THE WALLS

by Jay Fox

  Europe proved to be about the only subject he would discuss in earnest. You couldn't believe much of what he said otherwise. It wasn't that he had a malicious intent in his prevarications; he just seemed to enjoy either confusing or fucking with people. He was certainly difficult to read. It took me the better part of the first semester just to realize this much.

  Of the events that took place that year, my reminiscences are at once both many and slightly hazy. I shared a room in a four-person suit with my roommate from the previous year and closest friend throughout college, Dennis Grabowski. Our two other roommates were nice enough, but they had their own agendas and lives with which we did our best not to interfere. Relations were always cordial, but we never spent much time with either of them. One had a girlfriend with an apartment either in Park Slope or Prospect Heights; the other was of that school of anarchism where members are required to stay in a dark room, smoke grass, listen to punk bands from the early eighties, and discuss The Revolution with friends for fourteen hours a day. Marcus and Alex, respectively.

  I don't remember if Alex and his cohort made our suite their base of operations before or after Dennis and I took to spending most of our free time down the hall. Not to say we were spiteful about the room dynamic. After all, Ilkay's suite was a welcoming environment. He had been friends with two out of his three roommates for the better part of a decade, so there seldom arose an issue about rights to the main room. The one roommate whom they had not known prior to the year, Min, was never around anyway. He was involved in the Asian fraternity, which essentially meant he was not to associate with anyone with ancestors from another continent. Ilkay fell in with us, as his parents had been born on the wrong side of the Bosporus. And then there was the whole homophobia thing for which Koreans are so infamous.

  Besides me and Dennis, as well as Ilkay's suite-mates, there were also four girls from the hall who regularly came by his suite. Other people stopped in intermittently, too, but the suite was typically home to the nine of us, plus respective boyfriends and girlfriends. People from the other dorms rarely came to see us. We rarely went to see them. It was not for want of compromise; compromise entailed places like the Village or Williamsburg or Smith Street. Unfortunately, such locations came to be visited with less frequency as the first semester approached its end. While we certainly wanted to leave, the problem was one of simple economics. On top of the fact that any venture that extended beyond the confines of Gramercy would inevitably demand at least one cab, it was also the case that Ilkay's parents owned a few liquor stores in the Boston area, and, as one can imagine, there was never a want of free, top-shelf booze available to us. As a consequence more of the latter than the former, many nights were spent doing little more than watching the television with open mouths and closed eyes.

  One can presume that there was a lot of fucking going on between the four straight men and the four straight women—well, three, I guess, as one of them was, probably still is, somewhat bisexual (though there were accusations that she would prove to be a L.U.G. (Lesbian Until Graduation), though not strictly, as she made no secret of the few men who meandered into, and quickly out of, her sex-life). Sexual mischief aside, no two people ever managed to seriously pair off. Perhaps as a sign of some kind of shared, sophomoric wisdom, it was understood that, while the fruit was pleasing to the eye and desirable for the pleasure it could provide, this knowledge was best left to those to whom the hall was not home.

  It was more a love for the company of others as opposed to an era of perpetual debauchery. While we did spend the majority of this time heavily inebriated, our nights rarely materialized into those seriously interesting anecdotes that get retold over and over again until the very lexicon of the group comes to be a string of inside jokes and obscure references. It was simply a year of my life that I come back to every now and again when I need to be reminded of the fact that I have been unbelievably lucky to know so many wonderful people. And while there certainly are numerous stories that could be told, there is no need to make the reader feel like the awkward date at a high school reunion, one who is forced to listen to tales that eventually ferment into an array of nostalgic half-truths.

  Still, it is important to note that it was with these memories in mind that I set out for Ilkay's going-away party. He wasn't really going away—at least not permanently; he was simply going on vacation to Europe, and he thought it imperative he have one last night in New York beforehand, as he seemed to understand that he would come back to what would be, for all intents and purposes, a new city filled with friends in the midst of drifting apart due to work or relationships, people who would end up dispersed throughout Manhattan, Queens, and Brooklyn, thereby making it impossible to ever get “the gang” back under a single roof until a special occasion—a birthday, a wedding, a funeral—demanded it. Graduation, in so many ways, is a form of entropy.

  “It's a fucking Twenty-Sixth Street reunion, man,” Ilkay effervesces as I walk into the…well, it's one of those lounge/bar/club places. Stalactites peer down ominously from the ceiling, adding a pleonastic touch to the already cavernous nature of the basement establishment. The walls glow in luminous aquamarine and a shade of magenta more purple than pink, the color one might expect when ordering an exotic piece of sushi. Shadows wave and flutter in the hues of late dusk, but the dance floor is quiet. Most of the tables are open, as it's just turned nine. The ones that are occupied contain vaguely familiar faces that welcome implicitly—no smiles, just glances of recognition and other sign-language equivalents that capture both the salutatory and informal qualities of the “S'up bro'.”

  “I feel like I haven't seen you in months,” Ilkay says dramatically.

