Jay Fox - THE WALLS

The only thing that seems to change is the music.

It's a strange world in these bars: on a normal night one is bound to encounter either elation or bitterness from the old generation; the few members of the younger crowd, meanwhile, seem to be doing nothing more than entertaining themselves by conversing with either the group they came in with or their prospective bedmate(s) for the night. The disparities of these two worlds can be alarming sometimes, especially considering how exclusive most of the latter are when it comes to just about anything.

I continue to be perceived as an outsider by young and old alike; and I cannot help but feel as though they think I am studying them, my typically pensive demeanor being mistaken for a type of curiosity that is too cerebral and, therefore, too invasive. I can understand where their apprehension comes from. I know I have referred to myself as something of an anomaly in the majority of the bars that I have visited, and this description never ceases to be appropriate. In the blue-collar bars, I am seen as a snob; in the hipper regions, I lack some ornamentation or something because they all seem to stare to me with vapid contempt. So I straddle the line, the line between the intellectual and the working classes, and I know that I will now have to decide which one of these cities I will subsequently call home. Perhaps this why some who move here remain tourists for years, if not decades.

There is a New York of celebrities and models, artists and critics. Among them one is liable to find an inflated sense of importance and a pretension of culture. But this caricature of New York rings true only when one excludes the vast majority of people who only seek to work, love, and socialize. It is not as though the people of this group are devoid of culture or intelligence; it's just that most don't think themselves destined for any type of greatness as defined by fame or international renown. That familiar sense of entitlement among the intelligentsia and the upper class is acknowledged as nothing more than a vain dream to get you through the drudgery of the day. In the end, it is nothing more than an idle fantasy. As Janiqua Williams, a twenty-four-year-old MTA worker born and raised in Wycoff Gardens (with those gray eyes that can melt just about any kolpophile with a pulse), who will soon have a B.A. from Baruch in Marketing and Finance, told me as we sat at the bar of the Brooklyn Inn: “I just wannabe able to own a house and provide for my baby girl, know what I'm sayin'. Sure, I got dreams — I got lots'a dreams. But, you know, I am a realist. I know what I gotsta' do to get ahead, know what I'm sayin'.” She spoke what used to be called Ebonics, an apocopic language derived from English that perhaps upset some black people because it essentially called itself the black language, which I am sure a lot of Koisan and Bantu speakers found fucking ridiculous.

“So you probably think I'm crazy for doing something like this,” I said as I reached for my beer. Cymande played in the background — it had been preceded by Lee Morgan, Wilco, the Zombies and Tribe. “That I'm just some stupid white kid out pissing away his time.”

“Naw, boy,” she replied with a shake of the head; “'f I was in yo' shoes, I'd be pullin' the same type a' shit. But I had to work for eh'thing I got, know what I'm sayin'. And I know it's tough. I ain't never said shit'd be easy. 'Lotta niggas never make it out—'seasy to fall back into the system.”

“The system?”

“Welfare. Peejays. That shit. It ain't right dat niggas be havin' kids just to get a bigga' welfare check, know what I'm sayin'. But dat shit happens. 's the world we live in. And I don't want my baby girl growin' up 'round all dat. I want her to grow up out the ghetto,” slowly. “I want her to get a good education,” slowly. “I want her to have every option I ain't never had.” She pauses, almost lugubriously. “And if she wants to, you know, pursue somethin' like what you're doin', and she's furreal…shit, I'll support her with eh'thing I got.”

In the few weeks that I have been out of the university, I have come to realize that the working class wishes for nothing besides leisure time, while the leisure class wishes for nothing more than a meaningful task to occupy their abundance of free time (hence the lingering effects of the Buddhism fad in places like the Upper West Side, as well as the continuing popularity of Scientology, a movement that appears to be nothing more than a specious response to the feelings of estrangement, perhaps nausea, that have become so pronounced in contemporary society). Still, it's unsettling that I find myself believing that no one is content except for the proud and those too busy enjoying the moment to seriously consider the future (and not the grand, abysmal future, either — the localized, imminent one). It's as though life isn't good enough for humanity anymore.

Still, this is not to say that I am unhappy with the situation. While it is true that I am finding it increasingly difficult to anticipate an interview with Coprolalia, I am certainly cognizant of the way in which I will look at my present situation in the future — an envy of this state of personal evolution, so to speak. And as I stare to the bloody mary before me, I begin to understand that I am no longer a part of the academic community, that I have never been a member of the intelligentsia, that I cannot be considered a member of the working class, that I will continue to be regarded with nothing more than a pejorative fascination so long as I define myself as confined to this transient state— homo manqué . There is no sympathy for me, only a vague empathy that often gets lost in overtones of jealousy and contempt. With limitless possibilities available to me, I have opted to chase a chimera.

At least I can say that I have enjoyed the time. It's just that an uneasy ambivalence is beginning to shadow me. I can't help but feel that I am neglecting a path that I am supposed to follow.

“Liquid brunch?” a familiar voice asks. The question floats through the air without a discernible focus, yet I somehow understand that it is directed at me. I cannot attach a face to the voice until I look up.

“Vinati,” awkwardly. “How have you been?”

She takes a step in my direction. “Besides working and pouring myself into bed just about every night, I'd say pretty good.” She smiles as she places a hand upon the rim of the table. “You're here by yourself?”

“I was having coffee with Professor Winchester,” I say as I once again remove my sunglasses.

“You were always such a kiss-ass,” she says to the sky. When her eyes return to the garden, she notices the absence of one coffee cup, let alone two. She removes her sunglasses to reveal a coy or alluring glance. “So where'd he go?”

“There was an incident involving a cat that really put him off,” I respond dryly. She tilts her head, which reveals an ear that is pierced in no less than eight locations. “Are you here by yourself, too?”

“I was supposed to meet a friend, but she's not here yet.” Her expression is not suppliant, but she is clearly embarrassed by the girl's absence. “Do you mind?” motioning to the vacant seat across from me.

We begin to catch up. This doesn't last that long. The little antecedent information that we have shared needs only scant revising. A paucity of words is dedicated to the last time we saw one another. An ignorant observer would presume that we shared a dance, and then somehow lost track of one another. Within a few moments we are imagining a multitude of scenarios that involve Ilkay. I guess there is no need to break ice when discussing him.

The daylight continues to rain down upon us, the tree in the garden creating only a weak cloak of shade. As the remaining fantasies in which we can place Ilkay begin to reach an asymptote, conversation becomes less caustic and more inquisitive. Commonalities begin to appear in places previously left unexamined. She is far more intelligent than I assumed. Perhaps that is one of those things we project onto beautiful people — i.e. if you're that good looking, it wouldn't be fair for you not to be a fool. We both note that a pianist in one of the units above the restaurant mimics Vince Guaraldi with brilliant accuracy. “That's 'Treat Street',” she exclaims. She looks mildly embarrassed before adding that her parents were both obsessed with Peanuts .