Jay Fox - THE WALLS

“So my professor says,” Trixi explains to Tomas, who listens with cucumber coolness, “The only problem with your story is that it isn't published!” They both laugh with breaths both quick and resonant. Mixi occupies Aberdeen with the story behind the barbed wire tattoo on her arm.

“Do you want to see the Coprolalia?” Jane asks. She blinks quickly as her head darts towards the bathroom, a valuable piece of property considering the fact that it will soon be expropriated by Nixi & Co.

We have to tiptoe past Nixi and her friend for the evening in order to reach the bathroom door. There is no longer a line because of the busy couple and the fact that there's a second bathroom downstairs. Jane knocks on the door with all the force she can muster as a gesture to ward off the malign spirits of awkwardness. She turns to me with a nod of assurance. “I think it's clear,” she yells over the electropop that blasts from the nearby speaker.

We enter a bathroom that is covered in purple faux -velvet from ceiling to floor with the exception of one framed reminder of the scourge of B.O. and the benefits of smelling like chemicals that are scientifically proven to…well, science is for fucking fags, bro. The door is olive drab, perhaps thick enough to withstand a payload from the Enola Gay. There is nothing written on the wall, nor is there even space for one to do so unless one considers the mirror or the ad. The toilet's white porcelain shines like a celebrity smile, illuminated by one bare bulb hanging from a heavily insulated cord. The floors are sea-green linoleum and tattooed by paralyzed shadows or stains that may or may not be of the fecal variety. There is no sink. How the hell do you have a bathroom without a sink? I turn to Jane: “Where is it?” She slams the toilet seat down, not sparing the typical resentment for male inconsideration, and glides her hand in the direction of the plastic donut. The words are written in green ink. Some of the letters have already been smudged from inaccuracies and, dare I venture, petty malevolence. I don't say anything for a long time; I just stare to the words, which appear without punctuation or break.

Fast Food looks better

Coming out of my ass than

Going in my mouth

“This is bullshit,” I do declare.

“What?” she exclaims. “I think it's pretty funny. I mean, I don't want to be gross or anything, but….”

“Not that,” with frustration. I grab a piece of toilet paper and wipe away the final word of the haiku.

“What are you doing? Don't you want to preserve this?”

“When did you find out about it?”

“What?”

“Did Tomas show it to you?”

“Yeah, like five minutes before you showed up.” She looks to it again, incredulously. “You just know it's a fake — just like that.”

“I need a fucking drink.”

“What's the matter?”

“Yes, it's a fake,” I respond as I reach for the door. “It's the work of one of those two dipshits out there.” The door opens to Nixi and her bare tits being kissed by the toothpick with a burgeoning erection that would probably not be visible if not for the make of his jeans. Her nipples are of that incredibly long stock that are rare even in porn. “Come on,” I yell back to Jane, who is still gawking at the toilet with her mouth ajar. Had anyone been able to see her, they may have assumed her to be gazing upon something far less innocent.

Tomas and Trixi and Aberdeen and Mixi have coupled off in the corner. The men look like vultures eying the carrion of reservation. Trixi runs a hand through her hair and scratches the nape of her craned neck. Her ordinarily nacreous smile shines with an amethyst tint: the consequence of a black light that has suddenly been turned on. Tomas, now with an orange face, places a hand on her shoulder. Aberdeen, meanwhile, has taken to talking about his life in the most pedantic way possible, as is discernible even from this distance. Mixi's head doesn't move; it's difficult to tell if he's boring her into a coma or if he's strumming heartstrings with the dexterity of Don Giovanni or Derek Trucks. Regardless, the party has not dawdled in putting up the proverbial velvet rope, so it seems as though there is nothing left to do besides find another locale to carry on the failed experiment that is the night.

“What are you drinking?” I ask Jane as she runs up behind me with her eyes glued on Nixi's bare breasts. “What are you drinking?” I repeat even as her eyes try to direct my attention towards Nixi. “I know,” I respond. “What are you drinking? I'm buying,” I add.

“I can buy my own drinks, thank you,” she contends. Her eyes dart to the side again.

“Yes, I know about them; impressive, huh?” She smiles mischievously. “Look, I know you can buy your own drinks; this isn't a question of abilities. I'm just trying to be nice.”

“It's not nice,” she objects; “It's patronizing.”

“Tell you what, I plan on drinking quite a bit because this night has been an absolute waste, just like the rest of the fucking week, so I'll buy this round if you buy the next.”

“What?” she says with a very coy grin, “Suddenly we're going Dutch?”

“You know, that's a terribly offensive thing to say,” I begin. “I am Dutch.” Her face reddens. “I'm just fucking with you,” I say before she manages to interject. She smiles and suddenly we're at the bar with drinks in our hands, her Borinquen freckles now visible in the soft light snowing down from above. The music is too loud, but not as imposing one would think. The night begins to haze over as reality and memory become diluted by a steady stream of alcohol and New Wave favorites that pulse in a driving rhythm both rigid and determined. I pine about my inability to find Coprolalia, as if his face is the gray exhaust left by the Roadrunner — tangible only in the sense that it makes the coyote's chagrin that much more unnerving. Jane smiles tepidly as my diatribe runs its course; she seems to enjoy the silent side of the rapport, as she lacks that penchant for speaking in memoirs like most college students.

Episodes from her life are linear, plot-driven. She seems edgy, a purveyor of awkward mannerisms. She may be interpreting our interaction in strictly cerebral terms, curious of my intentions, not entirely certain of her own — that odd miasma of anxiety and anticipation, which summons fits of nervous laughter and shifty eyes. Then again, she may have the disjunctive orientation to the world: a bizarre and paranoid form of cognition dominated by 'either…or' propositions that polarize all potential scenarios into camps of best and worst — a kind of cataract that can eventually envelop all but the last vestments of sanity.

I manage to extract only limited details about her life even after the drinks begin to show their affects (on her — they have been showing their affects on me for about four hours). She's from outside of Buffalo, of Polish and Puerto Rican ancestry, in the music program at the New School, cellist, violinist, guitarist, pianist, songwriter (rarely song-singer), part-time barista, full-time feminist, non-smoker, former Catholic, Working Families Party member, vegetarian, marijuana enthusiast. She talks about music with an almost choleric fervency. She thinks that Webern was a bit too chaotic at times (“Not as chaotic as Xenakis, whom I can respect — I just can't listen to him”), that Bartok was one of those geniuses that will one day be universally appreciated, and that Prokofiev was (“without question”) the best composer of the twentieth century. She calls Shostakovich a musical ironist, but doesn't expound upon the subject. Giuliani's “La Melanconia,” she believes, is the most beautiful piece of music ever written for the guitar. On rainy days she likes to get stoned and listen to Brad Mehldau, Billie Holiday, Fiona Apple, Andrew Bird, or Jesse Sykes — depending on her mood. Her favorite living author is Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Her favorite dead author is either Galdos or Proust — it once again depends upon her mood. She thinks organized religion to be the first form of organized crime, and prides herself an agnostic even though she doesn't know, until I inform her, that the term comes from the Greek, gnosis , to know. “Just slap an 'a' onto the word and you negate the meaning; therefore, it means 'to not know'.” Her favorite instrument is the vibraphone.