Jay Fox - THE WALLS

The fat suit Elvis has found his thinner, black leather counterpart. As they dance together, it becomes evident that they share more than a common love for the king. The women surrounding them are no less eccentric. A few have painted their dresses on. An older woman has done a particularly fantastic job, I must say, but she forgot to coat the underside of her…well, a less polite person would call them dugs. Excessive sweating has given away the secret of another woman like her. Some wear dresses with flower prints that would seem more appropriate on couches from the thirties, the kind that grandmothers ritualistically coat in plastic as if this gesture can counteract the ravaging hands of time. It's a curious perversion — something that seems more fitting in the pages of a Nabokov novel.

Still, the majority of people look no different than anyone you might see on the street. And while most of the men are not clean-shaven, and most of the women wear no makeup, there does not seem to be any form of ill-will for those who do prefer to shave regularly or wear makeup. There is a distinct sense that the exclusive nature of the party is not due to a superficial identity that one is required to take on. If anything, the only prerequisite seems to be an appearance of confidence and the willingness to repel the forces of social friction. That, and sunglasses. No one wears much black, white, or gray, either. This is something of an oddity in New York, certainly in this part of Brooklyn. Everything here is drowned in vivid Technicolor — even the Goths favor deep scarlets and royal purples reminiscent of something out of Poe.

The guitarist finishes up his solo as the kitchen crew stumbles out into the main concourse sopping wet, giggles — for some smoke, too — bouncing clumsily off of the lips, hands groping cans of beer, shoulders, sides, body parts with Latin and Greek names that have no English counterparts. Mongo has a can of Schlitz in one hand, a beer bong (“funnel,” in some dialects of American-English) in the other. He dons a mischievous, if not slightly demented, grin as he snaps the can open, drains it into the contraption, and throws the empty against the wall with an echoing and hollow ding . He places the hose to his mouth, kneels down, and lets the liquid undulate in the tube once or twice before it is drained — a disappearing act that may have intrigued Houdini had he not been busy revealing the Achilles' Heel of a set of modern handcuffs to the captious eyes of Les Poseuses (green socks and all). Mongo looks at his contraption for a while before he throws it at the wall. Because the funnel component hits first, the hose snaps up and horsewhips the wall with a sonorous crack that catches the attention of nearly everyone, even the Elvi, who are in the midst of what could be considered a form of masturbation.

The kitchen contingent, still laughing over the antics of Mongo, readily retrieves the beer bong for him. Two people carry it as though a sacred vessel; another two bring with them a jar of grape jelly. The hand-off elicits an epiphanical grin from Mongo before the obvious occurs. And while Mongo's attempts are certainly valiant, the enterprise fails when the jelly clots right around the halfway point in the hose. Had he the lung-power of an Olympiad, Mongo may have been able to pull of the venture, but, with what seems to be a two pack a day cigarette addiction, the stubborn purple mass remains stationary despite his best efforts. Incensed, Mongo pulls his head way from the contraption and bitterly huffs and puffs in an effort to regain some stamina.

He continues to alternate between reprieves and attempts to suck the jelly out of the hose for a while before this peculiar stunt begins to attract more attention than any of the troupe of culinary pranksters anticipated. When the band finishes, they receive a lengthy applause, as well as a seven shot salute from the citrus artillery. As the last of the applause beings to die down, another sound invites attention: a wet, almost loosely flatulent gurgle that would differ from the firing of the world's sloppiest spitball only to those types who can blindly tell the value of any coin you might drop on the table.

All eyes follow the massive, purple globule as it begins its ascent. Its steady rise signifies something to these people, something almost sacred. When it not only hits the ceiling, but actually sticks, a cry of applause erupts.

The band launches into “When You're Smiling”, which only augments the enthusiasm of the crowd. The clarinetist isn't playing because he's broken a reed. He is dressed like the Domesticon model that comes with the thick glasses and eyebrows. Boots look to Tomas and me with a rabid grin: “This is the third time they've played this tonight.”

10.3

“Oh yeah, he's great,” she says when I bring up Coprolalia. She leads Patrick and me into one of the deserted rooms accessible only from the balcony. Patrick hands her the pack of cigarettes he purchased earlier. She lights up.

The room had apparently been used for storage in the past, but it now holds a few pieces of furniture, a phonograph within a large chest (I believe this is called a console), and a lot of books that give the impression that the room has become something of a makeshift study. Several volumes from the Chums of Chance series, perhaps first editions, take up an entire shelf. One of George Kennan's books instantly attracts Patrick's attention. “ Tent Life In Siberia ! I knew the title had the word 'tent' in it.” Most of the books are older than the combined age of me, Daphne and Patrick. They are the legacy of Dick Keens, apparently. The shelves that hold the volumes are made of plywood and span the entire length of two door- and windowless walls yellowed by a conjunction of poor ventilation and cigarette smoke. These shelves are not overloaded; still, the smell of mildew and leather and stale breath permeates the air as Daphne's cigarette pops and crinkles above the murmuring cacophony coming from the next room. The ceiling appears to have been sprayed by a round of buckshot. Patrick looks beyond the door, maybe to see if anyone has followed, maybe to check on Tomas and Boots, who have begun a conversation on the balcony that concerns his book, Postlexiconism, and the likelihood of his penis finding its way into one of her orifices.

Parallel to the door through which we entered are three windows that have been recently installed, as is obvious from their cleanliness and their make. I remain standing as Daphne walks over to the phonograph player and the attached unit, which houses several hundred albums. “Any requests?” as she examines the player and the disc already on the turntable. “Dick had such a great collection,” is added as a gratuity. She glides her hand across the oak veneer and smiles back to me as I hear the speakers begin to hiss and pop and crackle.

“Do you think he's got Something/Anything? ?” Pat asks as he pulls out a large volume. This is followed by a roll of Daphne's eyes and a small tick from the record player, which occurs with shifting intervals. It is a nuisance, no doubt; but soon the first track on the album begins to encroach upon the static. Daphne stares to the rotating vinyl in silence. Patrick looks to me with a smile while holding up the book. “Mommsen!” I nod before turning back to Daphne with dithering eyes and a general orientation of confusion that seems more and more like a necessity today.

Daphne begins to sway along with the music. Patrick stops examining the book in his hands. As she continues to rock to the beat of the song, Patrick's attention is diverted to the distant revving of an engine lacking a catalytic converter. He peers out the window, which grants him a view of several modernized row-homes with dark and barred windows (their facades bathed in strands of amethyst), and then down to a book with two words on it (“Polypnuematics” and “Gunnison”). Mommsen is placed down in the space this book previously occupied.