Jay Fox - THE WALLS

The bathroom walls have already been painted over in Miami aqua. I am also again reminded that no woman will fuck you if you smell (unless, of course, it's the second or third or (who knows?) fourth time for the night). When I call Sean to break the news that his most recent prospect in Red Hook has been lost he is all profanity and groans; there's no conciliatory prize I can offer him besides a joke about the possibility of there being fuchsia trim in the bathroom's near future. For a moment I believe the line has been disconnected.

“Weren't you supposed to come down here a few days ago?” I ask as I step out of the washroom. Otis Redding sings of the glory of love.

“I got sidetracked,” he laments. “I visited the courts in both Manhattan and Brooklyn yesterday. The day before that I ended up at Shea Stadium—”

“For the shutout?”

Caesura . “Sure.”

“But Bonds didn't do shit. Ain't hit shit since Sunday.”

“Seven forty-six, right?”

“Seven forty-fuckin'-six. And if he hits that magic number…if he does it, he'll defile the dignity of da' fuckin' game. 's a fuckin' travesty.”

“Who's that?” Sean asks.

“The bartender.”

“Name's Charlie.”

“Charlie the bartender.”

“Charlie the bartender.” He sighs. “Anyway, I didn't find anything there. Terrible leads, really. I don't know why I even bothered going all the way out there.”

I order a pint after hanging up with him and quickly start up a conversation with the unoccupied and loquacious Charlie, a pock-marked man of fifty-something, who sports a Yankees cap, a faded blue shirt, and a pair of shorts that are held up by frequent tugs from his calloused hands. It's not quite five, and the sun comes through the front windows in delicate beams of illuminated dust. Besides me and the bartender, there are six other people in the bar: a sullen man at the next stool who is missing a shoe, a young couple playing pool, and three men in front of the jukebox debating which record label had a greater impact on American music, Motown or Atlantic. William DeVaughn begins to urge the few of us in here to be thankful for what we got.

Charlie lets out a reluctant laugh when I ask him about the recent paint job. “My wife picked da' culla out.” The half-shod man makes a whipping noise, which provokes “Shut the fuck up, Midas,” as rebuke.

“No, I mean why did you repaint the bathroom? The most recent Coprolalia may have been in there?”

“'Da fuck is 'at?”

“It's a who, actually. Coprolalia is an artist,” I add. He squints. “The bathroom wall is like his canvas.”

“Some guy used my shitta' as his canvas?”

“No, he uses any bar's bathroom as his canvas.”

“Sounds like a fucking vandal to me, Charlie,” the man with the one shoe says.

“Oh yeah,” Charlie says with that Staten Island accent that turns the monosyllabic yeə into the polysyllabic yē´ä. “I read something about him in the-uh…in the-uh…in Da (uh) Post .” He shrugs. “Well, s'not like 'at was the only thing in there, you understand. Now I ain't the owner a' the Ritz by any means, but I got a solid establishment ear, not to mention a reputation to uphold, ya' get me, kid?” he adds with a less than amiable tone. “Now, look, I ain't got no problem 'f this guy want to come back, ya know…uh, do some type a' mural or some shit, but I tink it a bit fuckin' rude fa' some fuckin' asshole to just waltz on in ear, and draw some stupid shit on my fuckin' wall like it's his motherfuckin'…you know,” slowly, “like it’s his fucking his prerogative. Who da' fuck he tink he is, anyway?” he asks to no one in particular one octave up.

“He's just some dope from the City, Charlie.” Shoeless Midas speaks from the bottle. “Besides, it ain't like this kid scribbled anything on your wall. Lay off of him.”

“Shut the fuck up, Midas,” he says with facetious cruelty. Apparently, this is something of a refrain. “I ain't talking to you,” he adds. Charlie looks back to me with a smile. Midas continues to macerate his liver with cheap beer. “Look: I don't mean to be short or nothing,” slowly, “but I know how this shit goes. I been here since before you was born. And I know this: once some douche-bag writes something on the wall, it's like an open invitation to every other jackass in town. I just try to stop it before it gets outta' hand, ya' get me, kid?” He smiles and turns back to Midas. “Hey, Midas, what's da' name a'dat one place in the City where we went fa' Mardy's fortieth?”

“I don't know, Charlie,” he responds. “You talking about that place on Saint Marx?”

“No, s'on First, remember?”

“But close to Saint Marx, right?”

“You're right. It was like a block away.” Midas doesn't respond. He's not contemplative, nor is he engaged by someone or something else. He has merely resigned from the conversation because he is a breathing shadow, an irrelevant detail in someone else's dream. Charlie eventually shrugs. “Irregardless,” he turns to me, “It was a fuckin' disaster.”

“Irregardless isn't a word, Charlie,” meek Midas interjects.

“Who the fuck asked this guy, huh?” he says with a coy smile directed at me. “Irregardless,” he begins, making certain to emphasize each syllable, “Place looked like it'd been hit by a fuckin' hurricane. 'Sides the piss puddles and da' refer smell in the can, the whole ambiance was way outta' whack — was like a fuckin'…ya' know…uh, like a fuckin' frat house. Not as bad as fuckin' Paulmil, mind you, but fuckin' bad.” He shrugs again. “Look: I ain't saying 'at type a' shit's gonna happen in my bar. I know most da' people who come in and outta this place, and I ain't gotta worry much. But I ain't gonna stand by and let graffiti…ya’ know…uh, accumulate, until my bar looks like an old train car, you get me, kid?”

“I understand,” solemnly. “I guess the only question now is if you have any pictures from the bathroom before you painted over it. Maybe your wife took like a before and an after?”

“Hate to break it to ya', but I ain't the type a' guy who takes pictures a' people on the can. I leave that type a' shit to B.B. Fucking King,” before letting out a boisterous laugh. The guys hanging around the jukebox turn to him. “Yo', youse hear 'bout that?”

“Was in Saint Louis, right?” one of them asks.

“Nah, I heard it was the one in Times Square.”

“I thought it was in Kansas City,” Midas says hesitantly. “Probably just a rumor anyway.” He pauses. “You’re probably thinking about Chuck Berry, Charlie. He definitely did that shit.”

Charlie nods. “For once in your life, you’re fucking right, Midas. B.B. King’s a fucking saint. Still, dat’s some funny shit dough, huh?” Charlie asks/says. Regardless of the verb he utilizes, its usage manages to elicit a tepid response from the people in the bar, even the young couple playing pool, whom Charlie doesn't seem to know. “Tell ya' what kid, I got a box full of pictures somewhere in back. I can go an'get'm if you don't mind hangin' around a little.”

“I don't have anywhere to be,” I respond. “It's just that what I'm looking for appeared about a week ago,” I add.

He doesn't hear me. “Yo', youse don't need nothing, right?” he calls out to no one in particular. A few moments of silence produces no response, so he begins towards the door that reads employe's only.

“What's the story with the shoe?” I ask Midas as I take my first sip of beer for the day.

His features become pensive, furrowed into something that may have been a scowl for others, but has since become his default. He glares to the television without attention, the images having ceased to captivate so long ago that it seems the tube's only purpose now is to drown out the thought that too many years have been spent drinking in this dive straddling the lines of Red Hook and limbo. “Long story, kid,” he responds gruffly. I ask him if he knows anything about Coprolalia, and receive a derisive response. And yet in his eyes there is a faint glimmer, an attempt at recourse to something that the steady influx of beer probably makes him forget from time to time.