Jay Fox - THE WALLS

“The Golgotha?”

“Yes! And you totally fucking called it that, too. The Golgotha! It sounds like a metal band — like a Swedish, you know, like intense as fuck, metal band.”

“It's the site where Jesus was crucified. Apparently.”

“How do you know this shit, man? You're like what…fucking twenty-two?” I don't respond. “I can't wait to see the Coprolalia article, man. There's going to be references to, like, fucking Gilgamesh and shit.” He laughs. “You're a fucking madman, you know that?”

“Sure.”

“You don't remember any of this, do you?”

“…”

“Holy shit, man. I fucking knew it. You got into that big fight with Randy over Ayn Rand. You said that his…what was it? Yeah, his concept of…of…uh, bourgeois individualism was juvenile and…and-uh…his misunderstanding of Hegel and Marx was astonishing. And then you called him a fucking idiot or whatever it is you would call someone who you thought to be a fucking idiot, and then you told him that he had to read something less…jejiune…jajun…jejune? Is 'jejune' a word?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. So less jejune than a paperback novel if he ever wanted to seriously engage in a philosophical discussion.”

“That doesn't sound like me.”

“That was you, man. And it was beautiful. He hated you for a while, too, but you two patched your shit up because you're cool like that.” Pause. “And you don't remember any of this, do you?”

Blush. “No.”

“And the two of you promised never to bring up politics or anything like that again.”

“Is that it?”

“No. You also talked to that one chick at the bar. Remember her? What was her fucking name…like Roberta or some shit like that?” He pauses. “Oh yeah, Roseira! Yeah, she was this cute South American chick. I think she was, like, Columbian or Bolivian. She looked kind of like…um, the housekeeper from Bottle Rocket —you know, the one Luke Wilson nails.” Roseira's face appears from the oubliette of drunken oblivion. The image is tenebrous at first, but the shadows eventually fade. And there she is. Hi, Roseira! Her features are so overwhelmingly sensual that you want to possess her in ways that are not physically possible, kind of how you wish to live in your favorite song. She is one of those people who cannot avoid passion; she attracts it wherever she goes. The second greatest tragedy about her is that, while passion doesn't age, relationships and people most certainly do. The real tragedy is that she'll never accept that passion and love need not always coexist. “And you just went on and on about this Vinati chick until she left.”

“And then I passed out in the can.”

“Yeah.” He's as animated as a toddler. “And she was like telling you all the shit chicks tell guys when they're too afraid to approach a girl they like. You know, shit like be yourself, don't come off as nervous, she'll like you for you, women like men who are caring even though, so far as I can tell, you have to be a conceited prick to get noticed by about ninety-five percent of broads…”

A spot at the bar finally opens up. Tomas sneaks into position. “What do you want?”

“I don't know.”

“Bennington Special?”

“Do they have Guinness here?”

“There are more bars in this city with it than without it. I was at this little dump in Fort Greene the other day, and the only beers they had on tap were Guinness and Bud. Kind of funny, right? Maybe you should put that in your article.”

“Sure.”

He orders, shells out twenty-five bucks, and then turns back to me. I add that Aberdeen needs a beer. This is ignored. “Anyway, I won't go over everything you said and did because I know how embarrassing it can be to listen to stories about how drunk you were, dig? The point is that I know all about the Indian broad.

“But you never tell me the real shit: that you pounded your dick to her more often than Connie, that you wanted to motorboat those mangoes, that you imagined her fucking snatch smelling like fucking masala. Did it? Did it smell like—”

“—I'm not going to answer that.”

“Why are so ashamed? Why don't you tell me the good shit?”

“Look, I just don't talk like that. I don't even think like that.”

“Yes you do. I can see it in your eyes whenever some hot little walks by. But you never fucking let loose when it comes to broads. You need to let yourself go. Unleash your inner pervert, man. Because I've fucking seen it, dig? I know it's there. You want to bury the fucking bone just like every other dog.” Where does he get these sayings that are below even cliché ? “When you see a serious piece of ass on the street, you're thinking what every other guy is thinking: How can I get inside that? I know it, man. Dig it! I can see the look. You're a fucking predator. You just need to embrace it, man.” The drinks arrive. I notice that people are once again staring. The bartender makes no attempt to conceal her incredulous grin. “So how was it?”

“How was what?”

“What? Are fucking serious? How did that pussy taste?”

“Can you believe that guy?”

“He's fucking disgusting.”

“I know, it's like, seriously, we're not in college anymore.”

“Yeah, he's like fucking gross. He's like some fratty hipster, who…”

“Tomas, look, I'm not—”

“Yeah, yeah, you're not one to kiss and tell. I'm sure. Tell you what, let's you and me get all liquored up, and then we'll see how true you hold to that.” He picks up his shot glass, clinks it against mine, and then flips the liquor into his mouth in one quick motion. He closes his eyes slowly, almost gurgling the viscous booze as it makes its way down his throat. The shot glass is clumsily placed back on the bar, where it falters for a few seconds before becoming stable. “I'm guessing she pulled some Kama Sutra shit, huh? C'mon, you can fucking tell me. Was she a slapper? You know, not in the face so much, but that shit can be fucking hot, right? Did she like getting her hair pulled? They all love that shit, but you gotta' be a little sneaky about it at first. You know, you can't just go in like you're ripping fucking carrots out of the ground or some shit — you gotta go high and tight, you gotta have some fucking finesse, dig?”

“You're serious?”

“Of course I'm serious. You're the one who's being supererogatory.” I am? “All I really want to know, though, is whether or not you're going to blow that shit out again. You're gonna slap them titties around again, right?”

“Tomas, I don't—”

“Are you going to fuck her again?” he yells with his eyes to the ceiling. Yes, hi, I see you. Please stare some more. This isn't fucking embarrassing enough . “Please tell me,” he exhausts, “because I'm fucking dying to know.”

“I don't know,” slowly. “It's too early to tell.”

“Yeah buddy,” he laughs, “You're totally gonna hit that shit again. Just don't go for the anal until a few weeks in. Trust me, they never go for it initially…unless they're down with that shit to begin with.” He nods ponderously. “Down with the brown,” he adds absently.

“You're a fucking pig,” one of the nearby girls finally says. She walks away.

“And to think,” meditatively, “I didn't even get started on the pink sock.”

Maybe it's that I'm more sober than normal, but Tomas seems like that guy at the bar. We all know that guy — there's no need to elaborate. The majority of the people in close proximity are giving him less than furtive glances, tacit in their acceptance of what the drinks in front of them can do to anyone over an extended period of time. A song by the Sea and Cake attempts to overcome the cacophony.