by Jay Fox
“—And English,” I responded. “And I'm not an Art History major; this class was for my History minor.”
He nodded. “So you intend to go to grad school, I take it?” he asked as he turned to look out onto Washington Square Park.
“It certainly seems to be the route I'm on,” I responded. “Of course, I want to take a year off in order to get some real-world experience.”
“Any jobs lined up?” he asked as he began to sort through some papers on his desk—a disorganized mosaic of, perhaps a testament to, his general disinterest in teaching.
“No. I've been on a few interviews, but so far nothing has worked out.”
“Well,” he turned to me, “You should enjoy the time you have between school and the working world. During that period—I took a year off from school, as well—I did a lot of reflection on the direction in which I wanted my life to go. I ended up back in Seattle, my hometown, and took up a paralegal job. A year later I moved out here for school. I haven't looked back since.”
“Well, I don't think I want to take up a paralegal job. I don't really know what I want to do.”
“Well, you could always take up the search for Coprolalia,” he responded sarcastically.
I had heard the name more than a couple of times, seen a few pieces, and even caught wind of the artist's reclusive nature, but that was about it. When I asked Sean what he meant by the remark, I was amazed to find out about the reward awaiting anyone capable of producing a bona fide interview with the artist. We talked about it for some time. By the end of the conversation, I decided that this pursuit was something that I had to undertake.
It wasn't just the money. One hundred thousand dollars would obviously be enough for me to live on for quite some time, on the condition that I keep with my thrifty lifestyle. However, this was not the real end. If I proved capable of finding and interviewing Coprolalia, this would guarantee a reputation, an ability to publish freelance in virtually any journal of my choosing. Through Coprolalia I could exit the pedestrian world. And yet, at this point, I've lost that grand sense of ambition. What lay ahead seems inconsequential right now—I simply want to know who Coprolalia is. It's this ambition that I have projected to the world for so long that by now it seems like the only thing that keeps me going.
“No,” I tell Jane, “It's not just the money. I mean, I certainly could use it, don't get me wrong; but, to me, it's become so much more.”
“Well, that's good to know,” she smiles.
Fearing a lapse in conversation, I quickly change subjects. “What's the deal with the triplets?”
“They're my roommates. And,” she beings with a roll of the eyes, “Those aren't their real names. They always come up with these stupid pseudonyms whenever they go out together. The whole rhyming thing was Nixi's idea.” Whether a form of ESP or a simple coincidence, we both look over to Nixi, at present occupied by a man wearing clothes that show off his anemic body. He holds what could only be tequila shots in one hand, two lime slices in the other. “Another awkward morning is on the horizon,” she says with a sigh of exhaustion.
“So my professor says,” Trixi explains to Tomas, who listens with cucumber coolness, “The only problem with your story is that it isn't published!” They both laugh with breaths both quick and resonant. Mixi occupies Aberdeen with the story behind the barbed wire tattoo on her arm.
“Do you want to see the Coprolalia?” Jane asks. She blinks quickly as her head darts towards the bathroom, a valuable piece of property considering the fact that it will soon be expropriated by Nixi & Co.
We have to tiptoe past Nixi and her friend for the evening in order to reach the bathroom door. There is no longer a line because of the busy couple and the fact that there's a second bathroom downstairs. Jane knocks on the door with all the force she can muster as a gesture to ward off the malign spirits of awkwardness. She turns to me with a nod of assurance. “I think it's clear,” she yells over the electropop that blasts from the nearby speaker.
