Jay Fox - THE WALLS

It was difficult to whittle down all of the experiences of the previous weeks into something that could be read on one crosstown bus ride. I guess it's true that when a man sits down to write a history he knows no more than his heels what lets and confounded hindrances he is to meet with in his way . Entire portions of the city simply went dark, fell from the scope of this one determined narrator, who I didn't even believe myself to really be. There was no room for narrative minutia, let alone aberrations form the impetus of discovery: Patrick's monologues were harlequined with redactions; the A-R-E was simply called “the group”; the location of the party that Tomas and I attended was not provided; the citrus artillery never fired a shot; Mongo (or the Onion Man — an epithet that Patrick never bothered to explain), Moxy, Früvous, and Boots were relegated to a further reading list; Vinati was not pertinent to the essay; Connie faded into a miasma of rancor that existed between the lines; Daphne was just a link to Willis Faxo, who, in turn, was just another link in the chain that ultimately ended at the grave of Mordecai Adelstein, which I did visit the same day I went to the library (though it was without incident because it’s a grave, and graves, like the dead they represent, don’t entertain guests). Figures like Tommy and Midas dissolved into generalizations, lines in a bibliography. I finished it while listening to “Missed the Boat.”

The article ended up being six pages long. It was initially nine. As I have said, or perhaps implied, I kept it as impersonal as I could, but certain incidents were detailed somewhat extensively in the first draft. For one, I spent a good deal of time recounting my interactions with Mr. Adelstein and Willis Faxo.

The first draft was well-received by Jeff, who ended up being the only proof reader. After going over it together on Saturday night, the two of us had a few beers and talked about all of the revisions that he recommended (among them, that I edit some of the passages that made Tomas look like an alcoholic and Aberdeen a pompous ass, abridge the conversation with Willis Faxo, and reduce the amount of time dedicated to my talk with Daphne to three sentences), women, and our youth.

I met up with Tomas and Aberdeen on Sunday night. I covered our meal at Wo Hop, that little basement place with its pictures of celebrities that no one remembers anymore all covered in more recent signatures and graffiti. We then went out to one of Tomas' favorite bars, a small, clandestine place on Canal Street. Nikki happened to be there with her new boyfriend, Doug. Tomas described him as a “fucking twat.” The three of us were initially pleasant, however, even if the guy was, indeed, a “fucking twat.” After asking my name with a flamboyant affectation, he inquired into what I did.

“Dig it, man; this guy does the fucking impossible, that's what he does.” Doug was intrigued. “He fucking found Coprolalia, man.”

“You found Coprolalia?”

“I did.”

“So who is he?”

“Mordecai Adelstein.”

“Mordecai whom?”

Whom? “Mordecai Adelstein. He grew up in Midwood, worked at a deli in Park Slope, and died a few months ago in a car accident.”

Doug shook his head. “I believe you're mistaken.”

Silence overtook our trio. Nikki sipped her cocktail through a red stirrer and possibly considered using a stronger moisturizer on her elbow.

“What makes you say that?”

“Professor Winchester just wrote about a new Coprolalia exhibit on his blog. You do know of him, right? Sean Winchester?”

“Yes.”

“Wait, what the fuck did Sean say?”

“There's a new exhibit. Professor Winchester is, like, really excited about it, too. It's a Latin adage.”

The fucking twat turned to Nikki. “What did it say again?”

“Like, death is everywhere, right?”

He sipped from his glass of wine and nodded thoughtfully. “That was it.” He then looked me in the eye. “I hope you haven’t put too much work into this little manhunt. As you can see, you’re quite mistaken — Coprolalia is alive and well. Perhaps you should consult an authority on the subject before you claim to have (sigh, roll of the eyes) accomplished the impossible.”

“There has to be a fucking mistake, man. This guy met Coprolalia's father, dig? He’s been to the motherfucker’s grave. He's been all over the city looking at this shit. He's spent fucking three weeks doing it. He's not fucking around, man; he knows what he's fucking talking about.”

“Yes, Doug, our friend here has good reason to believe that Coprolalia is dead.”

“Well, I guess three weeks is like way more time than Professor Winchester has dedicated to researching Coprolalia. How long is that again…a decade?”

“Look, Sean was only interested in the pieces; he didn't care about the bigger picture. I know him; I've been in contact with him for the past month. He didn't care about finding Mordecai or even understanding that Mordecai's real goal had more to do with context.”

“Sure. Well, before you begin to tell me about this real goal, why don't you start by telling me how a dead man writes something on the wall?”

“Is that a fucking riddle?”

“Shut up, Tomas.”

“So how did he do it? If he's dead, how did he do it? This is a mystery movie with Lindsay Lohan written all over it,” with a sly look to Nikki. She smiled without teeth and nodded along with a track off the most recent Wilco album. The bartender and a young couple at the end of the bar were convinced that the album was an instant classic.

“That's simple. I did it.”

“What?”

“You did it? I highly doubt that. Do you even know wh—”

“ Et In Arcadia Ego . And, yes, I know where it appeared. I also know exactly what it means. I know why I wrote it, too, but I really don't see why I should have to explain it to anyone, especially you.”

“Pardon me,” Doug responded. “I didn't mean to offend you.”

“Nikki, your new boyfriend's a fucking twat.”

“Excuse me?” with shoulders perked.

Tomas knocked his shoulder into the sinewy barrier as he walked past, turned, and then said, “Don't act like didn't hear me. Go back to your fucking thesis, you goddamn cake-eater.” Before Doug could respond, Tomas added, “And don't try to play the part of the tough guy, you fucking candy ass; it doesn't fit you.”

The three of us went into the backyard. The fucking twat and Nikki did not follow.

So it was just the three of us again: Tomas with the hangover of success, Aberdeen intoxicated by it, and I awaiting its effects. The moments staggered on into the future — quick and clumsy — as we laughed and took down copious amounts of beer for the sake of having nothing better to do. Apartment lights came on, went off; sirens whined calamity and faded into the distance; lovers quarreled or cuddled while watching small televisions with uneven rabbit ears and grainy pictures, had sex or didn't, felt guilty for not being completely certain whether or not they were happy or felt total elation, rapture ecstatic and jubilant (escaping anchors and holds), because they had faith not only in love, but in the person there with them, too; pigeons dawdled from place to place; keys unlocked deadbolts, but did not open doors; silent peaceful lonely apartments became occupied or vacant; luxury condos echoed with the sounds of solitary footsteps, bathroom-going footsteps that were soft like misting rain on well-groomed grass or patient fingers on ivory keys. The past was receding from the present, and its indelible mark would remain like the rock-face behind a waterfall. We would always be subject to it — required not to live in that realm, as so many would like to do, but to accept it as a construct of necessities and antecedents and bastards of chance that were once just potentialities. And as we sat there, the three of us among the great rondure, reclined in uncomfortable chairs and safely harbored among vacant seats and the amorphous background of City and sky (an expanse that is a necessary lie, a composite of various pasts that come to form one heaven for us), it dawned on me not only that I was complacent, but that I felt this way without guilt. I could not remember the last time this happened. I could not remember a time without that profound sense of obligation that had birthed not only this project, but so many others — so many that had been entertained without an earnest desire for fruition, not because I wanted to fail, but because I felt I needed something by which I could define myself. Perhaps all young adults identify themselves by what they do as opposed to who they are.