  “It hasn't been that long,” I respond as I let go of his hand. “We were at that thing for Pete less than a month ago.”

  “Was that really only a month ago?” He shakes his head. “I was strung out on fucking Addies for, like, two weeks before graduation. I'm amazed I made it.” He shrugs. “But that's all behind us now, right? Am I right?” I laugh and nod. His attention shifts. “Look what the cat dragged in,” he says either to or of Vinati. She's in an olive drab dress, the type of get-up a nurse from the Second World War may have sported (with a few flattering alterations). Her hair is shorter than I remember; it is styled to frame her face. I can't recall how she wore it the last time I saw her. “So are you going to finally throw him a bone tonight…” he begins. “Well, actually he would be the one throwing you the bone….” He pauses again. Vinati's eyes narrow. “And I guess throwing isn't the proper verb, now is it? More like pene—”

  “Why do you have to be such a fucking pervert all the time?” Vinati explodes. She's not really angry; this is simply a matter of protocol. The tirade begins; it's the extended version, too—complete with movements of utter chastisement, refrains of “douche” and “fuck” and “asshole.” He laughs to himself as this goes on, doesn't argue, and casually drinks his cocktail through a red stirrer. I leave for the bar as she continues with vicious gesture accompaniment. She is a maestro of flagellation.

  The bartender looks like an art student, probably because of the thick glasses that conceal the depth of her eyes. She doesn't try to veil her revulsion for those who solicit alcohol from her. She is probably of that intellectual sect where the world is considered beautiful only when abstracted, a kind of contempt for the existent that only a Christian could really appreciate. These are the Bukowski fans who don't drink, the people who examine the Sex Pistols as a cultural phenomenon, the people who know how to spell and pronounce the world “visceral,” but have no idea what it means.

  “Let me guess,” as she reads my eyes, “Heineken?”

  “I was hoping for something a bit more exotic.”

  “How about a sex on the divan? Or is that too fruity for your taste?”

  “Well, if it comes with an umbrella and a cherry or two….”

  “Sorry, we're fresh out of umbrellas,” she says with a shake of the head tha
t lacks the flirtatious bitchiness that one finds so frequently in Manhattan. This is just unadulterated contempt, no need for fancy words or nuance. “I can cook you up something.”

  “Working on a secret recipe?”

  “Called a butt-fucking cowboy.”

  “Aren't they all,” I muse. She flashes a look of irritation. “What's in it?”

  “Rye whiskey, Chambord, triple sec, and soda. It's served on the rocks.” My eyes cross. “Oh, and there's an orange slice as a garnish, too,” she adds with a shrug and a quick opening of her hand, that same motion that magicians employ when launching balls of flame into the air, or, when the flint's out, lighter fluid.

  “Are these the first few things that come to mind, or are you serious?”

  “Serious enough.”

  “Let's do it, then.”

  The drink is less disgusting than one might assume—that, or I'm too stubborn to admit that I've purchased ten dollars of weak emetic. I turn to see Vinati conducting an absentee orchestra through the final movement of Dvorák's “New World Symphony” or some particularly violent Wagner piece, her arms and hair but a series of blurs. It's irrelevant that Ilkay's no longer there. He's now next to me.

  We talk for a few moments about his impending trip to Europe, as well as the unique brand of despair that accompanies graduation. We then move to a table and begin to run through anecdotes that have been repeated so many times that they have almost become platitudes. He returns to playing host upon seeing someone else arrive, which leaves me in the presence of several people I don't really know. Vinati and a few of her friends are at another table practicing thrift by enjoying the milk of a desperate cow that clearly isn't going to be purchased tonight.

  I would have come with other friends of mine, but the sad truth of the matter is that most of the people with whom I have associated over the past four years have left town, either for Europe or some distant part of this country. Dennis is busy packing. His plane leaves for London tomorrow at dawn. I would have taken him with me last night, but that time had been reserved for his girlfriend, who has so many pejorative cognomens that just about everyone has started calling her by her first name again: Kristina (not Kris, not Tina, and sure as shit not Krissy). The members of the 26th Street contingency to whom Ilkay referred are nowhere to be seen. Not that this is too big of a concern. As a wise Russian monk once said (and I am paraphrasing here), If we stop feeling at the very least curiosity for the mysterious others surrounding us, we become indifferent to life and even grow to hate it. Nietzsche would disagree, but, then again, Nietzsche seems to be less a person, and more a corpus of aphorisms that people take or decline like hors d'oeuvres at a soirée—kind of like the Bible, ironically enough.

  “You were in Post-colonial poetry class,” a girl with very discernible highlights says. This comes after a moment of awkwardness that should have been filled with introductions. Still, she's pleasant; there is a hue of sincerity in her tone that portends either gullibility or the acceptance of that suburban propriety with all of its underhanded comments and supercilious punctilios. I lean to the latter, as she seems to already have the mannerisms of a forty-year-old housewife from Central Jersey. There are more observations that could be documented, but I'll spare the reader as to not sound too cynical about the practices of tanning, shopping, and totally thinking oneself to be a Carrie.