We enter a bathroom that is covered in purple faux-velvet from ceiling to floor with the exception of one framed reminder of the scourge of B.O. and the benefits of smelling like chemicals that are scientifically proven to…well, science is for fucking fags, bro. The door is olive drab, perhaps thick enough to withstand a payload from the Enola Gay. There is nothing written on the wall, nor is there even space for one to do so unless one considers the mirror or the ad. The toilet's white porcelain shines like a celebrity smile, illuminated by one bare bulb hanging from a heavily insulated cord. The floors are sea-green linoleum and tattooed by paralyzed shadows or stains that may or may not be of the fecal variety. There is no sink. How the hell do you have a bathroom without a sink? I turn to Jane: “Where is it?” She slams the toilet seat down, not sparing the typical resentment for male inconsideration, and glides her hand in the direction of the plastic donut. The words are written in green ink. Some of the letters have already been smudged from inaccuracies and, dare I venture, petty malevolence. I don't say anything for a long time; I just stare to the words, which appear without punctuation or break.
Fast Food looks better
Coming out of my ass than
Going in my mouth
“This is bullshit,” I do declare.
“What?” she exclaims. “I think it's pretty funny. I mean, I don't want to be gross or anything, but….”
“Not that,” with frustration. I grab a piece of toilet paper and wipe away the final word of the haiku.
“What are you doing? Don't you want to preserve this?”
“When did you find out about it?”
“What?”
“Did Tomas show it to you?”
“Yeah, like five minutes before you showed up.” She looks to it again, incredulously. “You just know it's a fake—just like that.”
“I need a fucking drink.”
“What's the matter?”
“Yes, it's a fake,” I respond as I reach for the door. “It's the work of one of those two dipshits out there.” The door opens to Nixi and her bare tits being kissed by the toothpick with a burgeoning erection that would probably not be visible if not for the make of his jeans. Her nipples are of that incredibly long stock that are rare even in porn. “Come on,” I yell back to Jane, who is still gawking at the toilet with her mouth ajar. Had anyone been able to see her, they may have assumed her to be gazing upon something far less innocent.
Tomas and Trixi and Aberdeen and Mixi have coupled off in the corner. The men look like vultures eying the carrion of reservation. Trixi runs a hand through her hair and scratches the nape of her craned neck. Her ordinarily nacreous smile shines with an amethyst tint: the consequence of a black light that has suddenly been turned on. Tomas, now with an orange face, places a hand on her shoulder. Aberdeen, meanwhile, has taken to talking about his life in the most pedantic way possible, as is discernible even from this distance. Mixi's head doesn't move; it's difficult to tell if he's boring her into a coma or if he's strumming heartstrings with the dexterity of Don Giovanni or Derek Trucks. Regardless, the party has not dawdled in putting up the proverbial velvet rope, so it seems as though there is nothing left to do besides find another locale to carry on the failed experiment that is the night.
“What are you drinking?” I ask Jane as she runs up behind me with her eyes glued on Nixi's bare breasts. “What are you drinking?” I repeat even as her eyes try to direct my attention towards Nixi. “I know,” I respond. “What are you drinking? I'm buying,” I add.
“I can buy my own drinks, thank you,” she contends. Her eyes dart to the side again.
“Yes, I know about them; impressive, huh?” She smiles mischievously. “Look, I know you can buy your own drinks; this isn't a question of abilities. I'm just trying to be nice.”
“It's not nice,” she objects; “It's patronizing.”
“Tell you what, I plan on drinking quite a bit because this night has been an absolute waste, just like the rest of the fucking w
eek, so I'll buy this round if you buy the next.”
“What?” she says with a very coy grin, “Suddenly we're going Dutch?”
“You know, that's a terribly offensive thing to say,” I begin. “I am Dutch.” Her face reddens. “I'm just fucking with you,” I say before she manages to interject. She smiles and suddenly we're at the bar with drinks in our hands, her Borinquen freckles now visible in the soft light snowing down from above. The music is too loud, but not as imposing one would think. The night begins to haze over as reality and memory become diluted by a steady stream of alcohol and New Wave favorites that pulse in a driving rhythm both rigid and determined. I pine about my inability to find Coprolalia, as if his face is the gray exhaust left by the Roadrunner—tangible only in the sense that it makes the coyote's chagrin that much more unnerving. Jane smiles tepidly as my diatribe runs its course; she seems to enjoy the silent side of the rapport, as she lacks that penchant for speaking in memoirs like most college students.
