Jay Fox - THE WALLS

“You know damn well why I'm fucking pissed.”

He is wincing. Soon those portentous cringes take hold of him. He vomits up a few millimeters of whatever acids have managed to accumulate in his stomach over the past few hours. He then looks up to me, his face now coated in a fine layer of sweat. “No dude,” sternly, “I fucking don't.”

“You're leading me down the wrong path.”

“No one's forcing the bottle down your throat, Dante,” he responds before letting out a mouthful of viscous spit. Would he be the leopard or the lion? “Look, I'll deal with my problems; you deal with your fucking own.”

“Why aren't you listening to me? I know what you and Sean are up to. I know that everything — Coprolalia, the A-R-E, the girl from the bar…Esther, or whatever her real name is — I know it's all been a ploy. You're playing me. There is no Coprolalia. There is no A-R-E. You've been hired out, just like Patrick, Daphne and Faxo. You've all been hired out by Sean to make it seem like there is a Coprolalia.”

“Why?” incredulously.

“Because it will make him money.”

“Who?”

“Fucking Sean, man. There is no art if it isn't appreciated by Sean and the rest of the collegiate aristocracy. There is no art—”

“Unless you're told it's art. The urinal thing — is that what you're getting at? Who did that?”

“Duchamp.”

“First of all, that’s bullshit, and you know it. Out of you, that's fucking something. Second, this isn't the Maltese Falcon , man. No one's lied to you. No one's guarding some grand secret. We've done nothing but try to help you out.”

“But—”

“But what? What the fuck are you accusing me of? That I'm…I'm…doing a conspiracy….” Caesura . “Not doing. I'm acting…participating in a conspiracy against you? Why? You're my fucking friend, man. You don't try to get anything out of me. You don't try to use my name for anything…not even to fucking get pussy. You're the only friend I've made since I published that stupid book.” His face has become wrinkled, like a deflated balloon. “You're the only friend I have besides James.”

“That's not true.”

“Oh yeah, there's Randy,” acerbically. “Randy, who tries to push his shitty novel on me whenever I see him — yeah, he’s not self-interested at all.”

He vomits again.

There is a lapse in conversation that lasts for some time.

“Tell me the truth,” I begin. “Is there something I need to know about? Have you been dishonest with me?”

“Dishonest,” he laughs. “Jesus, man, it's like I'm talking to the fucking principal.” He clears his throat. “Yes, there's something I was dishonest about. Jane didn't dig you. We just wanted to make you feel guilty.”

“No, about Coprolalia.”

Pink Floyd's “Echoes” continues to play in the next room. It is currently at the point where it sounds like dolphin genocide.

“Why are you so sheltered?”

“What? What does this have to do with anything?”

“Why are you content with your solitary-ness? Is that a word?”

“Sure.”

He's pensive for a long time. It appears as though he wants to say something, but it is difficult for him. He holds down several retches. “Why are you so afraid of getting pussy, man?”

“You've obviously forgotten that I got laid about twenty-four hours ago.”

“What?” He laughs. “The Indian broad?”

“Vinati? Yes, I had sex with her.”

“You had sex with her,” dryly. “That sounds fan-fucking-tastic. It really sounds like you enjoyed it. Are you sure you didn't 'do it' with her?”

“What do you mean?”

“You've detached yourself from life, man. You just kind of float above everything, look down on it. Maybe 'float' is the wrong word. You just…you just think about things way too much. You just…wait…wait…the moment is coming. You have to just experience this. Don't think, man. It's fucking indescribable.”

He trails off. The music has gone from ambient to majestic. Tomas has closed his eyes again. He looks almost at peace.

I got back in my apartment around one. After waking up on the floor of the bathroom to the sound of Aberdeen taking one of those choppy and protracted pisses, I somehow found the resolve to get up. This proved futile. Aberdeen, on the other hand, was rather chipper. I could hear his bare feet slapping the concrete floor in time with E.L.O.'s “Mr. Blue Sky.” Once the song ended, the faucet went on. For a long time. The song began again. The faucet went off. Aberdeen appeared. In his hand was a bucket of water. The two of us caught eyes for a solid few seconds. There was something very different about him, something not quite berserk or mad or sanguine, but a combination of the three would probably fit the bill — perhaps the grin that one could imagine Mack the Knife wearing during his gory sprees. The contents of the bucket ended up on Tomas.

“What the hell was that for?”

“Yeah, ya' dick,” came a derelict echo from the tub.

“Payback's a bitch.” Aberdeen popped up one of the cigarettes from the pack on the counter with a quick flick of the wrist. He placed it in his mouth, lit it, and then looked down to me. “Ask him about last week.”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“Fine,” Tomas exclaimed. “You got me back. Are you happy?”

“What time is it?” I asked as I reached for the cigarette. My spine did not appreciate sudden movement.

“Breakfast time,” Aberdeen announced. He then lit my cigarette. “Get up; I'm buying.”

Tomas struggled to find the will to move. My presence seemed troubling to him. I guess I shared his sentiment somewhat. Aderol-induced paranoia proved to be more virulent and accusatory than I would have expected. It's a great drug for writing papers, as you suddenly become conscious of connections that only appear perspicacious at four in the morning. True, most of these theories seem patently absurd in the light of sobriety, but there is no shortage of professors who entertain such fantasies, especially if they're the type to whom the more unpopulated and tenebrous regions of the library provides a second home.

I guess one could say that paranoia is too easy; it's vain, self-absorbed, and need not rely on anything more than logical validity. The problem with reality, however, is that things don't have to make sense — there are too many premises to make sense of this world. True, coincidences happen, but, without modern English's imputation of an almost magical element into the meaning of the word, it's really just two incidental incidents happening at the same time, usually in close proximity to one another. That's the pure coincidence, unadulterated by the filthy teleology of mystics and the confused etiology of historians and lunatics. Our lives are filled with them — events that are connected, but connected in such an innocuous manner that they are inconsequential. It's only later, when we feel the need to revise and enhance our relationship with another person, that we take on the task of conflating histories, maybe even identities. Weddings and funerals tend to be filled with such revisions.

We ended up at a Mexican place up Manhattan Avenue. Tomas' relation to the waking world was characterized by an awkward tension — as a true hangover and the recognition of Absurdity feel essentially the same, though it's usually only the latter that sparks either an epiphany or a nausea of the spirit. Angelina, our waitress, initially tried to resume the flirtatious banter in which she and Tomas had partaken the last time he had appeared in the restaurant, but she quickly apprehended the severity of his condition upon looking at his face. On top of the scent of alcohol, which had not dissipated even after a shower, he had managed to vomit with such force that a blood vessel in his right eye had ruptured. She levied upon him a sardonic pity that he seemed to mildly enjoy.