Jay Fox - THE WALLS

He hands us back the two licenses. Aberdeen and I then exchange them. “So what are you having?”

“I've already ordered.”

“I've already had, like, three drinks.”

“Seriously?” he laughs. It’s a light, deviant chortle meant to convert his obliviousness into some budget-brand derision. “I thought you two were just saying that.”

“Pete, they were in here less than five minutes ago.”

“Well, we were in the middle of a conversation,” he begins indignantly. Aberdeen mutters something under his breath. I don't catch it, but it's fairly certain that the feeling is mutual.

We arrive at the table after a quick trip to examine both bathrooms. A familiar song by Rats with Wings plays a low level. I am introduced to five people — Mike, Nana, Dmitri, “Nikki with two 'k's and an 'i',” and Mike — who are, as I expected, former N.Y.U. students. Mike Number One is less than welcoming, as is Nikki With Two 'K's And An 'I'. They share that lack of interest in most things or people that are new to them unless they are the first of their friends to discover said things or people. It is a fairly common personality disorder here in New York. Dmitri looks European or gay, though he claims to be neither. Mike Number Two and Nana are in love.

“Tomas says you're the Don Quixote of Brooklyn,” Dmitri says after a moment.

“I like to think of myself as a bit more astute,” I respond with a quick look to Tomas. He blushes a bit.

“Dude, you were just looking for art in the shitter.”

“Did you find anything?” Nana asks as she turns away from Mike Number Two.

“No, not really. There's some really melancholy nonsense in the far one.”

“Who's your Dulcinea Del Torboso?” Dmitri asks.

“His what?”

The group focuses upon Dmitri, his eyes searching for something like concord or recognition to reaffirm how cogent his reference is. This effort, however, is in vain.

“You know, his princesse lointaine .” Goose egg. “Has anyone here actually read all of Don Quixote ?” Silence. “I guess no one bothers with the classics anymore,” he shrugs.

The evening continues as one might expect. Mike Number Two and Nana leave after a drink. I discover that they are normally very friendly, but that they have recently become an item. The friends are not particularly enthused by the way the two constantly sequester themselves from the group, but they are quick to understand that this is just one of those honeymooner proclivities that passes in time. Even with this degree of empathy, however, they still mock Mike Number Two because he follows Nana around like a child, and not an intrepid child or even a curious one — and certainly not one so wondrous as to make you yourself wonder how it is that humanity managed not to kill itself off within a few generations—, but a silent and obedient one still captivated by the specious infallibility of adults. Dmitri leaves to meet a friend for dinner. Nikki and Mike Number One go to get a slice of pizza and never come back. A group of girls take the vacant seats. Tomas initiates conversation with the only redhead in this group once he realizes that her inhibitions lay at the bottom of an eighty-proof grave.

She tells us that her name is Yvonne and that she recently broke up with her girlfriend as the soundtrack of the night becomes more soulful than one would expect in a bar dominated by white people under the age of thirty (Sly and the Family Stone, Al Green, Betty Wright, Timmy Thomas, Buddy Miles, and even the hyper-sexual Betty Davis). It is her first night out in roughly two weeks. This explains the awkward sense of defiance in her voice, as well as the reason why her friends (perhaps temporary suzerains) are more than willing to allow Tomas' advances without remonstration or concern. Even if she has no interest in him, they may reason, she needs to feel desirable. They do not seem particularly interested in either Aberdeen or me. This is not to say that they don't find us attractive or sexually provocative. No, we are not on their radar even in the most platonic sense; we are like apparitions screaming to the deaf.

Tomas drops his name as though it is a coin; to Yvonne, its value is copper as opposed to gold. He switches tactics like an astute general, begins to listen to her, to nod sympathetically as she reveals not-all-that-implicitly that she is an egoist: a determined and ambitious former-peon ready to sacrifice nearly anything as she maneuvers up the ladder of Corporate America with the agility of a spider. She has severe brows, darting eyes, and a thin celestial nose. She is regular frequenter of the salon, the spa, the gym, and the clothing stores that cater to women who, thirty years ago, would have been wearing those gruesome Yves St. Laurent get-ups with the shoulder-pads and the sharp angles that give the impression of frigidity with a dash of sociopathy. People judge her as a judgmental person, though it is fairly safe to say that she is more critical of herself than anyone else, a perfectionist who has imposed upon herself such a high standard that her daily routine flirts with some realm of masochism that an amateur Freudian would explain away with recourse to two words: Daddy Issues. Regardless of the antecedents, this type of disposition seems to be pervasive among professional women (men, too).

Suffice to say, Yvonne wears her insecurities as a zebra wears its stripes, though her style of clothing is inconsequential. She could be stark naked with the exception of body-paint and moccasins and it wouldn't matter, because her obsession with appearances is not what reveals the ugly truth. It's not even inherent in her words, which are slurred and dominated by hollow self-confidence and pronouns of the first-person variety. No, it's a part of her that is discernible to that sixth sense, a kind of effluvium or imprecation that warns of a gangrenous conscience even if she has too much pride to admit the possibility that there could be something corrupt about her. You can just tell.

She tells Tomas that she has decided to reconsider dating boys (and she calls them that, too: boys, as though she has already acknowledged that those of us unfortunate enough to be born with a penis are incapable of maturing, or, perhaps, that she is too immature for a man) as the praetorian lesbians watching over her roll their eyes with disdain. Aberdeen describes her as a farmer's daughter as we smoke another cigarette. I tell him that no farmer's daughter I've ever known has so quickly allowed the facade of innocence to crumble; moreover, that the facade that's crumbling inside was never meant to be perceived as innocent. I think he just associates red hair with red barns, and, consequently…well, you understand.

We return to discover that Yvonne has tried to flush her gin and tonic, glass and all, down the toilet. There was a bug in it, evidently. This is followed by an extended period of awkwardness as her companions wait for Tomas to make his move. This is not because they want to see their friend get laid (at least not by Tomas). It's a bit more conniving and potentially dangerous than that. A quiet consensus is soon reached among the three of us that it is probably best to get out of the bar before we discover either what it feels like to be savagely mauled or what Yvonne had for dinner. Tomas writes his number on a cocktail napkin while Yvonne is in the bathroom yet again and hands it to Marissa, one of the members of Yvonne's entourage, who brandishes a contemptuous smile. “I'll see that she gets it,” through clinched teeth.

We cross Atlantic and hail a cab that's heading towards the B.Q.E. “This party's going to Greenpoint.” The cab driver is blasting Mahler's sixth symphony — the first movement, which erupts with that triumphant compositional bravura so common to German Romantics — until Aberdeen asks him to turn it down. He picks up his phone. Tomas turns to me and proposes a new approach: “You should totally post something on Craigslist. Dig it, man: a ton of people prowl that shit. At least one of them has to know something about Coprolalia.”