Jay Fox - THE WALLS

“The one about quitting heroin.”

“I know that,” Aberdeen says with indignation. “What is it called?”

“There isn't a Phish song about heroin,” I protest.

“I remember,” Tomas exclaims. “It's 'Down with Disease'.” Aberdeen nods. “It's not that bad of a song.”

“Yes, it is. The album version is terrible, and it would be tolerable live if the damn guitarist didn't take a twenty minute solo during the (pause, sigh, eye roll) jam.”

“What about that other song, the one about the specter of white, male privilege?”

“The ghost song?”

“Yeah.”

“That one's not so bad. It certainly touches on a very poignant subject.” Aberdeen pauses. “I still don't like them.”

“What was that one band he really dug for a while? The one that was really out there?”

“Tortoise,” Aberdeen answers. “We went to the show together. That was actually one of the selling points when he moved in. On top of that, he told us that he would be gone for three months out of the year, and that he didn't want to sublet his space.”

“So he's paying for his room even though he's not there?”

“Yes.”

“Like I said,” Tomas begins, “He's a good guy.”

“How long ago was that Tortoise show anyway? Was it last August?”

“I don't know.”

“Regardless, it was a great show,” he says with authority. “I think they're the only modern band the two of us both like besides Air and Radiohead.”

“What about Wilco?”

“Obviously,” he grants. It is as if enjoying the band has become something of a prerequisite as opposed to a taste, especially with the new album that came out this past Tuesday. “Tortoise, however, has a very unique sound,” Aberdeen continues. “They are too sophisticated for a lot of people. We also went to check out this new band that we both really liked right before he left. Yeasayer — ever heard of them?”

“No.”

“Was that the band with the really good xylophone player?”

“No.”

I try to steer the conversation away from the band and on to Coprolalia, but not before Aberdeen goes to the jukebox and returns chagrined by the absence of several bands residing in various realms of obscurity (though it must be said that almost all of these bands resided outside of the realm of obscure-for-obscurity’s-sake, which serves as the most garish theater for the most pompous of audiences for whom the Internet is the backbone of their identity — i.e. so long small bands in my town, hello alt-country groups from Benin). He broods for the duration of the bloody mary, and is the first to make the trek back to the bartender. He returns with what is more than likely a gin and tonic, as there are four slices of lime in his glass. A song accompanies his return; we are informed of its name, as well as the band that it is by, but this information is ignored. I am fairly certain that it comes from the bartender's iPod.

Coprolalia once again becomes the focal point of the discussion, though the argument this time around is not about the four letters in the bathroom. As it turns out, Aberdeen is of the opinion that the real Coprolalia retired a few years ago. He has no evidence of this, of course, but there's no argument good enough to dissuade him. “He's another Willis Faxo,” he says with a roll of the eyes.

“Another who?” I ask

“Willis Faxo,” Tomas enunciates. I shrug. “He was initially big into Agitprop, although some would call his work Postagitprop—”

“—Which Meinenshahldurgheim has argued is really a form of Cryptoromanticism that has become conscious of itself as such. But wouldn't this make it Neoromantic, perhaps Metapostromantic?”

Tomas and I exchange looks. “Regardless,” Tomas resumes, “He's the artist who made the sculpture outside of the Keens Center.” He stops to scratch his head. “What the fuck is it called again?”

“I don't recall. It's really a fantastic piece, though,” Aberdeen says as he turns to me. “Have you seen it?”

“No.”

“I totally dig it, man. You should check it out when you get the chance.” He drinks a good deal of his bloody mary. “Anyway, I'm not convinced that Coprolalia retired. He probably just moved out of the city, to, like, Long Island or something. There’s that one city that used to be all artists. It doesn’t even have stoplights. I totally think he’s there.”

“On what grounds do you make that assumption?”

“On what grounds do you make your assumption?” Caesura . “Dick.”

“Look, he obviously retired back in oh-two or oh-three when his work started receiving so much exposure. Everything since then has been the work of copycat artists.”

“No way, man,” Tomas protests. “He just doesn't live here anymore. How else can you explain the consistency of his work?”

“It's not consistent at all! If it weren't for Sean, I wouldn't even think that it's the work of a single artist.”

“That's total bullshit, man. You know that Coprolalia has a style. Look at Vis Inertiae . That's so obviously a Coprolalia.”

“That's not what Sean says,” I chime in.

“Who gives a fuck what Sean says. It's not like he's the only person who knows for certain what a fucking Coprolalia is or isn't.”

“He knows better than you,” Aberdeen says quietly as he buries his face in his tumbler.

“I don't care. I think he's fucking wrong. Okay: consider the one that's in that bar way out in Jamaica,” he begins. “What's that fucking place called?” he asks the ceiling. “I'm not going to remember. Anyway, it's the place right next to the Sutpen Boulevard F — you know, the one that's like two blocks away from the court.”

“I think you mean Sutphin Boulevard. Sutpen is a Faulkner character.”

“Sutphin, Sutpen, who the fuck cares?” as he rolls his eyes. “It's the one that reads Guardians Of Privilege with an elephant drinking a flute of champagne. It's almost the same joke as Vis Inertiae . And it's from a year ago, man.”

“No, it's from two thousand and four — you know, when the election was taking place.”

“Regardless,” Tomas counters with a particularly spastic motion of the hand, “This only proves my point. His newer pieces keep appearing in the parts of Queens and Brooklyn that you can easily get to from the L.I.E. or the B.Q.E. Dig it, man, he's totally coming in from Long Island.”

“Yes, but here's why you're wrong….”

This continues for the duration of Tomas' bloody mary and Aberdeen's gin and tonic. They demand that I finish what is left of my first cocktail, buy me another round (this time a pint of German beer with a name that I can't pronounce), and then come back in the mood to talk about something else. I feel slightly awkward after their arguments concerning Coprolalia have been exhausted. They seem to be immune to my presence.

I've never been to this particular bar. While it is not the first location in Greenpoint I have visited, it is my first time this far up Manhattan Avenue. I don't think it qualifies as a dive, but some people would disagree. It certainly has that distinctly north Brooklyn feel to it — spacious, dark, unassuming. There are several pieces of art on the wall, more than likely the work of a single artist. It's an odd style, though the medium — oil on canvas — is straightforward enough. The palette is warm, filled with browns and abundant diagonals. The work is too abstract to describe without turning the process into a psychology experiment. (There is one exception to this statement: what appears to be the silhouette of a woman (you can tell by the breasts, the half moons shawled by arms crossed via St. Andrew) turning away from an ajar door. There is perhaps a man there, either opening or closing it. If opening, perhaps she sits clothed at the table quietly becoming enraged by “the fact that revolutionary women are always villianized.” If closing, she has shawled herself in only a robe, a birthday present from better days. If closing, I have said my goodbye. If closing, you twist a more recent gift in your fingers as you glare to the window as if in mourning, my Gabrielle with a rose. And perhaps you watch as I trudge down the stairs and continue along the walkway that bisects the snow, which glimmers like nacre in the sodium streetlights above, your eyes both glassy and gelid enough to disguise the relief that you are feeling, even if that relief only compounds the guilt that will eventually lead you to the liquor store, and then, several hours later, to the telephone .)