Episodes from her life are linear, plot-driven. She seems edgy, a purveyor of awkward mannerisms. She may be interpreting our interaction in strictly cerebral terms, curious of my intentions, not entirely certain of her own—that odd miasma of anxiety and anticipation, which summons fits of nervous laughter and shifty eyes. Then again, she may have the disjunctive orientation to the world: a bizarre and paranoid form of cognition dominated by 'either…or' propositions that polarize all potential scenarios into camps of best and worst—a kind of cataract that can eventually envelop all but the last vestments of sanity.
I manage to extract only limited details about her life even after the drinks begin to show their affects (on her—they have been showing their affects on me for about four hours). She's from outside of Buffalo, of Polish and Puerto Rican ancestry, in the music program at the New School, cellist, violinist, guitarist, pianist, songwriter (rarely song-singer), part-time barista, full-time feminist, non-smoker, former Catholic, Working Families Party member, vegetarian, marijuana enthusiast. She talks about music with an almost choleric fervency. She thinks that Webern was a bit too chaotic at times (“Not as chaotic as Xenakis, whom I can respect—I just can't listen to him”), that Bartok was one of those geniuses that will one day be universally appreciated, and that Prokofiev was (“without question”) the best composer of the twentieth century. She calls Shostakovich a musical ironist, but doesn't expound upon the subject. Giuliani's “La Melanconia,” she believes, is the most beautiful piece of music ever written for the guitar. On rainy days she likes to get stoned and listen to Brad Mehldau, Billie Holiday, Fiona Apple, Andrew Bird, or Jesse Sykes—depending on her mood. Her favorite living author is Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Her favorite dead author is either Galdos or Proust—it once again depends upon her mood. She thinks organized religion to be the first form of organized crime, and prides herself an agnostic even though she doesn't know, until I inform her, that the term comes from the Greek, gnosis, to know. “Just slap an 'a' onto the word and you negate the meaning; therefore, it means 'to not know'.” Her favorite instrument is the vibraphone.
When engaged in political discussion she becomes cynical with alacrity. Her resignation from the banalities of the left that one encounters either on college campuses or in burnt-herb dens seems rational, but it's clear that such a disparaging, if not almost fatalistic, outlook weighs heavily upon her conscience. We agree that the economists in charge of the IMF should be tried for crimes against humanity.
She's beautiful in the sense that I miss some of the things that she says because of prurient fantasies. While the word adorable comes to mind, I am reluctant to use it even to myself because the adjective makes me think of stuffed animals and other puerile fixations. Still, there is no better way to describe her. When she smiles, it's like the introduction of a horn section.
Last call finds us still at the bar, four drinks having passed from glass to gut in the previous two hours. Nixi is long gone; Trixi, Mixi, Aberdeen, and Tomas are, too. She tells me that she is going home. I nod, try to get her number, learn that she has a boyfriend. We part once we walk out the door.
9
My roommate bursts through the door with his parents and several bags of over-sized provisions from either Costco or K-mart or Wal-mart or perhaps some regional -mart that I've never heard of. To reiterate, he had returned to his parents' estate in Connecticut for the ambiguous period of “a few weeks” after the spring term let out. I guess now seems as good a time as any to return and wake me up.
He laughs boisterously as he expounds upon the virtues of the neighborhood and the joys of living without amenities such as clean streets, peace, or eight hours of consecutive sleep—the most common interruptions being, in no particular order: Reggaeton, car alarms, domestic violence, and an array of sirens emitted from sources such as ambulances and buildings with roof alarms that could be considered hidden, provided one is incapable of discerning the large, red bar across every door to every roof, which reads:
Do Not Exit
Alarm Will Sound
or, like ours:
Not
A Sound
Gunshots are rare. Even so, his parents clearly don't share his enthusiasm.
