Jay Fox - THE WALLS

“Hope you cats are thirsty,” he effervesces as he takes a swig from the stein, which has the word “Castalie” transcribed below a scene from some medieval festival. He then launches into song (¾ up-tempo waltz in E Mixolydian):

The nut-brown ale, the nut-brown ale,

Puts down all drink when it is stale!

The toast, the nutmeg, and the ginger

Will make a sighing man a singer.

Ale gives a buffet in the head,

But ginger under-props the brain;

When ale would strike the strong man dead

Then nutmeg tempers it again.

The nut-brown ale, the nut-brown ale,

Puts down all drink when it is stale!

“There's enough swill downstairs to supply a small army,” he adds as he takes another swig. A can makes its way into my hand, perhaps by means of teleportation. “I think Mongo's polished about half of it off by himself!”

“What is the deal with that guy anyway?” I ask. Daphne stands and starts for the hifi.

“Mongo Blageaux? Oh he's the heir to the Keens fortune and yes-yes that is his real name because he had it legally changed sometime back in the early nineties and-and-um-and I think it means something in some language.”

“That narrows it down,” Daphne mumbles as she looks through the record collection.

“A rather hebephrenic personality, right?”

“Sure.” Caesura . “What the hell does hebephrenic mean?”

“It's another word that means something in another language.” She lights another cigarette.

“And it's not Swahili. Ninasema Kiswahili, lakini sikijui nzuri sana .”

“Okay.”

“Yeah I spent-I spent a few weeks in Tanzania some time back. Actually, no…well…yes. It was Zanzibar to be more precise. Beautiful country. Lovely people.”

“What took you all the way over there?” Daphne asks while examining an Edith Piaf compilation.

“My brother's wife was born there and my whole family went down for the wedding.” He looks to Daphne with wide eyes. She acknowledges the look with a nod before returning to the vinyl. “Her father's kind of a prick, but the rest of-the-her relatives are great.” He turns to me. “So how did the interrogation go?”

Caesura .

“Interview! Interview,” as he slaps his head. “A thousand apologies upon a thousand apologies.”

“Patrick,” Daphne begins as she removes a record for its jacket, “I've told you that I don't really know anything about Mordecai.” She replaces the Bill Evans record with an Edith Piaf compilation. “I've never even seen a picture of him,” she adds as she places the needle on the rotating disc.

“Yes well don't you don't-don't you at least know where he moved after living with Willis?”

“That was more than a decade ago,” she laughs. “I'm sure he doesn't still live in Greenpoint.”

“Greenpoint?” I blurt out.

“Did Esther tell you that, too?” Daphne asks sarcastically.

I nod as the tinny horns on the first track of the album blast through the speakers.

“Well, she's right. He moved…where was it?” She turns to Patrick, who shrugs. “I think he lived on Franklin Avenue.”

“It's Franklin Street up there.”

“Regardless. Willis said he lived nearby Greenpoint Avenue — I remember that much.”

“What about Willis? Do you still have his number?”

“Of course. We still keep in touch even if he can be a misogynistic asshole.”

“A what?”

“Many people like Daphne here believe that he hates feminists. But he-he just hates bourgeois femineminism you know the types who simply want to make men and women economic equals in capitalist competition. He has no problem with some of their claims — the more legalistic stuff that is: reproductive rights and harsher punishments for sex offenders and rapists — especially in cases in which the husband rapes his wife — access to affordable daycare — you know…all that.”

“Or that he doesn't acknowledge the insidiousness of patriarchy.”

“Insidiousness? Isn't that a bit extreme.”

“No. Phallocentricism dominates the very language we speak. At best. In its most insidious form, it assimilates, subsumes… conquers everything that opposes it. You do realize there's not even a word for man-hater, unless one uses that horribly awkward word. Man-hater. It's bullshit. The equivalent is misanthrope. It doesn't mean you hate men; it means you hate humanity. Logically speaking, this means you cannot hate men without hating all of humanity.”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “But about Mr. Faxo. His concern arises because he thinks the very framework of our society is based upon the framework of our economy and that the economy is founded upon the exploitation and oppression of the working class, and that the injustices facing women are adjunctive to this primary inequity, what either he or Mr. Keens or Mr. Fromm — or perhaps all three without knowing that there had been a coinage of the term — called the orientation of domination.” Daphne pulls her phone out of her pocket and glares to Patrick, who seems to be speaking in fast-forward. “I'm not saying I totally agree with him,” he begins with a sympathetic look, “But I do agree that the whole system needs to be changed if we are to avoid alterations that are going to be superficial, thereby leaving the class system, and consequently the system of patriarchal hegemony, in tact. If you make men and women equal without eradi-eradi-eradicating the underlying mechanisms at play it just means that your oppressor can potentially wear a skirt…well in public anyhow. In other words it doesn't strike the heart of the matter. Classism is paramount; everything else is but a tool of division to be used by people in power. He even said in one interview—”

“—That bourgeois feminism has done more to advance the influence of capitalism than both Milton Friedman and Barry Goldwater combined. Yes, I read that, too. Not exactly his least idiotic moment.”

“I'm not agreeing with him. I'm just reiterating what he said.” Another roll of the eyes from Daphne. “Now, as to the ethics of revolution…” he begins. “Well…let's not start a discussion upon Trotskyite ethics as of now — we'll be here all night. I'll just say that Faxo was somewhat ambivalent about the idea of apolitical ethics.”

“Jesus Christ, will you shut up for once. Do you have a pen?” Daphne asks after a frustrated sigh.

“I'll just put it into my phone.”

She gives me the number. “I have a second set to play. Do you think the crowd will get restless if I open up with Debussy?”

“What were you thinking?”

“ L'isle joyeuse .”

“No. Absolutely not. You may as well try out something by Ligeti.”

“Ligeti? That’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?”

“Okay, fine, you may as well play Satie.”

Grunt. “What then?”

“What about some of those Monk pieces that you've been working on.”

Her eyes narrow. “The only one I'd be comfortable with is Little Rootie Tootie .”

“Given this crowd, I think that's a hell of a lot better than Debussy — or Satie. Why not open with the whole band?”

“I usually start the last set by myself. What about Self-Portrait in Three Colors ?”

“Hum it for me.”

She does.

“No.” He laughs. “Why are so intent on depressing the hell out of everyone here? How about Midnight at the Oasis ?”

“Maria Mulder? Are you fucking serious? How about this Handel's Sarabande ?”

“Why not just go all the way and play Liebesträume ?”

“I know it, too!” she laughs. “Look, I just really want to do a serious piece to start off the set. I’ve been doing it a lot, and…” she trails off. “You're right, though.” She turns to me. “I've been relearning a lot of the classical pieces I used to know because we’ve been doing more upscale gigs.” She turns to Patrick and shrugs. “But you're right Patrick; and when you're right, you're right— Little Rootie Tootie it is.”