Jay Fox - THE WALLS

I concentrate on the white strands of milk, which swirl like wisps of smoke, before they are consumed by the fallow tone the coffee has taken on. I am absently stirring it. “So where does this leave me?” The question sounds more forlorn than it should be. Sean's gaze is sympathetic. “You're basically telling me that nothing I've done over the past two plus weeks has any merit. I mean, it's hard to even find a bar that has preserved one of his pieces, let alone someone who has the, the — apparently the audacity to claim that they know him.” My hands fall to the table. “I mean, what's the point in asking around if everyone is full of shit? Fuck, Sean, I have been on the move since the last time I saw you. I'd be happy if Tomas and Aberdeen were actually helping, but Tomas — who keeps abandoning me, mind you, because the fucking guy gets laid like every night—”

“Don't be jealous,” he scolds. “Some women are just really attracted to artistic types.”

“I know that Sean,” as calm as the eye of the hurricane. “I know. It's just that I'm beginning to feel like nobody takes me seriously.”

“You're young. People think your interest in high culture is ephemeral, that you'll join the workforce and become a yuppie just like so many others with liberal arts degrees,” which provokes a glacial stare from the woman at the next table. “It's a cynical approach to life, I guess, but it's certainly accurate in most cases.”

I nod. “Well, where do I go from here? If Mordecai isn't Coprolalia, and the members of the A-R-E are bullshit artists, what other leads do I have?”

“Oh yeah, that's what I wanted to mention,” he gasps in a minor Eureka! moment. My eyes narrow. “Well, the A-R-E — as you were told — stands for what seems to be a cult that both worships and strives to promote laughter.” I nod. “There is another belief that there are ulterior motives behind their activities. Some people believe them to be a…well…cult.”

“A cult?”

“Okay, for instance I've heard that the point is to encourage people to embrace their real selves, their…well, I forget the exact words that they use. Anyway, the laughter, they believe, is the first step towards coming to term with the real self…the eidolon — that's it! There's some sophomoric reason for this.”

“Okay.”

“Supposedly, the founder, Dick Keens, spent his years searching for some great truth, a penultimate step that could result in pure enlightenment. He called this The Joke — capitalized 'T' and 'J'.” I squint. “Neo-Platonism,” he responds. “And a lot of drugs.”

“I see,” with an uneasy nod.

“Now, I've certainly heard about the laughter aspect, as I've already said, but I have also heard that the acronym has another meaning.” His tenor cannot be described as facetious or malign; a conjunction of the two, however, would not be unfitting, though they would appear very clumsy together if one were to turn one of the words into a noun as so: facetious malignancy/malign facetiousness.

“They go by a name besides the Acolytes of Risus, the Enlightener?”

“Yes,” he nods with a tenuous grin. “Some believe it actually stands for Astrally-Resurrected Entity — or the plural of that: Astrally-Resurrected Entities.” I look to him with lemons. “The term Astral-Projection essentially means the ability to consciously travel without the use of a body; Astral-Resurrection relates to the ability to bring the dead back to life without the need of a corpse.” Before I can respond, he laughs: “Russian ex-pats and a lot of drugs. To be perfectly honest, I'm surprised you got in. They're typically very exclusive. I guess there's one thing I can't doubt, and that's your tenacity.”

“But they never mentioned anything about resurrections or Russia. It was just a bunch of people having fun.”

“Fun,” he scoffs. “I've seen more refinement in the lot outside a Phish show.” He reaches for his cigarettes. “Still, and I am quite sure of this, the membership includes the most ridiculous members of the Russian avant-garde here in New York. To name a few, there's Dmitri Kondrashov, Antonia Kashcheev, Yuri Podgornov, Feodor Zolotov-Khomutov, Yevgeny Pominov…” I look to him with a very stupid countenance — I can feel it, see myself looking like an utter buffoon. Some of the names are instantly familiar; others summon faint recollections of voices and faces. “You obviously know Daphne — Daphne Karev.”

“She didn't seem Russian to me.”

“She's first generation. I think her mother's French or Italian. I forget.” Caesura . “French.”

“Regardless; you've met all of these people?”

“Yes and no. I've only really talked to Daphne and Keen's grandson, Mongo Blageaux. My guess is that the rest of them aren't all that different. Mongo comes from extreme wealth, as I'm sure you already know. Daphne went to Dartmouth, so I can imagine her background is essentially the same. They're no different than the rest of the idiots running around Williamsburg thinking they're revolutionaries just because they reject the posterity of the Manhattan elite. A bunch of fucking bobos if you ask me.”

“Bobos?”

“Bourgeois bohemians,” almost spitefully. There are lines in his face that I swear I have never seen before. Their design is baroque, a ferocious calligraphy.

It dawns on me that this is the first time I have ever looked to Sean as an equal. The realization does not strike me as a fully conscious thought — at least not initially. Yet this is his face, his face with all its imperfections. I've never looked to it as I would to a friend's face. I've always been too busy concentrating on his eyes — the indifference, fatigue, confidence — to notice the small print.

“I enjoyed their company,” I respond. “I even liked Patrick.”

“You don't mean Patrick Shaheen, do you?”

“Yes,” I respond. “What's the big deal?”

“Nothing. I just heard that he was being deported.” Caesura . “I don't remember the exact reason. France would have probably described him as a 'serene fanatic'.”

“France?”

“Anatole France. Yes, from the Gods Will Have Blood .”

“Is he some type of criminal?”

“Anatole France? No—”

“I know who Anatole France is, Sean.”

“Oh, Patrick. Not really. A lot of governments don't particularly like him. I'm sure there are dossiers on him in a variety of languages.”

“What does he do exactly?”

“He's a ghost writer. And I know you've read something he's written — most people in college have.” Before I begin, he interrupts with, “I don't know. Even if I did, I wouldn't be at liberty to say.”

“So he's a ghost writer for what?”

“Academics. Left-wing demagogues.”

“So he writes anti-establishment literature for famous people? He's like living samizdat ?”

“If you want to be horribly pretentious about it. Again, it's not as though there are cross hairs on him or anything. It's more that he has connections. I'm surprised he used his real name during your interaction.” He pauses. “Unless someone else used his name as an alias. An old friend of mine in L.A. likes to tell strangers that he's Thomas Pynchon.”

“Well, that's who he said he was,” slowly. “He's the one who took me and Tomas to the party.”

“And what did he tell you of the group?”

“He told us that it was founded by Dick Keens, that Keens wanted to spread happiness and laughter throughout the world, and, to be honest that's about it — unless, of course, you would like to hear the entire history of the Keens and Balaguez families.”

“He didn't explain the group's goal to you guys?”

“Laughter. And you mentioned something about The Joke.”