Jay Fox - THE WALLS

“You know, it's funny. I was just talking to Angie about this. I loved growing up in Boston, but I just can't imagine going there on vacation. It would be terrible.” He shrugs. “So many people say that New York's the opposite, but, to me, I think both cities are great.”

We begin to explain our connections to Ilkay. Teddy was a friend of his brother. Angelica had not known him during her years at N.Y.U. (“I mean our school was so big; it's no wonder we never met”). Most of the others at the table are also connected to the school. I've met six of the seven of them before, but I think the exchange of words between us may have been in, perhaps, the double digits. The other, who sits next to me, I've never seen before. He introduces himself.

“Name's Che,” he says as he slowly pushes his hair behind his ears.

“Like Guevara?”

He nods uneasily. “I try not to associate myself with the most commercialized icon of communism. My parents fled Cuba for a reason, after all.”

“Were you born there?”

“Yes, but I don't remember it as well as I remember my time here. This country is my home.” An obvious question follows. “I was ten. We lived in Miami for a long time before moving to Tampa.”

“Did you come up here for school?”

“Yes and no. I am a student at S.V.A., but I also came up because my uncle offered me a job.”

“I see.”

“Hey Che,” a new arrival calls out, “Viva la revolution.” The man holds up a fist until Che acknowledges his presence with an exaggerated smile and a wave.

“Yes, it gets old very quickly,” he responds to a girl whose question can be inferred. “So many Americans are obsessed with this idea of revolution, as if there is no bloodshed involved. One day it is tyranny, the next liberation. War does not work that way,” he says peremptorily. “And no revolution has ever occurred without a war.” He rolls his eyes when a man from the group responds. “How can an American youth such as yourself be in favor of violent revolution?” with vehemence. “Have you ever held a firearm?” The defendant shakes his head. “Then how do you anticipate fighting a war with the most powerful military on the face of the planet? Can you imagine what an M-1 tank rolling down Bedford Avenue would do to a hipster militia with little or no weapons training? Are they going to take pop shots at heavily armored vehicles with fucking slingshots?” He scoffs to the six of them. “Another American revolution will never happen because modern capitalism is elastic; it is not rigid. Our political system is founded upon compromise — class war is now conducted on the floor of the Senate. This is a lack of foresight on the part of Marx and all of those ancient theorists.”

He goes on. I want to argue with several of his points, but, as Hitler and Goebbels believed (and exploited), rational thinking will always be silenced by vehemence. I turn back to Angelica and Teddy. “So, Boston, huh?”

I had managed to catch a quick nap after meeting with Tomas and Aberdeen, so only a remnant of the alcohol from earlier in the day continues to float in my head. I maintain a conservative pace on the libations; others rush through the stages of inebriation with asperity, if not abandon. Conversations, meanwhile, sail through the turbulent waves of argumentation, frustration, soliloquy. One grad student among us complains that contemporary capitalist society is founded upon two elements: faith and eternal adolescence (“How Houellebecquian!” another grad student exclaims). Teddy and I exchange pleasantries for a while until Angelica begins to feel neglected. They get into an argument, quietly at first, and then take the matter outside.

The other seven by this time have calmed down some. Coprolalia comes up as a topic, but the discussion switches to favorite Beatles album once it is discovered that the only things on the walls in the place's bathrooms are those ubiquitous deodorant advertisements.

A round of shots accompanies the resurgent Teddy and Angelica. They have swollen lips and rubicund cheeks. Not to be outdone by their display of generosity, one of the unnamed residents, who refers to me as “Alex's roommate,” orders a second. And as alcohol makes superconductors of us all in terms of social friction, dialogs without the more Laputan elements of academia begin to sprout up like prairie flowers after a flash flood. The subjects range from favorite position to fondest memory from college, and just about everyone is genuinely entertained by the stories being told around the table with the exception of Che, who evidently hasn't discovered a means to remove the chip from his shoulder or the stick from his ass. By midnight, he has reverted to a surly pout, which grows in severity each time he is ordered to lighten up.

I end up talking with Brandy, the bartender, for a few minutes when I return to the bar for the third butt-fucking cowboy of the night. I've come to realize that my initial impression of her needs some revision. She is not contemptuous, nor is she particularly contentious; rather, she seems contemplative and somewhat despondent. As she talks, she gently fingers the locket at the end of a silver necklace. She expresses a distant lament about a seafaring transient when I ask her about the cherished piece of jewelry. “I knew what I was getting into when the whole thing started,” she says. “Look, I'm sorry I've been so bitchy tonight,” she adds after a moment of silence. “I have the tendency to take my problems out on other people sometimes. On a normal night, I'm actually a pleasant person to be around,” with a forced smile. “Seriously,” she adds. “It's just that I always get this way whenever he leaves.”

She removes her glasses to rub her eyes. I realize that they are of a variety that is more prevalent in cartoons and poetry and song than reality. “Look, I'm the one who's supposed to be listening to sob stories,” she says with a contrived laugh. “I'm not the one who tells them.” The ox-eyed goddess of libations becomes sighted again. “Let me buy your table a round.”

Che has departed by the time I return. His friends complain about his petulance. An exchange-student shakes his head and recites the following: “He is an idealist without ideals; a vagrant upon the political landscape. He decries humanity both for its greed and its laziness, so he is never surprised by the misery created by the free-market or the corruption and inefficiency of the state.” He sighs. “Such a bathetic contempt for humanity — how European.”

“I don't even understand why he comes out anymore,” someone adds as I take my seat. “He's so fucking negative, so self-righteous.”

“Everything has to be so fucking dramatic.”

“It's so fucking annoying.”

“Where do you think he went?”

“He probably went home.”

“It's not even midnight.”

“He probably went to that chick's place. He's been boinking her pretty regularly.”

“Really? Boinking? Are you fucking Al Bundy?”

“Actually, it's twelve-thirty.”

“Okay — with whom he has been having regular coitus.”

“You're such a tool.”

“Really? Where have I been?”

“He's got a girlfriend?”

“Lady-friend.”

“Fuck-friend.”

“It's fuck-buddy, numb-nuts.”

“Is there really a difference?”

“Fuck-buddy?”

“You don't introduce your lady-friend to your friends.”

“So you're saying he has a mistress?”

“If you really want to call her that.”

“Fuck-buddy.”

“Heard you the first time, Dave.”

“He's not a bad looking guy.”

“Yeah, but he's such a whiny little bitch.”

“Well, if she's not dating him, who the fuck cares?”

“That's not the point.”