Jay Fox - THE WALLS

Tomas and Aberdeen continue talking as I survey the surroundings. The people who occupy the seats at the bar are clearly regulars with the exception of a couple who each use the word “pretentious” to describe everything from television programs to drink prices at a club somewhere in or on Manhattan. The rest of the patrons attract less attention. A woman sits at the other end of the bar writing in fervent and infrequent bursts on a legal pad. She makes time to talk to the bartender with familiarity. She puts very little on the page as she writes, which suggests that she is a poet. She smiles with regularity, and laughs boisterously. The two young men next to her are discussing the Bush administration — its arrogance, its ignorance, its incompetence and belligerence. It's a laughing matter a lot of the time, not the type of laughter that makes you feel better, just the type that masks that feeling of impotent, of knowing there's nothing you can do but laugh while the Snopeses of the world keep on doing what Snopeses do. Two Polish men down the bar bark with raised voices and amiable tones, their faces dotted with broken capillaries and two-day's worth of stubble.

Though I struggle to find a seat in Tomas and Aberdeen's theater of dialog, it is quickly acknowledged that awkwardness swims poorly among the two. One drink turns to two, and two turns to three, and soon we're ordering shots even though the sun is still striving to escape from behind thick cloud cover. The Mets/Yankees game is on, but no seems too interested except for a woman who prides herself on being one of ten or eleven white people from within the actual city limits of Detroit. Her voice is of the type that invites eavesdropping: loud, hoarse, guttural — what you would attribute to one of those nineteenth century prostitutes whom you see in photographs from the old West (they are never called prostitutes, of course, but it is fairly obvious that any woman hanging around a nineteenth century saloon full of drunk, violent, horny, and unmarried men — in a town where the bank gets robbed once a week, even if no one puts money in it anymore (the clerk just hands over whatever is in his pocket, which is usually enough for a drink or two, and then goes to the saloon where the robber addresses him by first name and buys him a drink or two);—in a town that has one police station, and that one police station has one jail cell, even if the entire town is comprised entirely of criminals;—in a town in which people get shot for not minding their own business quietly enough — is very likely a prostitute). She entered just before the game, and has been less than clandestinely eying Tomas' hat ever since. It is only after the third inning that she inquires about the orange Old English “D” on his head.

“My mom grew up in Hamtramck,” he responds with a delinquent grin. “I was born in Phoenix.”

“What about you?” she asks either Aberdeen or me.

“I was born and raised in Baltimore,” I respond.

“San Francisco,” Aberdeen says.

“No offense, but you guys don't look like the types that normally hang out together. We got the mechanic,” to Tomas, “the professor,” to Aberdeen, “and the…well, I don't know what the hell you are. What are you, dude?”

“I'm a who.”

“And I'm Thing One!”

Caesura .

“We're looking for someone,” Tomas says. “We're, like, detectives, man.”

“Sure.” Caesura . “So who is it you three are looking for?”

“Coprolalia.”

“What kind of a fucking name is that?”

“It's a nom de plume .”

“It's a what? Is that some type of fruit they sell at the Garden?”

“It's a pseudonym.”

“Pseudonym, huh? Is he ducking you three or something? He owe you dudes money?”

“No, we just want to meet him.”

“What for?”

“What do you mean what for?”

“Well, you don't just go around looking for someone without a reason, now do you, Whoseville?”

“Whoseville?”

“We want an interview.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean why do you want to meet this guy? You still haven't answered my question, dude.”

“Look, we want to meet this fucking guy because no one has ever been able to track him down, dig?”

“Is this dude trying to be Lenny fucking Bruce?”

“This is fucking ridiculous.”

“Calm down, Whoseville. I'm just having fun with you guys.”

“…”

“So who is this guy? If he's from Greenpoint, I'll know him. I know everyone up here.”

“You don't know us.”

“I know everybody who's a somebody.”

Tomas broods in silent indignation.

“Coprolalia’s definitely a somebody. Are you sure you don’t know him?” I ask.

“What's the name again?”

“Coprolalia,” in frustrated unison.

“You know what,” she begins as she scrutinizes the ceiling fan, “That name sounds familiar.” She pauses. I take in her image in for the first time. She looks to be Ashkenazi, as she shares all of the attributes that one associates with that group, even the more superficial features such as thick-framed glasses, leftist shirt, and olive leggings that are neither shorts nor pants. She's probably in her early forties, but I'm admittedly terrible at telling the ages of people, especially women.

“Do you know him?” I ask as she stands in silence.

“I think that's my friend's myspace name,” she says gingerly. “I know it begins with copra- or copro- or something like that, but I'm not really sure. You stay put, Whoseville,” she begins as she reaches for the door. “Let me give her a call.”

“Well,” Aberdeen declares, “This may be a lot easier than we imagined it would be, right Whoseville?”

“That bitch is a fucking whack job.”

“She said 'her', didn't she?”

“What?”

“She said she was going outside to call a woman.”

“So?”

“So?” with an erratic gesture. “Coprolalia's a fucking guy.”

“That's just a fucking assumption, man,” Tomas says derisively. “No one knows anything about Coprolalia.”

“Still, what kind of woman goes into the men's bathroom?”

“One with a prosthetic cock,” Aberdeen counters.

The conversation stops. Not for long, though. Tomas and Aberdeen are soon trading memories, talking television, and trying to reach a compromise for dinner above the studio version of “Ring of Fire.” This leads to an argument in which Tomas takes the position of the pinto bean enthusiast; Aberdeen, on the other hand, attests to the black bean's superiority. They obviously don't take this woman seriously. Neither do I, of course, but it's difficult not to think that there is some possibility, however slight, that everything Sean has said is completely false. I am quiet for a long time. Tomas and Aberdeen, meanwhile, continue to bicker in an attempt to achieve victory in a debate a few degrees cooler, though no less futile, than one of those arguments about the existence or non-existence of God.

“What's up, man?” Tomas finally asks. Aberdeen nods sympathetically.

“Do you think there's any possib—”

“No,” Aberdeen interrupts.

“I'm just entertaining the possibility.”

“You do that.”

“Hey man,” Tomas begins as he swipes my arm, “It might actually be worse if she is Coprolalia.” Aberdeen and I look to him. “Dig this, man: if this chick turns out to be Coprolalia, no one's going to fucking believe it. You'll find the truth, and on one will accept it.” He laughs to himself. “I don't think she's Coprolalia, and,” he turns to me, “for your sake, I hope she isn't.”

“A woman couldn't have been sneaking in and out of men's bathrooms for fifteen years without being noticed,” I respond. “It's impossible, right?”