Jay Fox - THE WALLS

“Dick wasn't the communist type, but he certainly was a liberal man. Whereas his grandmother had been an anarchist, and his mother a socialist-turned-capitalist, Dick was more of a philanthropist, but not in the superficial sense. He was more in line with Godwin's man of virtuous disposition — he didn't see the poor as some vague entity in need of pity or eleemosyna— ”

“What was that?”

“Alms,” with something akin to frustration. “I take it you don't know any Greek, either?”

“No,” in unison.

“Well, once you've found Janus, please let him know that Polyphemus did indeed die in vain.”

“What?”

“Anyway,” Patrick begins dismissively, “Dick saw a lot of people who couldn't get ahead in this world because they simply never got the opportunity. You have to remember that even Carnegie wouldn't have amounted to much had it not been for a few lucky rolls of the dice. Also, if a man is defined by his environment, the idea of the autodidact seems a bit misleading, doesn't it? Not to go too far off topic here, but it seems silly to believe that a social creature such as a human can be wholly self-made. To quote Erasmus, ‘It’s absurdities like these that sway the mighty, powerful monster that is the common people.’

“Anyway, Dick gave most of his money away to various charities throughout the city and the world, but kept enough so that he never had to work again. He did a lot of traveling throughout the sixties, mostly in this country. In seventy-one, he came back to the city and bought a place on Fiske — a small street contained within Garfield and President, I think. Maybe it's First.” He pauses to scratch his ear, takes a small sip from this beer, and then continues. “Anyway, one day he's on acid tooling around the area, and he comes across this poet, who says this one line that changes Dick's life forever: No one smiles anymore . Now, whether the subsequent revelation was merely chemically induced or if it could qualify as a genuine spiritual awaking…well, that's one of those things people still debate. Regardless, Dick decides to start smiling again. He abandons the veil [not to be confused with vale] of tears. And this, ladies and germs, is the day of the A-R-E's inception.”

“Was all of that necessary?” I ask. “I mean, you could have just told us that Dick Keens started the group. That would have been entirely sufficient.”

“Once you get to the party, you'll understand. Then again, I'm not even done yet.” Tomas groans. “Okay, so I have to backtrack a little because I jumped over the sixties. I forgot to mention that Dick was suffering from despair — Sartre's sense, that is; he was a very wealthy man who saw the world as a very depressing place, and, without much need to go into details, he was certainly correct. Miserable people were — and are — about as prevalent as omens in Lucan. Suffice to say, Keens did not succumb to the quixotry of the sixties. The direction of the world, he thought, had the potential to go in one of two directions: corporate oligarchy or a system based upon nepotism, elitism and fascism. He was fond of a quote in Ecclesiastes. I'm probably going to screw this up, but it goes something like this: I looked and saw all the oppression that was taking place under the sun: I saw the tears of the oppressed — they had no comforter; power was on the side of the oppressors. And I declared that the dead are happier than the living. But better than both is he who has not yet been born, who has not seen the evil that is done under the sun.” He takes on a plaintive countenance and adds: “'Who knows what is good for a man in life, during the few and meaningless days he passes through like a shadow?' The Bible would respond in fairly obvious fashion: God. Keens, of course, was not one to acquiesce to religious faith. He preferred to look for a more terrestrial purpose.

“That being said, he left the city and went out looking for some of that good old Kerouac-style adventure with true gaité de cœur …”

“Oh my God, Patrick, will you please shut the fuck up,” Tomas finally explodes. “I don't care about Dick Keens, okay. I just don't care.”

“Fine, I'll just finish with this: after several years of travel and his return to the city, as well as his revelation with regards to laughter, he bought a few pieces of property in Brooklyn. We are going to one such place tonight. Think of it as a temple. Now,” he begins, clearly frustrated with Tomas, “If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go run to the toilet, and then introduce myself to the newcomers to this bar.”

When each group refuses to even humor Patrick, he comes back to the table in a mood just shy of resignation. Tensions begin to mount. Patrick has thought Tomas to be impudent all night; now he is becoming impatient and downright ornery. Tomas has thought Patrick to be obnoxious and self-absorbed; at this point he feels himself all the more justified because so many others in the bar advocate this view. Efforts to reconcile the two are further impugned by the amount of alcohol in Tomas' bloodstream. It is obvious that he would have been abrasive and even belligerent had it not been for the coffee Patrick had forced upon him. He defends these vicissitudes, and says that they are supposed to be a form of homage to Pollack or Bukowski, but only the most gullible would think this claim to be sincere.

I try to focus my attention on the coffee, but it is fairly difficult. Between the character assassins taking pop shots at anyone in the bar besides the people at their own table, as well as the civil war that threatens to erupt in closer proximity, it is difficult to concentrate on anything, let alone a brackish cup of coffee that has grown cold. The brand is probably the same one served to prisoners and funeral home attendees. The aftertaste is metallic and it ravages the stomach in a way one would think reserved for battery acid or lye. The bartender and the remnants of the early crowd apparently find this very amusing. They are staring at me. The dregs of the pot go into a mug. Patrick finishes his beer, stands, and walks over to the bar. He presents a toast without a word, and then takes down the contents of the mug. The regulars applaud while the newer residents look on with curiosity and contempt. I hear the words “douche” and “tool” and “poseur” spoken as though a mantra. These distant insults are accompanied by the sound of laughter, which begins at the bar, but soon resonates through my head.

10.2

When we leave, the bartender tells Patrick to come back anytime (which, I realize, I will have to do because I failed to scan the bathroom for anything by Coprolalia; I just noticed one of those fucking deodorant advertisements that won't seem to leave me alone). Several women at the bar look to him with hungry eyes. To the least homely of the bunch he recites the following:

In flight I shall be surely wise,

Escaping from temptation's snare;

I cannot view my Paradise

Without the wish of dwelling there.

The air outside is humid, and the scent of damp grass drifts down from McCarren. Patrick puts on a pair of sunglasses. We can still hear the women inside laughing to themselves, even if they are all married, some to the men a few stools down from them, who are still in awe of “'at guy…'at guy's got some serious persafuckinalidy.”

“Lettin' his fuckin' freak flag fly — high!” is added as we leave the realm of earshot.

“You know what?” Patrick looks back to the two of us. “That stanza is absolutely meaningless unless one knows its context. It's barely even a cogent reference to the moment.” He laughs. “Do you know its context?”

“No,” I respond.

“What's the deal with the glasses, man?” Tomas asks. “It's after midnight.”