Jay Fox - THE WALLS

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” I respond quickly. “I just didn't think that many people knew about him. That's why I don't understand his arrogance.” Jeff is appeased. “But, to be honest, I didn't think you followed contemporary art all that closely. You don't go to museums or anything.”

“Well, I know plenty,” indignantly. “I even have Letters in Tandem on my bookshelf,” smugly. “I think it's utter bullshit myself, but some people seem to think it to be an iconoclastic work. I don't understand why. It's nothing more than gibberish; letters in tandem — that's it.”

“I've never even asked Tomas about it. We rarely talk about his work.”

“What do you talk about, then?”

“Normal things. He's a very down-to-earth guy once he stops trying to be a revolutionary.” Jeff squints. “Sometimes he talks like a cross between, like, a hipster idiot and Lenny Bruce. It comes in spurts.” Jeff is pensive. He says nothing; he just stares to me from behind the thick frames of his glasses. He's that guy you see on the train: the academic-looking white kid who moved into Brooklyn from Anywhere But Here, USA. I guess I'm no different, but it seems odd that he's here; he should be wandering around the campus of some elite, liberal arts school with several brilliant and monomaniacal professors, who eventually elope with a student after fifteen years of marriage to — go figure — a former student.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask after a small lapse in conversation. He's staring to the table blankly.

“I think you're afraid of the real world. Not to be too philosophical here, but the desire to extend the present is really just a form of nihilism.”

“There's some truth to that, but I wouldn't put it so definitively.”

“Think about it.”

“Sure. Do you want to go put on your analrapist stocking now, or—”

“I'm being serious here. I think you're afraid of the real world. While there are an infinite variety of possibilities in regards to your future, it seems as though your maturation has reached something of a plateau. Though this may sound presumptuous, I feel as though you are envious of your own past.” I squint. “This is not say that you are exhibiting reactionary tendencies; you just wish to continue living the same life that you live now: a student without the school. Yet this is truancy, is it not? However, at the same time, you exhibit the American predilection as James — Henry James — would have described it: the rapacious appetite for experience, which would seemingly be denied by a life preoccupied by the mundane career of the quote, unquote, normal person. It's not exceptionalism exactly, just a refusal to come to terms with the fact that you will inevitably have to support yourself with a pedestrian job before you are capable of producing anything of true value.” He pauses. “Not that you are incapable. These limitations are temporal more than meritorious. After all, Jack London washed dishes prior to being published.” He pauses again. “Or do I peg you incorrectly? Is this quixotic attempt at independence and some picayune truth simply a cover for your real motivation: to indulge in the freedom of childhood before you are borne with the responsibilities of adulthood?”

“Neither,” I respond coldly. “And don't talk like a character from fucking House , please.”

“Don't change the subject.” He pauses. “I don't know if I can fully believe what you're saying. There doesn't seem to be a third option here.” He shakes his head. “It just bothers me. You're an intelligent person, but you don't seem to have any occupational interests that fall short of international renown. Isn't there something more realistic that you can see yourself doing?” I roll my eyes. “Do you even have any idea what you want to do for a living?”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?” I ask with an exaggerated hand motion. “You know I have no idea, Jeff. We've been over this; why are you even asking me?”

I rarely saw him over the initial months that we lived together. Consequently, our interactions have always been cordial and concise. He stayed with his girlfriend virtually every night of the week while they were together. She lived by Columbia — in one of the undergraduate dorms. Sometime in early May, however, some incident led to an acrimonious breakup. Just about all of their friends sided with her, but Jeff quietly maintains that he did nothing wrong. I never really asked him to explain himself; he never really offered.

Being that the break happened at the end of the semester, exams and papers managed to keep the two of us out of one another's hair. I'll be the first to admit that the amount of work demanded of a doctoral student at Columbia is far more than that of an NYU undergrad; still, we both spent many nights either in the library or cloistered in our respective rooms.

The coffee machine begins to hiss, which means it's been done brewing for some time. Neither of us pays much attention to it; instead, we stare to one another or the languid smoke of my cigarette, which hangs in the dead air of the apartment with torpid indifference for the window or the three fans blowing at full capacity. He shakes his head, which incenses me to no small degree. “Look, Jeff, I know what I'm doing. I mean, yes, I can see how this looks bad, obsessive and silly even, but, honestly, I can handle myself. Who cares if I haven't been to an interview in a few weeks? I'll get a job.”

“But I worry about you,” he says without compassion. He's trying though. “What, exactly, do you want to do?” emphasis, peculiarly, on want. “What are your strengths? What are your weaknesses? Where do you see yourself in ten years?” He pauses to light a cigarette of his own. “You need to be asking yourself these questions.”

“I can't see what ten years of life will bring. For all I know, I will have knocked up some girl with a trust fund and parents too conservative to permit either an abortion or a birth out of wedlock. We'll live in a condo somewhere in Manhattan, I'll get hooked up with a cake job, and the rest will just kind of work itself out.” I smile. He doesn't. “Look, I'll probably just go back to school after working some entry-level job for a year or two. Like I've told you, I want a little time to figure all of this out.”

“All of what?”

“My life. I don't want to jump into anything prematurely.”

“Well, you're at the age that you need to start making decisions that will—”

“Dictate the rest of my life? Yes, I'm barely responsible enough to get into a bar, yet I'm supposed to be mature enough to make the most important choices of my life.” I laugh. “You've got to be fucking kidding me, Jeff.”

“This is what college is for,” he says didactically. “You don't spend four years just dicking around getting drunk and laid; you spend four years learning a skill that will prepare you for the real world.”

“That is such a fucking load, and you know it. I went to college to learn about all of the things that the real world has dubbed irrelevant. I went to college to learn about history, philosophy, literature, art — things that people used to believe held inherent value.”

“I'm just saying—”

“What? If it doesn't make dollars, it doesn't make sense?”

“That's not what I mean at all.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“Don't turn this around on me. I'm trying to help you recognize where you are in life.”

“Look, Jeff, you were drawn to a major that provided you with a career path — I wasn't. Do I think I fucked up? No, absolutely not.”

“Just tell me what you enjoy doing. What can you see yourself doing?”

“Writing, playing bass, reading, researching, painting….”