Jay Fox - THE WALLS

“When you're close to someone, you look past their flaws; you create an image, a mental image, of that person. It's like a mirage, dig; it doesn't really exist — it only exists for you. It's how James is with fucking D-Bag Buddy over there,” his head motioning in the direction of their table. “James went over to Scotland for a year during high school — you know, as like an…an….”

“Exchange student?”

“Yeah, as an exchange student. And he fell in love with the fucking country and his ( caesura ) surrogate — if that's the right word — family. He became incredibly close with Buddy, who was something like the older brother he never had. I humor him, of course, but I only do it because we rarely see that rancid asshole. He's in fucking denial — like some fifteen-year-old (fingers in quotations) virgin complaining about the warts on her snatch, who…”

“What?”

“…Has managed to block out the memory of that one time mom's new boyfriend stumbled into her room all drunk with his pants around his ankles.”

“…”

“Look, the point is: If the guy actually lived in New York, I'd have to tell James how I felt. But, you know, because I only have to see him once or twice a year I keep my mouth shut.”

“Where does he live?”

“Fucking Boston,” as he brings his pint to his mouth. “Fucking Boston,” as it comes away. “If you want to talk about cities with inferiority complexes…”

“Yeah, I'm not particularly fond of that city, either.”

“You have a way better reason for hating it than I do,” he says. I don't know what he's referring to. “I mean my real problems with that shithole are, I guess, somewhat superficial: the guys are these unhappy trolls, the women are as pudgy and as fucking busted as British chicks, the trains shut down too early, the bars shut down too early, there's nowhere to eat after ten unless you want bar food, it's cold, it's dreary, it's too white unless you're by Harvard; the coffee sucks, the pizza sucks, the Red Sox…”

“Fuck the Sox,” the man next to us exclaims.

“Right on, brother!” Tomas yells.

“Where was I?”

“About Boston?”

He shakes his head. “No. Oh yeah, going back to what I was saying — things get complicated when you're too close. It's so problematic that just about every system of ethics refuses to deal with it.”

I have no idea what he's referring to, but I nod obediently. “What happened to the girl?” I ask.

Tomas becomes slightly morose. “I really tried to work it out with her, dig? Honestly, I–I did. And I felt like complete shit when I had to call it quits. I mean, I really felt guilty. A-and I knew that it would only make things worse for her, but, you know, I didn't sign up for that shit. I was in it to be her boyfriend — in the end, it felt like I was her fucking therapist.”

He lifts up his beer. Before he drinks, he says, “And I have no idea what happened to her. We broke up right after college. I think she moved back to Washington with her parents. We haven't spoken since.”

“Dude! Well, if it isn't Mike the Mechanic and Whoseville,” from behind. I turn around to see the woman from the last time I was in this bar. “What are you doing back up here? I thought those stories Vanessa told you guys would keep you out of Greenpoint for at least a few months.”

“I live here.”

“Vanessa?”

“And why is she calling you Whoseville?”

“You know, my friend.”

“Is this 'King of Carrot Flowers'?”

“The dominatrix?”

“Oh my God, I haven't heard this album in years.”

“Oh, you probably know her by her copro- thing…pseudonym.”

“Coprogenic Coprophile.”

“Yeah, that one.”

“I used to listen to this album all the fucking time.”

“Her real name is Vanessa?”

“Yeah,” she says. I don't remember the woman's name. She clearly doesn't remember ours, either (at least our real ones). Still, she's friendly and not passively so. Her gregarious nature is not something that she cooks up for the sake of occupying time while a friend is in the bathroom. She's genuinely pleased to see the two of us. “Where's the third stooge?”

“He's talking with his friend, Buddy.”

We point. She nods.

“I have a question.”

“What's that?”

“After meeting with Vanessa I got to thinking: What kind of dominatrix gets off on shit? Right? I mean, I could understand it if she liked shitting on people, but her name….”

“She's just really into poo.”

“Into poo?”

“Yeah — into poo. We don’t talk about it. It's narsty.” Narsty? “Fucking grosses me out.”

“Does she have a preference — creamy, chunky….”

“She's just into poo, dude. That's all I know. That's all I want to know.”

We're all quiet a moment.

“Well, I've got some good news for you, Whoseville.”

“Really?”

“Yup. I talked to a few friends of mine — you know, people real in-the-know when it comes to the art scene — and they got me some information about that dude you're looking for.”

“Really?”

“See, I knew you'd be happy to see me again. I told my friend, 'Holy shit, this dude's just totally gonna flip when I tell him'.”

“Yeah…wow…I mean, thanks for looking out for me.”

“You're a nice kid, and I could see you needed some help; so I talked to these friends of mine, and they told me that your guy used to live around here…in Greenpoint.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, like a few blocks down from here. My girlfriend, Marta, told me that he used to hang out in Van Gogh's all the time back when it was called…um, whatever it was called.” She looks to the ceiling. “Ah, dude! I'm not going to remember. Anyway,” with a sweeping hand motion, “I don't know if she's one hundred percent sure about all of this, but it's not like she has a reason to bullshit me.”

“But how does she know for certain? Did she catch him or something?”

“Yeah, dick in hand,” Tomas pops in.

She laughs, a coarse series of plosive sounds that catch the attention of a few of the people standing nearby. “No, I guess she talked to him a few times. He was kind of a loner, and he always looked a little down, so she started something of a little…um, you know…that French word—”

“Rapport?”

“—Rappaport [ sic .] with him.”

“What did he look like?”

“White guy, about your height. I don't know. She said he looked Jewish and always wore a gray sweatshirt. He probably didn’t in the summer, but…well, unless it was cold, of course. Yeah, so whenever it was cold he wore a gray sweatshirt. Not that that's too big a help for you right now. It's fucking hot as balls.” She pauses. “He had big ears, too. She said you couldn't help but notice the dude's ears. That's about all she could remember. Plus it was always dark in that bar, and it's not like she wanted to maow down on his dick or nothing.” I look to Tomas. He shrugs. “Not to mention that it's been about nine-ten years since she's seen him.”

“But, I mean…” and I trail off. I trail off because there's really no use in trying to push this woman for further information I know she will be unable to provide. We'll just participate in an incredulous repartee that ultimately leads nowhere. It's the same type of questioning that goes on in the immediate aftermath of some tragic event. The vacuum of information and fact is filled by baseless speculation and whys that are repeated over and over again until the question (why?) itself begins to constitute an answer or, at the very least, a mild level of participation in a dialog no one is qualified enough to be having. It's typically one of those three in the morning phone calls that revolve around a bad, but not fatal, car accident — the kind of catastrophe that has not been anticipated, just regarded as possible even if you tell yourself never to think like that because there's that little, superstitious voice in the back of your head that believes acknowledging a potential calamity is no less dangerous than wishing for it to occur. Still, it's there; you don't dwell on it or anything, but just kind of both avoid and ignore it like a fly upon the wall, which you spare because expending the energy to kill it is more of a deterrent than the respect for the sanctity of insectile life.