THE WALLS

by Jay Fox

  “I have no idea. Is this them?”

  “Of course it is,” he replies with wide eyes. “You do know that they are both Baha'is, right?”

  “No,” nor do I know what the hell a Baha'i is.

  “See: this is what happens when you talk to strange people at the bar.”

  “Why are you only telling me about this now?” I ask.

  “What? About the Baha'i faith?”

  “No, about Coprolalia and Willis Faxo and Daphne…what’s this say?” as I point to the piece of paper.

  “Karev.”

  “Why is this coming out only now?”

  “Because Americans hate talking to strangers, even at the pub. I figured I'd have a few drinks with some of the younger artistic types until it was time to go the party. God knows I've met enough of your types, but I still believe—perhaps foolishly—that I'm bound to stumble upon your generation's Kolya one day.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Are you not familiar with The Brothers Karamazov?”

  “I get the reference. I don’t—”

  “So are you curious about the implication that God's knowledge is all-encompassing?” he asks with a facetious grin. “Or are you more curious as to my frequent interactions with artistic types?”

  “Either,” I proclaim.

  “Well, in terms of God, I feel His—and might I say that this pronoun is obviously a homonym—omniscience arises from logical necessity, provided one believes God to be both eternal and omnivolent. Now, if one accedes to what I have said—that omnivolence and eternal life suffice for omniscience—then it must be acknowledged that the possibility of any individual will outside of God's is negated. This is a simple exercise in logic based on a somewhat Russellian take on definite descriptions. Not to depart from the subject at hand, but, as an aside, don't you think the word “univolent” would be a far better fit than omnivolent?” He scratches his head. “Regardless; it's best not to dwell upon the ambiguous lexicography one is doomed to encounter when prowling the tomes of theology.

  “Either way, this whole -volent business presupposes the existence of God, which is an unverifiable position to take—as is the non-existence of God—because, from a purely epistemological vantage, a posteriori knowledge is a consequences of observation. In other words, faith is the only way to have either God or no God because any material proof or disproof of God is completely beyond our perception or cognitive abilities—furthermore, faith, as Bayle observed, is required if we are to even advance beyond the problems associated with Cartesian duality, the brain in the vat problem and so on. Regardless, this is the real reason why any material manifestation of God is a miracle—it contradicts the very nature of God.

  “Now, I am not one of the faithful; I am an agnostic. Many people believe, to paraphrase Mr. Colbert, that an agnostic is just a dissident atheist; but it is really the only rational way to go about matters of religion. I mean, it is certainly more rational than the ludicrous beliefs of the Christians, who think a Trinity can be unified. You may assert that my view is simply contingent upon my rejection of Christ as my lord and savior, but I simply can't see how someone believes that God can be both eternal and temporarily encompassed within the body of a man, who lived some two thousand years ago, and who, at present, sits on the right hand of Himself—sounds like Someone is preparing for the holy stranger as opposed to Judgment Day, you get me, mate.” He takes a massive gulp. “And then there's the Holy Spirit, which no one seems to really understand,” he adds before gesturing with a dismissive hand and a slight whistle. “The Holy Trinity: Father, Cloud, and Tongue,” he adds with disdain. “Honestly, I do not understand why Christians refuse to doubt the validity of this doctrine and just accept Adoptionism or Nestorianism or Arianism—and, no, this last one is not related in any way to white supremacy—, but, then again, I don't understand why these same people, in this country, voted an admitted alcoholic into the White House.”

  “An alcoholic?”

  “Yes; once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic,” he says with conviction even though the comment is completely irrelevant. “Your president is, ipso facto, an alcoholic.”

  “I see,” I respond hesitantly even though I share his disgust.

  “I don't compare him to Hitler, as some are wont to do. While Hitler's rise to power was a democratic Volkerwanderung—and that includes an umlaut over the o—a democratic Völkerwanderung that came about as a consequence of an election, his policies and positions were violently antidemocratic. That's the real danger of Nazism—not its capacity for violence, but its appeal to the common people. Bush's win was simply a victory for a very conservative portion of your country, although I do find it troubling that he constantly refers to himself as the commander-in-chief, as that seems to suggest that he sees himself as, or his speech writers wish to make him out to be, a kind of imperator—even if he has not won occasion for a triumph, or even an ouatio for that matter—not that he would even know what such things are, as his head is even more vacuous than that of Calvisius Sabinus. Now, not to go too far off topic here, but I do wish to say that I am absolutely fascinated by the people who continue to support him and a foreign policy that echoes what Calgacus said of the Romans: 'Si locuples hostis est, avari, si pauer, ambitiosi, quos non Oriens, non Occidens satiaverit: soli omnium opes atque inopiam pari adfectu concupiscunt. Auferre trucidare rapere flasis nominbus imperium, atque ubi solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant.' I am—”

  “What the hell did all of that mean?”

  He pauses for a moment. “To paraphrase: A rich enemy excites their—the Romans—cupidity; a poor one, their lust for power.” He pauses again. “Their rapacity finds satisfaction from neither East nor West. Alone in this world they are covetous of the abject, as well as the rich. To robbery, slaughter, rapine they give the mendacious name empire; they leave…hmm…I guess deserts in their wake, and call it peace. Actually, that last line is a bit hard to translate. Solitudinem, I guess, is pretty much the same as solitude, but there's a certain aspect to it that….” He scratches his head. “Have you ever read Camus' 'Le Renégat'?”

  “'The Renegade'?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that the one with the guy who's lost his tongue and he's in the middle of the desert with some weird tribe of really hedonistic people? I know there's some metaphor that I'm fucking up, but I can't really remember.” Patrick nods hesitantly. “To be honest, I don't really remember it. I haven't touched any of Camus' fiction in three or four years.”

