Jay Fox - THE WALLS

The people in the garden of the café look to me with suspicion. It is not an expression of condemnation that they exhibit; rather, they seem preoccupied in trying to find conversation matter, and I am evidently a more than worthy candidate. Although I am wearing the sunglasses from last night, I suppose there are other features that reveal the magnitude of my hangover.

“What's so important that it couldn't be discussed over the phone?” I ask.

“Nothing. I just wanted to see you in person, that's all. It's been quite some time.”

“I see.”

“How many of those bars have you been to?” I shift my gaze. “You know…the list that I gave you a few weeks ago.”

“Oh,” I laugh. “That list is pretty outdated.”

“I just made it,” defensively. “Are you sure you didn't just miss some of the pieces? They're not labeled or anything.”

“Yes, I know. Most of the bathrooms have been completely painted over — even in that one dive on Fifth Street.” I name the bar. “It was the first place I went.”

“That's right; they called me,” he chuckles. He taps his forehead with his fist. “I completely forgot about that.”

(It is said that Thales, one of the Seven Sages of Greek Antiquity, was so captivated by the heavens that, as he was escorting a woman from her house so they could star-gaze, he fell into a ditch. When he called out for help, she responded: 'Do you think, Thales, that you will learn what is in the heavens when you cannot see what is in front of your feet?')

“What's your favorite piece so far?”

“The more I think about it, the more I like Herculi Romano Augusto .”

“That's a great one. That's on Fifth Avenue, right?”

“Yeah, but it may be gone already.” I pause. “Sean, there's not going to be anything left soon.”

“That's not true,” he responds, but he cannot meet my eyes.

“There are still some pieces up around here, don't get me wrong; but it seems as though Coprolalia is slowly being wiped off the entire island of Manhattan that exists above Fourteenth Street. Even the Brooklyn and Queens corpus is beginning to disappear. The Bronx is different, but it doesn't matter because he never goes up there. Regardless, so much of it has been erased that it seems almost pointless to abide by that list. I mean, you remember the other day,” I begin. “You know, when I called you from that bar in Red Hook?”

“Yes, I know.” He lights a cigarette and blows the exhaust towards a yuppie couple. They examine him with scorn. “Look, I know it seems to be a daunting task and all, but Coprolalia is alive and well. The only thing is that he moves around a lot. There are entire months that I go without finding anything, and then, suddenly, pieces appear in places as far away as Jamaica and City Island. We've been over this.”

“Well, that could lead us to believe that he doesn't live here anymore — at least not all year.”

“You sound like James,” he derides.

“Well, maybe he's on to something.” Sean rolls his eyes. “I'm not saying that he's definitely right, especially since it would mean that this Mordecai guy isn't Coprolalia.”

“Mordecai — I haven't heard that name in a few years. Never did get a last name, either.” He shakes his head. A long caesura ensues. “You don't believe any of it, do you? You couldn't possibly be that gullible.”

“I'm certainly not going to dismiss the possibility without seeing some type of evidence. Furthermore, it validates my belief that Coprolalia has some type of base south of Prospect Park.”

“Okay,” he begins calmly. “First of all, he's far too young. As you have said, he's only thirty-two years old.”

“I don't know that. I just assume that he's the same age as Willis, and Willis will be turning thirty-three in a month or so.” Sean nods. “Regardless, I still think it's something I should follow up on. I have Willis' number. It couldn't hurt to give him a call.”

“Far be it for me to advise you not to follow a dead end.” Sean seems to be circumnavigating around the word temerity.

“Well, these people I met last night seem to be fairly convinced that he's really Coprolalia.”

“Of course they are convinced of it. It makes them feel special. People love bragging about who they know; it makes them feel as though they're part of the scene ,” he derides.

“Can I start you off with something to drink,” the waitress, who materializes behind me, asks. “We have a bloody mary special — buy one, get one free.”

“Coffee will be fine,” I respond. “I think my liver needs a rest.”

“You only live once,” she curtsies. Whatever gem lay in her nose winks in the sun.

“I guess one drink couldn't hurt,” I say as I look over to Sean.

“Coffee's fine,” he says with severity.

Her eyes widen and her posture straightens. “Okay,” she says with a protracted 'o'. This implies a variety of unflattering thoughts.

She walks back into the building. Its bricks have been painted over in a faded beige — that hue that recollects a child's drawing of Caribbean sands — that is chipped in several places, thereby revealing calico layers from the past. The sound of a Mingus tune can be heard as the door opens. Nothing is said at the table for a long while. Sean drinks his coffee and smokes his cigarette in torpid pantomime. My shadow grows.

“Here you are sweetie,” the waitress says as she hands my coffee, which is in a bowl the diameter of a softball. “If you need anything else, my name is Zoe,” she adds with as much passion as she can summon.

“So why are you so skeptical about Mordecai and the A-R-E?” I ask as I reach for the milk.

“Because I've met them before — not Mordecai, but the others. They all hang around with this one band — Poot Moint.”

“Yeah, they were playing last night. I had a long conversation with Daphne, the pianist.”

“Oh ( caesura ) her.” The utterance of “Tenochtitlán” would have probably produced a similar expression on the face of Cortés.

“You know her?”

“Ancient history.”

“Did you ever meet Willis Faxo?”

“No, but I've definitely heard the name. The artist who's too good for the art world. Pretentious ass, if you ask me.”

“What do you mean? I thought he made furniture.”

“Yes, he does. It's a whole bunch of Marxist hoopla, really,” he says. I feel as though we both acknowledge that his word choice is something of an anomaly. “He refuses to produce any artwork that the working class won't understand. This, of course, is incredibly patronizing to the working class, but it is also a barb aimed at men of culture. To paraphrase what he said: the discourse of the art world has become a form of autoeroticism for those with too much time and hair on their hands.

“He's critical of nearly everyone: artists, poets, writers, feminists…anyone who does not think the abolition of the class system is paramount to justice. Feminists really hate him. He's called the majority of them, and I quote, 'The most self-absorbed and elitist members of the leisure-class'.”

“That explains what Daphne said of him,” I respond as I sip my coffee. “Can I bum one of those?”

“I didn't realize you smoke.”

“I don't normally, but I could use one right now.” He slides the pack and a lighter across the table. “From where are you quoting this Faxo guy?” The cigarette coughs out a plume of opaque smoke that's almost mauve in the sunlight. “Did he write a book or something?”

“No, some art magazine interviewed him a few years back. It was when he decided to quit the scene. He was quite a celebrity back then.” He drags from his cigarette for a long while. “I think it was back in ninety-eight or ninety-nine. Regardless, it's an amusing read,” he continues; “It's along the lines of Castro's speech to the UN in sixty or sixty-one.”