Jay Fox - THE WALLS

Okay, I need a break from the puzzle. I've been through the Brassai. I've read every article in the Onion . Twice. Let's see what this La Rochefoucauld fellow has to say. Maxim 391: “Fortune seems never so blind as to those on whom she has nothing to bestow.” Why the hell is Fortune personified as a woman? Honestly. Does it sound better in French? Everything does, doesn't it? It also looks more elegant, but seems contrived when English-speaking authors just kind of throw it out there. There are exceptions. “ Coup de grâce ” is far superior to “mercy kill,” but I personally like “savage capitalism” better than “ capitalisme sauvage .” Latin is even better. Latin gives everything a kind of mystical authority. Regardless, the maxim is fitting, given the circumstances.

It's difficult to maintain the will to continue, especially since I've exhausted all of my money and betrayed my parents for the sake of a vain dream that's rooted in all of those generational attributes for which I have so much contempt. I don't even think about discovering Coprolalia any longer. Not really. I think of the bars that I will visit, that I may see something done by him. I think of the faces that blur into a mélange of colors and shapes that dissolve into moments of weak light — Monet-like — both harrowing and beautiful. These faces, these anonymous fragments of life, glow in the sallow hues of each pub's incandescent flambeaux. I am there with them: another face amidst another crowd of old white men attempting to deny the fourth dimension. I enter into the bathrooms, these rooms dedicated to the removal of waste, and study cryptograms that others regard without serious interest, that others see but don't comprehend or even remember. I feel as though I am beginning to fall in line with them, that I have lost the ability to appreciate what was once so unique and earnest. He, Coprolalia, Mordecai, has become Meal Ticket. He is just a means. Maybe he always was, even if I was at one point so adamant in my denial of this.

I don't think of how I will find him, of what happens if I do. I don't think about writing the manuscript. This is secondary — the words will just materialize on the page. I think of what happens after all of this: of life's clemency after the publication, of the dreadful future awaiting me if this never comes to pass. I can't imagine working at a coffee shop for the rest of my life. I can't imagine working in a kitchen, either. That was far worse than the coffee shop, where I was surrounded by guys who were in their thirties and forties who couldn’t accept their lot in life, yet seemed oddly accustomed to serving lattes to yuppies. The kitchen workers were more malevolent. Their only means of exhausting their resentment lay in farting on the crab bisque of a finicky customer or complaining about how worthless the husband or wife is. They would refer to different kids without names, just adjectives (“the good one” or “the independent one” or “the stupid one” or “the other one”). Most conversations revolved around television shows and the lives of celebrities. They were envious, sometimes bitter and spiteful. Those who were almost criminal in their jealousy would constantly discuss their plans once they struck it rich. And that was the most difficult to endure. That was when I felt as though I was hearing the Swan Song of the American Empire, the chorus a throng of peasant Mammonites. Yes, when they struck it rich — as if they could simply tap the earth with a pickax to unleash a geyser of riches. It is a familiar version of American Dream, the one in which becoming wealthy is accomplished by doing virtually nothing. They wanted to win the lottery. They wanted to become various types of personages (actors, singers, rock stars, rappers). They wanted to have a great idea (“A million-dollar idea”). They wanted to have a great idea! How does one have a great idea? One reads. One studies. One thinks. One does not pontificate to a room full of kitchen workers or fatten the wallet of a charlatan posing as a man of God (who would not only mock the austerity of Christ, but probably order Him crucified for assaulting several moneychangers). And yet these were considered credible paths to success. They did not read. They did not think. They did not invent. They did not write songs or lyrics or even learn to play instruments. Sometimes they didn't even make it to the store to “play their numbers.” It was this form of complacency — not entirely complacency, of course, but simply the lack of urgency, the lack of effort — coupled with their outrage over the fact that nothing good ever happens to them, that made me realize just how disgusting it is to see an adult expect to be catered to by fortune, chance, the entirety of the human race. This was the denial of reality for the sake of a potential world that exists virtually at the asymptote of probability. This was middle-age America living on minimum-wage.

Who would be able to translate the French into English? I guess the English back into French. Patrick translated whoever that one poet was from Latin to English. Maybe he knows whether or not that Commodus thing Coprolalia did is a turn of phrase. The guy knows Swahili for fuck's sake. Wait, he said Kiswahili. Maybe it's a dialect. Maybe it's how the Swahili people refer to themselves or their language…what's that word again? Is it an endonym? Is this “Echoes?” I haven't heard this song in years. The last time was probably in Kevin's basement after we tripped in the park. I can't imagine listening to this while peaking. Jesus, that was almost three years ago. Time flies. What was I just thinking about? Oh yeah: Patrick. He certainly knows French.

But who says that an occupation has to be like that? Just because there are so many unhappy people out there doesn't mean, necessarily, that every hour between nine and five must be tedious and draining. After all, this search has proven to be more draining than I would have assumed, but I have enjoyed just about all of it even if I have nothing to show for it, save a shaky friendship with Aberdeen and Tomas. I may have become an alcoholic in this time, too. In all honesty, the only positive aspect of the situation concerns Vinati, though the relationship between the two of us seems far more ambiguous than it did a few hours ago.

Maxim 571: “When you cannot find your peace in yourself it is useless to look for it elsewhere.” Story of my fucking life. Is he breathing? There we go. Keep it up, Tom. Maxim 572: “We are never as unhappy as we think, nor as happy as we had hope.” Well that's a pretty dour sentiment.

I have met people who are content with their jobs. Maybe even happy. This is not just over the past few weeks, but throughout my life. They find their calling. They find love. And yet so much of this is phony, and I guess I always knew that. So many seem fulfilled on every level until they get to the bar, to the point of inebriation where they become fountains of grievances. Is it because the alcohol causes them to renege on their forfeiture, their forfeiture of that vain belief that they are entitled to something more? Or is it far more superficial than that? Does the alcohol just reveal that they have been feigning all along, and that they have learned only to wait, to endure?

What if Sean was right about Mordecai not being Coprolalia? I guess I have to entertain that possibility. Still, who else could it be? Patrick…. Patrick was a poet. Could he be Coprolalia? No, it wouldn't make any sense. He drew too much attention to himself. I can't imagine him being quiet enough to evade the notice of someone. People remember him. Those women at the bar were ready to jump on him like a fucking trampoline. And I don't think their husbands would have minded all that much, either. He's just too much of an extrovert. Someone, somewhere, would have put the pieces together. And it's not like he had big ears, let alone a Brooklyn accent.