Jay Fox - THE WALLS

“What do you think Coprolalia's trying to say?”

“There's no one message. He's simply trying to understand the world in which he lives, and to express his perspective.” She looks to me suspiciously. “I also believe his popularity, especially among those outside of the artistic community, derives from his disdain for those unable to see beauty in labor, even creative labor. You know, you meet so many people who want to be writers, but they don't write. You don't know how crazy it makes me when I hear people say they want to be a writer. What's stopping you? Is your arm broken?” She laughs. “And then you meet artists, and sometimes they have great eyes, but their ideas never materialize because they're lazy. You meet poets, but they don't really write poetry; they just write esoteric and laconic observations in stanzas because they haven't really worked on their metric or their style. They want to live as Nietzsche dictated, as artists, but they don't want to be burdened by the process of creating. I once heard the story of a man who said that he refused to paint because the painting he had constructed in his head was so perfect that it couldn't be reconstructed on a canvas. That's bullshit. Obviously. If he attempted to produce it, saw the finished result as imperfect, and began anew, then I would give him a bit more lenience. Perhaps I might even call him a genius if he did it for his entire life without ever getting it right. But he refused to do anything, and this tells me that he's just a fucking lazy dipshit with a mildly artistic compulsion.

“But this is all besides the point. The point is that Coprolalia really seems to see something beautiful in the ordinary. You know, it's like Dubliners . A lot of people see the world that Joyce created as dreadful, depressing; but that was the typical life there — in Dublin — and he made it beautiful because he really captured it in a unique way. Or you could look at Saramago's Gospel According to Jesus Christ. He spends so much time on the realities of first century life that you apprehend just how wretched existence was back then. And it really was, too. For just about everybody in the early Roman Empire, except for the ruling classes, life consisted of that famous Hobbesian quintet: 'Solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.' Coprolalia's work embodies the typical life here as seen through the eyes of a normal person. People aren't looking for their place in the sun; they just want someone to listen to them, they just want to feel…I don't know, maybe grounded, connected.”

She smiles. Is this a test? “I feel like you really understand him,” she nods. “I thought you were only in it for the money.”

Aberdeen and Tomas have apparently let the secret out. It is not that I am ashamed of the fact that finding Coprolalia will result in a substantial monetary reward; it's more that I feel as though the knowledge of this prospective boon will make people less inclined to take my ambition seriously. With the cat out of the bag, it seems as though it is now my duty to disclose the details of how I came to find an interest in Coprolalia.

In late-1999, a fairly prominent monthly based in New York decided to offer a hundred thousand dollar reward to anyone who could find and interview Coprolalia. Thousands of people responded to the magazine's offer, and the editors soon found themselves drowning in pages claiming to contain interviews with the reclusive artist. The publication reviewed all of the entries, tossed the obvious frauds, and sent the potentially genuine manuscripts on to Sean Winchester, who proceeded to reject everything he received.

Most forgot about the offer after a couple of months, though, according to Sean, the publication still gets about ten or twenty of these manuscripts a year. Sean has said that the majority of the entries are either confessionals or pseudo-confessionals in which the interviewer turns out to be interviewing his alter ego, who is (big surprise) Coprolalia. “It was far more common when the contest…well, it's not really a contest, but you know what I mean. It was really common back when the offer was first made — probably due to the popularity of Fight Club ,” he explained. “Of course, now the whole idea has become so overdone that it's too banal even for Hollywood; but people still try to pull it off. Regardless, it's one of those tricks that needs to be put to bed.”

The magazine doesn't publicize the offer any longer, though Sean has assured me that the editor is still accepting submissions. I had never heard anything about it until the early May of 2007. I had just turned in my final paper to Professor Winchester.

“So what do you have planned now,” he asked after I handed him the thirty page paper that already seems too esoteric and silly to even bother describing. “You're graduating with a major in Art History—”

“—And English,” I responded. “And I'm not an Art History major; this class was for my History minor.”

He nodded. “So you intend to go to grad school, I take it?” he asked as he turned to look out onto Washington Square Park.

“It certainly seems to be the route I'm on,” I responded. “Of course, I want to take a year off in order to get some real-world experience.”

“Any jobs lined up?” he asked as he began to sort through some papers on his desk — a disorganized mosaic of, perhaps a testament to, his general disinterest in teaching.

“No. I've been on a few interviews, but so far nothing has worked out.”

“Well,” he turned to me, “You should enjoy the time you have between school and the working world. During that period — I took a year off from school, as well — I did a lot of reflection on the direction in which I wanted my life to go. I ended up back in Seattle, my hometown, and took up a paralegal job. A year later I moved out here for school. I haven't looked back since.”

“Well, I don't think I want to take up a paralegal job. I don't really know what I want to do.”

“Well, you could always take up the search for Coprolalia,” he responded sarcastically.

I had heard the name more than a couple of times, seen a few pieces, and even caught wind of the artist's reclusive nature, but that was about it. When I asked Sean what he meant by the remark, I was amazed to find out about the reward awaiting anyone capable of producing a bona fide interview with the artist. We talked about it for some time. By the end of the conversation, I decided that this pursuit was something that I had to undertake.

It wasn't just the money. One hundred thousand dollars would obviously be enough for me to live on for quite some time, on the condition that I keep with my thrifty lifestyle. However, this was not the real end. If I proved capable of finding and interviewing Coprolalia, this would guarantee a reputation, an ability to publish freelance in virtually any journal of my choosing. Through Coprolalia I could exit the pedestrian world. And yet, at this point, I've lost that grand sense of ambition. What lay ahead seems inconsequential right now — I simply want to know who Coprolalia is. It's this ambition that I have projected to the world for so long that by now it seems like the only thing that keeps me going.

“No,” I tell Jane, “It's not just the money. I mean, I certainly could use it, don't get me wrong; but, to me, it's become so much more.”

“Well, that's good to know,” she smiles.

Fearing a lapse in conversation, I quickly change subjects. “What's the deal with the triplets?”

“They're my roommates. And,” she beings with a roll of the eyes, “Those aren't their real names. They always come up with these stupid pseudonyms whenever they go out together. The whole rhyming thing was Nixi's idea.” Whether a form of ESP or a simple coincidence, we both look over to Nixi, at present occupied by a man wearing clothes that show off his anemic body. He holds what could only be tequila shots in one hand, two lime slices in the other. “Another awkward morning is on the horizon,” she says with a sigh of exhaustion.