Jay Fox - THE WALLS

Sometime around twelve, Patrick called me. I had not spoken to him since the first night I met him, and I was rather amazed when he showed up a few minutes later with Poot Moint in tow. Daphne appeared first, almost gingerly, with a bottle of wine in her hand. She was wearing an ensemble that would have been fitting on Annie Hall. Aberdeen quietly noted that she did indeed look like a young Faye Dunaway.

“I'd rather see a good band comprised of men before I go see a group of guys and one chick who can barely play her instrument. It's patronizing,” she says to Patrick, who appeared with a bottle of wine in his hand. He was dressed in an expertly tailored suit with a very thin tie, the type of fashion that brought to mind a late-sixties spy film.

“Such a practice became common in the nineties.”

“And the nineties produced the most bastardized version of feminism — just think of…(roll of the eyes)…girl power.”

“Interesting choice of wording, Ms. Karev. 'Bastardized'?”

“Well, Mr. Shaheen, it was Adam who gave names to everything, wasn't it? Doesn't that make the very language we use patriarchal? And, before you butt in, isn't language the chisel that shapes thought?”

“And yet your argument entails a knowable meta-language.”

“You know I'm right.”

“You know you just hate my conclusion, but can't find fault with the premises.”

The remaining members of the band, all dressed in red, corduroy three-pieces, then appeared. They, too, had bottles in their hands. With the exception of the drummer, who had a kazoo in his mouth, the band sang an a cappella rendition of Five Foot Two, Eyes of Blue .

The bartender approached soon after: “What the fuck is wrong with you people?”

“Plenty,” Patrick responded with an exaggerated smile (actually, on anyone else it would have been exaggerated; on him it was standard). She did not have a retort readily available. “We had a slight moment of jubilation, my dear; I promise it won't soon happen again.”

“It better not.”

“It won't.”

Caesura .

“Look, I don't want to be a bitch about all of this,” which was debatable, “But you have to keep it down.”

“My dear, you will not hear a peep out of us.”

“Okay, fine. If you guys aren't too loud, I'll keep the back open until one. That gives you a little more than half an hour.”

“Marvelous. You are as considerate as you are beautiful, a modern day Barnabas.” He paused. “And it is now his day, too,” as he looked to his watch. “We shall crown you Miss Barnabas.”

“Why?”

“Because of her good nature. She is no Sapphira. We all know what happened to her.” Silence. “She was smote for not relinquishing all of her property to the community. Come now,” with a bombastic flailing of the arm, “We all know that the early Christians were communists; it's right there in the New Testament, as well as in Josephus — who said the Jews were 'Communists to perfection', though I will quickly note that his assessment applies to the majority of Gnostics, the early Christians, and the Jews. Not to go too far off topic, but will someone please tell me how the right justifies—”

“Just keep it down, okay.”

“Indeed, Miss Barnabas. We will—”

“Patrick,” Daphne sighed. “Shut the fuck up.” She looked to the bartender. “You won't receive any complaints. I'll keep all of them on a short leash.” She looks to me. “Especially that one.”

The bartender disappears. “Come here, you. Come on,” Patrick begins. His arms are spread out wide; his head nods enthusiastically. “Get up, man!” I rise. He then wraps his arms around my ribcage and lifts me off the ground.

“Who are you?” Aberdeen asks.

“I am his Highness' dog at Kew; Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?”

“Patrick Shaheen?”

“I've been known to go by that name, too.”

The members of the band, with the exception of the drummer, all vaguely remember Tomas and me. Aaron, the man once the robot, shakes a finger at me to express recognition. “You. I remember you. You were at the party, you know, with the uh…the uh…” he snaps his fingers, “…the guys launching the oranges and the melons, and then Mongo with the big sword—”

“Katana.”

“—The katana, which ended up somehow in the toilet. You were talking with the French guy.”

The others nod and smile. Before they sit, however, they state their names and instruments to Aberdeen.

“Andreas Vanderhurst: Drums, percussion, jug, kazoo, vocals.”

“Lucas Filoramo: Bass, trumpet, baritone, tuba, sousaphone, kazoo, vocals.”

“Aaron Hirschfeld (a/k/a The Domesticon): Clarinet, oboe, saxophone, organ, violin, cello, kazoo, vocals.”

“Sam Washington: Guitar, mandolin, banjo, uke, harmonica, kazoo, vocals.”

“Daphne Karev: Piano, organ, vibraphone, xylophone, marimba, accordion, melodica, kazoo, vocals.”

“Patrick Shaheen: Thinker, nonconformist, ethicist, socialist, epic rhapsodist, philologist, sophist, idle theologian, soothsayer, poet.”

“Don't forget bullshitter,” Daphne laughs.

“That's the most important one, too! The fecundity of bullshit is nothing short of amazing, my friends.”

The small enclave is constructed entirely out of cinder-blocks — with the exception of a wood fence that parallels the back entrance to the bar — and dimly lit by small lights and candles and a Nite Brite that has been converted into a Virgin icon. Though I have never been to Paris, this “garden,” and perhaps the bar in its entirety, reminds me of the city (or maybe a Parisian-style café in Mexicali; or perhaps a Mexican-style café in Paris). It's narrow, filled with mesh iron tables and mesh iron chairs. The tables have been configured into an ellipse around which the nonet sits. We have in our possession eleven open bottles of wine and not a single glass (save for the three pint glasses Tomas, Aberdeen, and I had been drinking out of).

“So is this what a night off looks like?” Daphne asks. She lights a cigarette. “Sure as hell beats the graveyard shifts you've been working.”

“It's more of a celebration.”

“What?” She hands me a bottle of wine. I don't examine the label; I simply drink.

“I found Coprolalia.”

“So how does it feel?”

“It's kind of weird. I have to admit that I didn't think I was going to do it.”

“Was Willis helpful?”

“Yes and no. I really enjoyed meeting him, though.”

“He's coming tonight. That tenth seat should be reserved for him.”

“Really? What about Scooter? Is he still in town?”

She exhausts. “I totally forgot about him.” She examines the extraneous furniture. “He's got a seat if he shows.”

“So are the two of you on better terms now?”

“Now?”

“You referred to him as a misogynistic prick the last time I saw you.”

“That doesn't sound like me.”

“He's not a misogynist?”

“No, he's not a prick — at least I wouldn't call him a prick because I don't use the word 'prick' very often, and on the rare occasion that I do refer to someone as a prick I sincerely mean it. In fact, in the past five years I probably haven't used the word 'prick' more than I have just now.”

“Glad that's straightened out.”

“Well, the truth is that he and I weren't on any terms. We just kind of drifted apart. I have a very active lifestyle; he has a very sedentary one.”

The two of us continue to converse in symmetry: question, response, question, response, question, response, etc. Our interaction lacks the almost coquettish tone it had taken on when we last saw one another in Keens' study, with its redolence of old books and the memorabilia from decades now buried in dust, lived in black and white, encrusted with nostalgia and less innocent fabrication. We are now outdoors, the fresh air not fresh, but neither humid nor stagnant. It is cool, perhaps a bit milder than one would expect in the beginnings of mid-June. It's curious that you never feel as though you are outside in New York unless it is winter or the peak of summer. At this point, the night sky is a canopy of muddled purples and occasionally nacreous clouds; the moon is nowhere to be seen; the Evening Star has returned to the horizon. It is not a claustrophobic feeling. You just notice the absence of the heavens when you are here.