst that ignited all of the doubt in the relationship — no, not the relationship; in you, the recipient of the rejection — the person riddled with a cancer so pervasive and repulsive that it subsumes you, steals your identity, becomes all that she can see when she looks at you.

Maybe the reason is that they recognize your ability to surprise them. It's almost like a breech of contract, that you have trespassed upon an unspoken agreement to continue upon an asymptote towards some personal essence that they impute to you. You can never reach it, of course, but you are supposed to strive to engender this person, even if you aren't conscious of this ambition, even if you don't know who this person is supposed to be. You are flawed because you are not the you that they want you to be. But people change, perhaps not dramatically, but subtly. People do not always live up to expectations; in fact, they sometimes refuse to be defined by expectations (which can lead to a paradox, I suppose: By failing to live up to an expectation, you are doing what is expected). And it begins with one aberration, probably not a noticeable one. It's tiny, minute. And then this insignificant change leads to two more insignificant changes. It's exponential. Eventually, they not only mount, but begin to get more discernible. And these miscellaneous alterations eventually aggregate to such a point that you suddenly look upon your own past as you may look upon the pages of a history book — you acknowledge the veracity of the facts in the text, but aren't entirely sure whether or not you agree with the author's explanation as to why the events transpired in such a way. But she is not privy to this information. She still sees me as the me that I once was. But the truth of the matter is that I am following another asymptote, and that she's too stubborn to accept that this is why the equation she possesses keeps turning out the wrong answer. Then again—

“It's so good to see you again,” she says while squeezing my hand.

“I feel the same way.” I squeeze back. She quickly lets go. “I can't get over how great you look.”

She smiles. “Don't say that. I feel like shit. I think I've gained ten pounds since graduating.”

“So you're drinking a lot, too.”

“Well, I’ve been on a little Nebbiolo kick, but nothing excessive.”

“…”

“It’s a Sicilian wine. Either way, I’ve pretty much just been sitting at the computer all day sending out resumes.”

“I've heard that can be rough.”

“Yeah, it can be.”

“Hopefully I'll never have to find out about that.”

“I know Denny and Marge can't be supporting this. Your parents aren't exactly pro-hedonist.”

“They don't know. As far as they're concerned, I'm in the same boat as you.”

“So you're taking advantage of their kindness.” I squint. “You told me that they're helping you out.”

“Yeah, but I figure there's no real harm in it,” I begin. She spells out skepticism in sign. “Look, I don't want to sit here and rationalize all this.” She squints to me. “I know I can't ever be honest — even partially. But there's no way they would have ever financed this search, and there's no way I could have pulled it off while looking for a full-time job.”

“It takes, like, an hour a day.”

“No, it doesn't. You have to individualize every letter. You have to tweak your resume. You have to constantly be looking on six or seven different websites. You have to look through papers, too. It's a very involved process. I'd deal with it, but I've decided to dedicate every moment that I have to Coprolalia.”