Jay Fox - THE WALLS

Patrick throws in his two cents on everything between and beyond, while Tomas and repeatly fail to scrounge up more than a half penny between us. Patrick’s anger is aroused by the unfortunate fact that most people think the title of the song “Brand New Key” is “The Roller-Skate Song.” He's in favor of the death penalty, especially when it comes to people who commit insider trading. (“So you have a system that's based on speculation. Some people speculate on a stock price going up; some speculate on the price going down. I don't know how the latter is still legal, especially now that it is so easy to disseminate false information. People will admit that this is terrible for small companies, true, but the relative ease by which one can deceive the public is considered a topic for conspiracy theorists. Why? All the short-seller has to do is pay off someone who works for a small, web-based financial journal. Even the rather minor ones are reviewed by tens of thousands of investors. It doesn't matter if they have virtually no credibility to begin with — the investors want as much information as possible, and they are persuaded rather easily on account of their being so skittish. It's so simple: the site posts whatever the short-seller wants, the short-seller is called an unnamed source, and suddenly all of those predictions the short-seller made about a stock price going down come true. By the time the lie is exposed, all of the money has already been exchanged. Done deal: The short-seller makes a profit, the writer counts his bribe money, and the website, suddenly known for its ability to obtain unique information, even if it is false, gets more web traffic. Sure it destroys companies who have done no real wrong, but why the hell should the Social Darwinists care about justice, truth, or the lives that they destroy? To them, these are just nebulous obstacles in the way of success, utility, and, most importantly, money.”) There’s something wrong with Third Avenue in sunlight. I don't really understand why. The word gestalt comes up a lot. He calls Tilden the poor man's Kierkegaard; Browning the most underrated poet of the nineteenth century; Abbagnano the greatest philosopher that no one has ever heard of; Averroes the most influential man of the twelfth century; Lucan the seventh-most eloquent man Rome ever produced, even if he wasn't really from Rome. He does not provide the names of the six who top his list, though he does tell us that Suetonius is his second-favorite Latin historian. Marx is frequently cited. Lenin is, too. Castro and Mao are regarded with an almost haughty indifference. He applauds the premises behind Julius Nyerere's Ujamaa movement, but says that the system was never properly implemented. Proudhon, he muses, should be more popular among American liberals. After talking about Ireland, he goes back to politics, and complains that too many American conservatives equate his beliefs with the Stalinist brand of totalitarianism, which, he notes, is different than Fascism for predominately economic reasons. As a footnote, he adds that the term “Islamo-Fascist” only makes sense if one is ignorant of the fact that Fascism is a distinct branch of totalitarianism, and that one could make the argument that Fascism is sufficient for atheism.

Tomas is reticent when in the presence of an extroverted character with whom he is not well acquainted. I realized this when I was introduced to Keen Buddy, but Patrick seems to exacerbate the phenomena. For the majority of the initial hours we spend together, Tomas simply looks to Patrick with quiet derision in the manner a judge may look at a career criminal. It's a stern expression, one that Tomas denies conveying even after his second or third trip to the toilet. He eventually justifies it as a form of simple skepticism as opposed to misanthropy, or, worse, elitism. Even this he admits reluctantly.

By the time the hours turn to double digits, Tomas has become somewhat inured to the rantings and the divergent method of conversation favored by Patrick. They begin to joke with one another, even finding common ground in their mutual respect for James Lovelock and Lynn Margolis. When I admit that I have no idea who these people are, Patrick takes the opportunity to explain the rudiments of Gaia theory to me. Tomas, meanwhile, leaves to order his sixth gin and tonic. I'm still on my fourth thirty-two ounce beer — probably about half way down. Pat appears as sober as when we entered even if he's taken down seven or eight double-pints. He has begun to quote British poetry at random, but I admittedly don't know how accurate he is. There is a harangue against the IMF and the Chicago Boys. He tells me all I need to know is that Milton Friedman is the devil, that the freer a market is, the more volatile it will be, and that the cycle of boom and bust will prove to enrich the super-wealthy at the expense of the working class, who will never see their wages substantially increased “Because of the ever-present specter of recession.” He calls me Maecenas at one point, and asks why I envy the lives of other men. He laughs when I look to him with confusion, and announces that I shall henceforth be known as Maecenas.

Once Patrick leaves to get his eighth or ninth beer, I turn to Tomas: “What the hell is wrong with this guy?”

“I don't know. He just talks. He's like Joe fucking Biden: you ask him a yes or no question about Coprolalia and he rambles on for an hour about ants. I mean, seriously, ants? They're not fucking super-organisms.”

“Okay, let's not get back on that.”

“I'm just saying…” he begins as he looks over to Pat and the barkeep, who are busy trying to talk over a track off Beggar's Banquet . They exchange exaggerated laughs like old friends. “I think this is a waste of time. Then again, this what you get for posting something on Craigslist,” he scolds, not even bothering to mention Patrick's attire — a rare omission for Tomas.

“That was your idea,” I respond with indignation.

“Yes, and it was a stupid idea I came up with when I was drunk. How many of those ideas do you actually listen to?” Silence. “Do you know how many fucking maniacs prowl that shit? Dig this, man: There was actually a guy in Germany who posted a request that went something like this: Virgin cannibal seeks first meal,” he begins.

“Better to sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian.”

“Better to sleep with a drunken cannibal than a drunken priest.”

“Ha!” actually said.

“Okay, but due I’m in the middle of a story here.”

“A cannibal on Craigslist…”

“Yeah, and what's even more fucked up is that someone replied! Someone wanted to be fucking eaten!”

“What happened?”

“He ate her!”

“Did he get in any trouble?”

“I'm sure he did,” he says with a suspicious look in Patrick's direction. “I don't know, though; I didn't really follow the story. In fact, I'm not sure if the person eaten was a man or a woman.” He shrugs. “But think about it, man: cannibalism.”

“He's not a fucking cannibal,” I assume. “I think he's just lonely. I mean, a normal guy doesn't just go on like this the first time you meet him. He's lonely, man,” with more confidence. “That's all it is.”

“I don't want to take the chance. Plus,” he trumps the right bower already on the table, “He's fucking annoying. It's like someone gave him a fucking emetic; it just keeps coming and coming, and I don't think it's going to fucking stop soon.” He pauses. “Has he said one fucking word about Coprolalia?”

“No, not really.”

“Oh, and have you heard of any of these fucking people? Who the hell was the one guy who ‘may have inadvertently caused the Reformation’?”

“Erasmus?”

“You know him?”