Jay Fox - THE WALLS

The problem, of course, is that these new immigrants don't only attract their own kind. They attract their wealthy counterparts. Soon a section of the grocery store becomes devoted entirely to cheese. A record shop that specializes in Tahitian punk rock opens up next door to the coffee shop with an obscure and irrelevant adjective as a name (Erudite, Fulgent, Glaborous). The bodega stops carrying Night Flight and begins purveying six packs of microbrews from Vermont. Their delis start offering sandwiches with avocado and sprouts. A designer opens up a boutique filled with hideous dresses that each cost what the previous lessee paid each month in rent. Cabs appear. Then cops. Then bars. Then bistros.

But by this point most of the first wave of young, white immigrants will have already moved on. Unlike the people who have lived in the neighborhood for more than a few years, they do not have rent-stabilized apartments, nor do they have a serious connection to the area. They will move to another location that appears to be beyond the reach of developers and condo shoppers. But soon the migration of the hip and the wealthy will once again encroach upon their homes, and, once again, they will be forced to move out. And when they come into a new neighborhood they will once again be welcomed with hostility, as they are seen as the precursors to a rapid rise in the cost of living (which, unfortunately, they are); and they will not come to know their neighbors because they will feel intimidated and guilty; and no one on the block will go out of their way to discover the reason for their appearance because they assume it to be out of anything but necessity; and the two will call the process integration and gentrification because they see a difference in their skin tone and their language as opposed to their parallel in wages; and the melting pot will never really exist, perhaps it never can exist, because there will never be an alkahest , just weak solvents created by either corporations or the empty words for which politicians and talking heads feign such reverence; there will continue to be different colored solutes, partially dissolved, who maintain their individuality through commodities, antiquated archetypes, and an intense aversion to anything that infringes upon their autonomy as a demographic to be exploited by people who could give a shit whether you're black, brown, white, red, or yellow — the only thing that matters is the green.

I can't deny that I'm nervous when I finally get out of the rain and into Faxo's lobby. Pale light stumbles through a thick slab of glass reinforced by hundreds of St. Andrews crosses made of chicken wire. There are four units in the building: one on the ground floor, one on the second floor, and two on the top floor. Faxo's unit is on the second.

When Faxo opens his door, I am surprised to discover that his apartment is actually a wood shop, and that the majority of the space is something of a showroom as opposed to what one might call living quarters. He does not own a television, and, with the exception of the kitchen appliances and stereo, the only piece of furniture in the apartment not made by Faxo goes by the name of Scooter, a dopehead with the attention span of a toddler. A bong sits in front of him, as does a huge bag of what appears to be primo weed. Faxo quickly apologizes for the noise from the workshop downstairs, which, he informs me, specializes in refurbishing limousine engines. The two units upstairs, he adds, have become lofts. “I think there's five kids in each.” He looks to his friend. “Yo', Scoot, have you seen any of them yet?”

“No,” he mumbles. “Hey, dude, blow more doja.” It's pronounced dō'zha .

“What?”

“Fucking Detroitisms,” Faxo says with a smile. Scooter looks confused. “These are the same assholes who 'smoke down'.”

Scooter responds with a gurgling sound that does not come from his throat.

“So you're interested in finding Mordy?” Faxo resumes as he takes a seat in a rocking chair.

“Yes,” I respond. My eyes wander in search of a seat and land on a stool. “He is Coprolalia, right?” as I sit.

“I really don't know,” casually. “I only lived with the guy for a month or two.” He pauses. “You want anything to drink? Water, tea, a cocktail maybe?” He stands.

“No, I'm fine,” I respond as Scooter coughs out a wall of smoke.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I'm fine.”

“I have some wine.” Before I can decline, he lets out a brief, shallow laugh. “I just realized it's barely noon,” as he makes his way back towards the rocking chair with a 1.5 liter bottle of water retrieved from the nearby counter.

“Actually, it's ten-thirty.”

“Either way, it feels like it's the middle of the night to me,” as he takes his seat once again. “It always takes me three or four days to get used to the time difference. I'm left pretty much wandering around in a fugue-state until then. That being said, I apologize if I'm a bit spacey or…what's the word I'm looking for?”

“Loopy?” Scooter asks.

Willis looks to me with a grin as he unscrews the cap. “Does 'loopy' sound good to you?”

“I would go with faded.”

“Faded? California boy?”

“No,” I respond, “Just a word that came up yesterday.”

He nods. “You know what I just thought about?” Silence. “I haven't thought about this in years: California was supposed to fall into the ocean.”

“I remember hearing that.”

“And yet it didn't.” He takes a sip from the bottle, and quickly screws the cap back on. “Was it a joke, or was it based on scientific study? I don't mean to mock global warming by means of a poor analogy, mind you; I just think it's odd that we don't hear about the death of California as often as we used to — especially now that it's such a drain not only upon our culture, but upon our economy as well. Proposition Thirteen, man,” he shakes his head.

“What's that?”

“Proposition Thirteen. It pretty much allowed the people to vote on the budget. Their choices reflect just how myopic Americans are when it comes to government. They voted to have lower taxes and more social services. It's like wanting…you know, I can't even think of a good simile. It just shows you are fucking stupid people are.” He takes the cap off the bottle. “You know what, I’ll just shut up — you're here to find out about Mordy.” He takes another sip. “I just want to emphasize the fact that I don't know him very well. Our story is pretty brief.”

“It doesn't matter. Any information will help.”

“Well,” recapping, “In the fall of ninety-three I moved into a two bedroom apartment on First Avenue and Seventh. The place wasn't all that nice, but the location was all that mattered to me. You know, back then the Village was really thriving artistically. Today it seems to be nothing more than a bunch of yuppies living out an ironic elegy. Anyway, back then I lived with this guy, Tommy. We were roommates for about a year and a half or so. He was a nice kid out of the Poconos, who tended bar at some place that's not around anymore; it was one of those East Village dives that used to attract a lot of punker kids and deadbeats…something like the International Bar, if you've ever been there.”

“Once or twice,” I respond. “They've closed, you know.”

“Figures,” spitefully. “Regardless, you know the type of place I'm talking about — kids and regulars, dudes down on their luck, dudes that ain't never had any luck to begin with. Tommy used to brag and say that he knew ninety percent of the people who came through the door, maybe not by name, but by face or by drink. And he got on with just about anyone — he was a real chill cat. He would get me and my buddies loaded whenever we went in. I'd cook him dinner the next night. We had a good thing going.