  “Yeah,” I respond slowly. “Angelica, right?”

  “Yeah.” She offers no follow up until… “This is Teddy.”

  “So what do you do?”

  “Live.”

  He laughs boisterously. “No, man, like what do you do?”

  “I just graduated. I haven't even had time to seriously look for a job yet. My parents just left on Wednesday.”

  “I know how that goes. I just graduated from Northeastern last year,” he says while thumbing his Bosox hat.

  “You're from Boston?”

  “Yeah. But the money's a lot better down here. I'm in finance,” he says without pausing, blinking, swallowing: as if trapped in a tableau lacking in any ostensible significance.

  “That's good,” curiously, slowly. “Do you miss Boston?”

  “Of course, man,” he responds, suddenly animate again.

  I realize he doesn't have the accent that one typically associates with New England, let alone Boston. He is a veritable paragon of upper-middle-class-East-Coast-suburban-whiteness, that archetype that has come to be regarded as normal in this country, as a sizable portion of television writers share his background. He's outgoing, a little arrogant, bright yet clueless, and essentially harmless. He shaved two times today. He wears a checkered button-down tucked into slacks (yes, slacks); his sleeves have been rolled to the elbows. He sports loafers, has nearly perfect teeth, and probably votes Democrat for reasons that will soon seem irrelevant once he forgets that there's a distinction between the working class and the poor. “When you're in Boston, you feel like you're in a neighborhood. Here, you just get lost in the crowd. Especially where we live.”

  “Well, we're glad that you're here in the City,” Angelica swoons. Most of the denizens of the table taste bile. “You should have seen his apartment up there, though,” she says to no one in particular. Her eyes meet mine. “It was absolutely gorgeous.”

  “Where did you live?”

  “Back Bay,” he responds in a tone that is overly nonchalant. “Do you know the area?”

  “A little. Most of my experiences in the area revolve around Davis Square.”

  “Why were you up there?”

  “I lived there for about a month with my girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend.” The white Victorian had been converted into three units. I arrived and told you that I felt as though I was in Virginia. There was a patrician elegance to the house that you wanted to deride, but you couldn't. So you went the other way; it was your dream house, the only place in which you could see yourself growing old. You wanted to be surrounded by books, by institutions of culture and learning. —Cambridge has always been home to the most important intellectuals in the country. New York has its fair share, and, you're right, there's probably more artists there than here, but just look at what we're surrounded by. And don't go quoting Bulgakov on me. What I'm trying to say is that I'll actually be able to get some work done without being subjected to the insanity of that cesspool you call home. You weren't being argumentative; you were just trying to eliminate the guilt that had hidden itself in one of the boxes in the back of the U-Haul in which you drove up to whatever city Tufts is located in…Is it Medford or Cambridge? We sat on the porch that first night, listening to a newer Mountain Goats album on that little boom-box that you kept saying you were going to “pitch” and drinking bottles of Ipswich that we'd purchased at a convenient store on Mass Ave. and talking about the previous year with gratuitous usage of the phrases “remember the time…” and “I'll never forget when…”, about little things with big implications, about fights that were speciously resolved, about how both Ortega y Gasset and Sartre sneered at the existentialist movement, but are now considered two of the philosophy's most preeminent figures even if it wasn't a philosophy so much as a recognition of the scary side of freedom, a fact which explains why no American has ever been accepted into the movement's pantheon (as Americans, we are always taught that freedom is good in it-self, that [the Hegelian concept of] negative freedom is the only freedom, that the elimination of some freedoms in order to promote greater freedoms is an idea subscribed to by Marx, and not Locke). —Something Ortega said really got to me recently; it was how he addressed the issue of the other. True, it's a common topic for just about anyone writing in the twentieth century, but he sounded a lot like Fromm when he described the break from Eden as the creation of this other. We break from Eden, from nature, and then live in two worlds—the internal and the external. He said we are constantly looking to return, and that the return to a unified world implies the abolition of the other—the distinction between our internal and external lives. But th
at's terrible, if you think about it. And yet it's kind of the road we're heading on, what with all the advances in digital technology and the Internet and the Bush administration. How fucked up is that? The air was brisk; I put on that over-sized sweatshirt that your parents had purchased when you visited the university in the spring—I still have it (in my closet, my dresser, somewhere) because you are still too bashful (or polite, I still haven't decided) to ask for it back. We even brought out a blanket from your bedroom and cuddled on the bench that sat on the porch right outside your living room window. The streets were dark and populated by occasional headlights and stray drunks. You said it reminded you of Michigan, the lacustrine graveyard to which you believe you will never return. I said it reminded me of the fall.

  “You know, it's funny. I was just talking to Angie about this. I loved growing up in Boston, but I just can't imagine going there on vacation. It would be terrible.” He shrugs. “So many people say that New York's the opposite, but, to me, I think both cities are great.”