Jay Fox - THE WALLS

“Sorry.”

I can't tell if he's furious or just curious. “You don't even remember any of this, do you?”

“Well,” I begin with a smile, “I didn't until you mentioned it.”

“So you're an eidetic drunk?”

“Sure.”

“Do you even know what 'eidetic' means?”

“Yeah. Perfect memory. It came up recently.”

“While you were getting loaded at one of your plebeian bars?”

“No, at a party in Williamsburg.”

“What type of party?” he asks as I close the door to my bedroom.

“Where have you been?” It's him again; I just think there is a long enough pause to warrant a new paragraph. I don't respond to either question for a few minutes.

I finally open the door as I am putting on my belt. He is at the table smoking a cigarette. “I don't even know if you're going to believe me.”

He smiles as he looks up from the June issue of Harper's . I think he envies me. “Really?”

“Can I bum a smoke?”

“Sure.”

I take a seat across from him. Yo La Tango is busy covering a William DeVaughn track in Jeff's room. He slides the pack across the table.

I explain everything to him: Patrick, the A-R-E, Daphne (The cigarette is finished. He hands me another one.), the argument with Sean, the day and night spent with Vinati, the conversation with Willis Faxo, the histrionics of Connie, my transformation into Diego for a portion of the day. He nods enthusiastically as I retell all of these events, interjects rarely, and laughs in advance. I finish the second cigarette as I tell him what happened after washing dishes: eating Connie's meal with the hostess, two of the waiters, and the bartender. The bartender gave us copious amounts of wine and, without patrons to mollify, activated an iPod playlist filed with fin de siècle pieces, which included “Claire de Lune”, “Gymnopédies”, and the first movement of Elgar's Cello Concerto in E Minor (which may be considered too late to fall in with the fin de siècle , but, for whatever reason, its always related to Dvorák's “New World Symphony” in my mind). Efren, the bartender, described Elgar's compositions as majestic, as if something out of an excellent fantasy film. Satie, he said, is the most haunting composer of the period, perhaps ever. I modified the adjective to “harrowing” without remonstration on his part. As he popped another cork from a previously opened bottle of red wine that was probably worth forty or fifty dollars retail, he explained that the owner didn't care about conserving wine once the bottle had been paid for. “It's fucked up how often these rich people buy a bottle, have a glass, and then leave the rest.” We talked about Philip Glass for a while. He was ambivalent about much of the composer's corpus, but thought the world of an album of études that was released in 2003. I had never heard it, which he found criminal. Soon I was promising that I buy it whenever I got the chance.

I didn't understand his attachment to the album until he told me that he was a struggling composer, and that most of his compositions were for solo piano. He also wrote for string quartet and quintet on occasion, but preferred to work with just one instrument. Since he only played the piano (and a little guitar), this seemed to be the most rational instrument for which to write. Some of his work has apparently been featured in a few video-game soundtracks. Much to my surprise, this is a pretty big market for contemporary composers. “It sounds like a joke, but, man, even the New York Times will be reviewing video-games in a few years — if not sooner. It's a legitimate artistic medium now.”

“And that's what I've been up to.”

“I told you that Connie was unstable,” Jeff says with a shake of the head.

“I know. But love blinds you, you know.” Caesura . “I guess I should have known that she was going to pull some type of stunt.”

Jeff stares to the table somberly as though he is studying a recondite text that demands no small amount of concentration. “Is this how you're going to remember her?”

“What?”

“Can you even remember her — before all of this?” as he pushes his glasses up.

“I guess I just remember that she was always…”

“Always what?”

“I don't know. My thinking is a bit cloudy. It's been a long day.”

“What did you see in her?”

“I don't know,” with a shrug.

“Seriously, man. What did you see in her?”

“I guess she's really intelligent. She's just prone to these bouts of — I know I've already used this word today, but it seems to be the only one that fits — histrionics. It's as though she has this pathological need to create dramatic situations.” I pause. “And maybe I felt like she was the only person who really fit, you know. There are only a few redeeming qualities that I can think of right now, but, for whatever reason, there just seemed to be something there, something deeper that I've lost. Does that make any sense to you?”

“Not to be rude, but it sounds like you spend two years settling. She may be intelligent, but it sounds like she's emotionally retarded and, to be blunt, a total fucking bitch.”

“Maybe you're right.” I pause for a while. “The thing is that I spent so much time with her that I can't really see myself with anyone else. Not even now.”

“What about this Vinati girl?”

“The whole situation just seems too good to be true. Maybe it's even surreal — I don't know. You haven't seen her, but, man, I've got to tell you, she's just…she's something else.”

He smiles. “Did you know Hegel believed India to be home to the most beautiful women on Earth?”

“I didn't realize Hegel had much experience with women from that part of the world.”

“Maybe it was just common wisdom at the time. To be honest, I don't really know. It's just something that I've always found funny.” He lights a cigarette. “Herodotus said the same thing about Ethiopian women. Neither one stated it as an opinion, either. They both considered their statements to be established facts.”

I nod.

“What else do you see in her?”

“Connie?”

“No, this…what's her name again?”

“Vinati.”

“Vinati. It's a beautiful name.”

“It is. And she's just incredibly beautiful. And she's, you know, fairly intelligent, too. I mean, I never considered her to be a great intellect or anything, but we had a lot of good conversations yesterday.”

“So she's not a dummy.”

“No, she's not. She's bright. She's fairly well read. She has a good sense of humor, which is a hell of a lot more than I can say of Connie.”

“It sounds like all the necessary building blocks are there.”

“Yeah, they are. Definitely. And I feel bad that I can't really tell you about all of her idiosyncrasies yet — that's just because I'm getting to know her.”

“Really? You?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Look, it's not that I'm accusing you of being judgmental. You just have the tendency to…I guess construct personae and back-stories for people out of nothing more than a glance. I guess all people do it; you just seem to go into a lot depth.”

“So I over-analyze people?”

“Yes. Look, dude, I'm not trying to insult you. It's not like it's a character flaw or anything. I mean, you're just like Zuckerman.”

“Dylan?”

“No, Roth's Zuckerman. I don't remember his first name.”

“Okay.”

He drags from his cigarette in silence. Where did the music go? “I just find it odd that you haven't seriously thought about this girl.”

“Sometimes I just don't. Certain people I just accept at face value.”

“Okay,” he says as he reveals his palms to me. He's quiet for a moment. “But, going back to Connie, it seems as though you were in love with the idea of having a girlfriend. In other words, the particular person wasn't all that important; you just wanted to be in love with someone. Some people may say that you were in love with the idea of her.” He ashes the cigarette, looks to it, and then puts it in his mouth. “I'm sorry if any of this is out of line or overly cerebral.”