“What are you doing on the couch?” he asks as I open my eyes to examine the three. There is a large can of beer in the foreground. The television is still on. Tom slams into a wall and becomes an accordion. Jerry lets out with a high-pitched and jubilant cachinnation.
“I must have dozed off,” I respond with the taste of Pepper's cigarette still in my desiccated mouth. “I was watching this documentary a—”
“On the Cartoon channel?” Mrs. Schneider asks.
“It was about cartoons,” gingerly.
“You've been drinking a lot I see,” Mr. Schneider supposes with a mortician's smile. “You know, it's a damn shame that there aren't any jobs out there for an En Why You graduate.”
I try to think of a witty retort, but the only thing that comes to mind is nausea. I'm trying my best to suppress it, but the spinning room, the heat, and that tenement building scent of protracted decay make this a fairly difficult test in endurance. I reach for the glass of water sitting on the coffee table.
“It's eleven thirty,” Mrs. Schneider adds with less-than-passive aggression. “Don't you have anywhere to be?”
“It's Saturday, mom.”
“Still….” she begins as Jeff escorts the two in the direction of his bedroom. I don't hear the rest of the conversation, but I can imagine the gist of it.
I close my eyes again.
9.1
“James Aberdeen and Tomas fucking Bennington?” he asks incredulously. “And you're seriously pursuing Coprolalia?” It's an odd state of envy that includes a countervailing disdain. That's Jeff, though. He worships his pedagogue of a father, regards himself as a licensed therapist, and never fails to play the part of the dissenter in any situation that requires he step beyond the narrow views on life he has established after so many years in Greenwich—not Village, of course. Some would call him aristocratic or patronizing. He would call himself cultured.
While inquisitive by nature, he is also very complacent with routine and never one to seek out anything new unless it has been tried and tested by either his father or one of his friends. Most of the latter live by Columbia. A few of them live in either western Bushwick or (East) Williamsburg. Eddie, his best friend, somehow managed to drag him all the way out here, into the deepest regions of the neighborhood; I don't really know how.
Jeff held what amounted to auditions for a new roommate after Eddie got engaged and decided to move out. This was at the end of January. Around the same time, the university had decided to throw me out of housing due to what I have come to call The Marijuana-Related Event. They were not about to expel me, nor did they see any reason to cut my scholarship. They just didn't want me corrupting the coke dealer down the hall in the single; or the three compulsive gamblers next door to her; or their roommate, who peddled ten milligram A
derols for five bucks a pop; or the idiot next door to them, who was adamantly anti-condom, not celibate, and proud of it; or his roommate, who was just a total dick; or the guy next door to them, who smuggled cigarettes into the City from Virginia and sold them out of his room; or his roommate, who was into some type of bizarre pornography that saw the actresses chloroformed, groped, and…well, actually that was it; or the other roommate in the suite, who was in business school; or the girl across the hall from those three, who cut herself because she believed it to be the only way for her to feel anything besides the imperious torpor of whatever her shrink pumped her full of; or her condign roommate, Denise, who could drink anyone in the dorm under the table even though she weighed no more than a buck-fifteen, and typically passed out in the hallway whenever she forgot her keys, which happened often. Ah, yes, Denise, who will probably have “Quit being such a fucking pussy” as her epitaph, as this was the phrase she frequently employed in order to goad men into doing things that were stupid, illegal, or potentially fatal (and, silly us, it always worked).
My parents were obviously upset by the incident, especially since the only portion of my education that was not funded by scholarships was my room and board. They footed half of the bill; the other half was paid for by student loans. They didn't especially care about the fact that their son had fallen under the spell of Lady Mary Jane. Their grievances had nothing to do with shame; they were pissed that I'd been stupid enough to be caught, and even more upset about the fact that Big Purple had a strict policy of not refunding checks.
My father and I came to an agreement filled with loose conditions and ‘I'll tan your ass if’s. In the end, it was decided that he would give me six hundred and fifty dollars a month for housing, which was not so much a display of mercy as much as a desire to not let the neighbors see that their son had come back home disgraced.