Jay Fox - THE WALLS

“What about his father?”

“His father?”

“Yes, do you think his father still owns the store?”

“Yes. Unless he retired.”

“Or relocated.”

“Or got bought out.”

“Well,” I said to Tomas, “It looks like I have something to do today after all.” He tried to smile.

Moxy asked about Boots as I stood there feeling truly sanguine. Gone was the negativity, the cynicism. I figured there couldn't be more than fifteen delis on that stretch of Eighth Avenue, that it would probably only take two hours to find and call all of them. I would just have to ask the name of the owner at each place. The only difficulty would be getting Mr. Adelstein's address.

“She's a bit odd,” Tomas responded, concerning Boots.

Moxy and Früvous laughed quietly. “Odd?” Früvous began with a grin; “Yes, that is one way of putting it.”

The five of us were now standing in a solid rain. Aberdeen's coat smelled like wet dog. Tomas, on the other hand, looked worse than he smelled. His complexion was a pallid gray. I'm sure I was a delight to neither sense, but I wore an indelible grin regardless. Everything was in the process of working out. I was going to find Coprolalia today. Perhaps tomorrow. In fact, it didn't matter. Even if it took two weeks, it didn't matter. The deadline was arbitrary to begin with. Now it was completely irrational, too. I was close. I knew it. I was going to interview him, perhaps over a round of beers. I could tell him all of the stories I had accumulated over the course of the previous weeks. I could ask him about his involvement with the A-R-E, maybe even advance my understanding of the group. Maybe Vinati would come meet us. And then it would be the three of us. We'd talk late into the evening about everything: art, love, the human condition, baseball…it didn't matter. And then I'd publish the interview. I'd have the money to live without restraints. I could get a great job writing for a great magazine. Maybe Harper's would commission me to write something for them. And then I could afford a place in the City. I could live there, maybe even with Vinati.

“What is so odd about her?” Aberdeen asked.

“She explained the boots to you, correct?”

Tomas nodded sheepishly.

The couple soon took their leave. They were on their way back home after brunch in Williamsburg. I left Aberdeen and Tomas at the corner where I first met them, caught the southbound B43, and then transferred to the train down by Woodhull. On my way back home, I kept going back to the tirade from last night. I can still see Tomas trying to defend himself in the tub, his mouth contorted, his body plagued by tremors and the glean of cold sweat. The image is all the more lucid because of the stinging brightness of the lights surrounding the mirror. Actually, all of my senses were made a bit keener by the environment in that bathroom, much to my chagrin. I don't think I'll be able to eat any tomato-based sauce for a couple of days, as Tomas had had pizza prior to going to see the Sheeps. Perhaps it's the company I keep, but it seems as though most of the barf I have encountered in my life is just like me — half Italian.

Everything I believed last night was just paranoia. I recognize that now. I guess I've always had something of an attraction to conspiracy theories, though I've never been blind to the fact that most believers regard the absence of evidence as a veritable piece of evidence. Perhaps I was just upset about Vinati. That would make sense. I overreacted. Her phone has gone straight to voice-mail since the last time I spoke with her. Maybe she stayed at her parents' place last night after work. Getting from Park Slope to Williamsburg is a serious pain in the ass unless it's during rush hour — when the M is running south of Broad Street. And it's not like she's going to have a charger with her. And her parents probably have different phones than her. And it's not like she just remembers my number off the top of her head. So her phone died; she stayed with her parents because she was tired; she'll call me once she gets back to her apartment to apologize and make new plans. Done deal.

Jeff is at work, so the apartment is once again my own. I look around the walls, the maps of the city filled with pins and tacks. I have been to all of the places that those instruments represent, but it is not until I approach the map that the memories come into focus, that these mental cartes de visite become clear and animated. Some memories are easy to recollect; others are quick, disjointed, and susceptible to error.

It's still raining and the wind has picked up. The open window by which I find myself allows the sounds to wash through the apartment — a calming hiss interrupted by a few, abject questions that all begin with either “Yo'” or “Bapi” and remain unanswered. I look down to cement littered with dried-gum ocelli, to parked cars from either the previous decade or the early years of this one. The air in my room chokes in the thick smoke of several cigarettes, courtesy of a pack I picked up at the nearby bodega.

The first thing I did upon returning home was check my email. It's become something of a habit — and a disappointing one at that. Besides the chain letters from my relatives, the preponderance of the messages are solicitors offering up a myriad of beautification drugs, dick pills, and “barely legal” porn. Just what makes it “barely legal” is something I don't really want to discover. Most of these sites probably aren't operated by a company based within the United States, which leaves only the truly gruesome on the table: acts that are “barely legal,” not because they embrace all of those taboo words that end in — phile , but because most of the acts caught on film flirt with various — cides .

I was hoping for something less impersonal when I turned on my laptop. I was anticipating something from Patrick or someone else who happened to have some information concerning Coprolalia, but my guess is that the Craigslist post is now on the fourth or fifth page of the classifieds. It's as good as forgotten. And yet I don't see the need to repost it. I'll simply end up with more speculations about Andy Bates. (I haven't mentioned those, have I? Apologies. I'm still learning that narrating is a lot like weeding: after congratulating yourself for finishing one region, you turn to find that there are still a few stragglers imploring your attention. Regardless, there have been about thirty Bates apologists, including Pepper and Debbie, who addressed me as “Quiet Riot.”)

The search for Mr. Adelstein's store didn't take long. By following Eighth Avenue from Ninth Street to the cemetery on Google Map, I found nine delis. Within about fifteen minutes, I managed to call five of them. This fifth one was owned by a Mr. Adelstein. Predictably, the employee with whom I spoke, Miguel, could not provide Mr. Adelstein's first name or his home address. This was not a reluctance to disclose information. He was friendly and more than willing to cooperate; he simply didn't know any personal details about his employer. Mordecai, however, was a subject that evoked a series of evasive answers and at least one protracted “uhhhhh….” I hung up well after the interaction had become awkward.

My optimism is fighting for its survival. The rain continues to come down, which casts the apartment in a languid and oppressive gray, an almost sinister and ominous portent to what may ultimately be yet another failure. I know that I am now closer to finding Coprolalia than I was only a few hours ago, yet it feels as though I've removed a speed bump in order to have a clear shot at a wall. I take a drag from the cigarette, watch the wind charm the serpentine smoke rising from its cherry. I'm completely out of ideas.