  “Well, that's the one I'm thinking of.” He pauses. “Or you could think of the landscape, perhaps moonscape, featured in McCarthy's Blood Meridian.”

  “That just came up the other day.”

  “Well, it's an excellent novel.” He takes a small sip from his cup. “So, to reiterate, it's solitude in the sense of harsh solitude.”

  “Okay.”

  “As I was saying, though, I'm also amazed by the fact that there are thousands of people your age who support his economic policies even though they are nothing more than fodder for late capitalism's process of stratification. Furthermore, I am disgusted by those who support the war even though they do not fight in it. Rupert Brooke was overzealous in his patriotism, too, but at least he had enough personal integrity to reserve a portion of Greece for Britain.

  “And yet the left cannot persuade the moderates of the country to reject the administration, which, with the help of some very Bush Senior-oriented CEOs, has looted this country without restraint, all the while making the conservatives more resolute in their belief that a Democratic administration will pillage the nation of its wealth with public programs that were considered necessary only a few years ago—during the Reagan administration. They quote Lucan—Arma tenenti omnia dat, qui iusta negat—as they bow to Caesar.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He who abnegates his due from the armed bully grants him—the bully—everything.”

  “I see.”
<
br />   “Where was I? Oh yes: about the answer to your second question. I am interested in what the young artists are doing in this city, and I’ve made it my business to seek out a lot of them and get their thoughts on art. To be blunt, it has been a piss-poor showing of hacks and cultural bulimics who equate Kurt Cobain’s suicide with the assassination of JFK. At best they are spoiled children, who think themselves entitled to the boon of a best seller just because they've picked up a fucking pen with some specious nostalgie de la boue. That's the writers, of course. Those who use other mediums can be even worse in their unwarranted pomposity—their envy, too. As Antisthenes, one of the contemporaries of either Socrates or Plato, said: 'As iron eats at rust, so too are the envious consumed by their passions'. What’s far more deleterious, however, is the level of condescension and the general isolation that I've found in your generation.” He shakes his head with disappointment. “For one, I absolutely hate being spoken down to by such brutally ignorant people who think their BAs in English actually mean something, especially when their feigned ataraxia is really just akrasia in disguise. Secondly, I don’t understand how you guys get laid. It is absolutely beyond me,” he says slowly. His observation is without enmity. “Do you fuck your sisters and cousins, or is that just in the South?” He pauses, but allows no rebuttal. “I know we're supposed to be the ones with the odd sex life—you know, fucking goats and sheep and all—but, honestly, we at least have the common courtesy to initiate a conversation every once in a while without trying to come off like a owl perched on an ivy tower. You guys, on the other hand…”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean? And I thought the Scots were the goat fuckers.”

  He ignores the latter remark. “…What I mean to say is that most of you absolutely revile each other here in the States. I don't understand this notion of patriotism espoused by the right; they detest many of the citizens of this country for being leftist and—even though this group comprises roughly half of the population…at least the population that votes—somehow un-American. They also hate their government. What is this America for which they have such deference? Is it the land they wish to defile in the name of laissez-faire capitalism? Is it a nationalistic mythology that was constructed over the course of the nineteenth century? I just don't get it. And then there are the leftists, who are so fucking full of themselves, as though they are the intellectual superiors to just about everyone under the sun. They proclaim themselves to be the most capable of understanding the masses, but never cease to express disdain for these same individuals. How can you empathize with a social group if you believe yourself to be superior to them, to be Gulliver in the land of the Yahoos? I'm troubled by the notion that New York is supposedly better than anywhere else in this country in this regard, though I often think of Mann's sentiment of Venice when I am here: half fairy-tale, half snare. Regardless, the people here are supposed to be open-minded and non-judgmental; I mean, this is supposed to be the Mecca of personal liberation, right? As an aside, I do believe, in your favor, that this city is far better than Washington, as Rome has never been one for philosophers. Still, the vast majority of this city, with all of its pretensions to history and culture, will always present its Brummels before its Balzacs. I feel like the protagonist in this one Wilfred Sheed novel, Square’s Progress,” he adds distantly.

  “Who?”

  “American novelist. I don't remember what era he was writing; I believe it was during the heyday of Vonnegut, perhaps Miller. Not so bad if I recall correctly.” He becomes pensive for a moment, then quickly returns to his frantic mode of locution, which by this point has become something of a soliloquy. “Still, everywhere I go I run into the same types: drunk on their own sense of self-importance. Do you know how many times I've come into places on Bedford or on Smith Street or in Manhattan somewhere, and the only thing that people talk about is how silly those around them look or act? Everything seems odd when you're an outsider.” He pauses. “You people move to the city because you reject suburbia and all of the hang-ups there, but you never let those same hang-ups go. But maybe it’s not just that. Maybe it’s because most people are just moving here to get by. Maybe the white migration back to some of the urban centers of this country is a direct consequence of the end of the industrial era and the lack of unionization among the workers participating in what many are now calling the post-industrial economy. Have you ever seen the movie They Live?”

  “No.”

  “There's a fantastic fight scene in it. I think the show South Park borrowed it for the cripple fight episode. More importantly, however, I believe it captures the anxiety that has defined both your generation as well as my own—perhaps even the previous generation. It's a fair movie, though its lack of subtlety makes its evocation more emotional than analytical.

  “As I was saying, however, it's not that difficult to talk to someone new, even if you're taught to fear every stranger as scrofulous, covetous, criminal. I know it seems hard. I know your tellies push xenophobia upon most of this country, but you all need to get over yourselves. You need to abandon the Bluebird mentality.” He looks to me with ire in his eye for a moment. It passes. “Though Erasmus said this in the midst of satire, I believe his words were sincere: ‘The fool tries everything, meets his dangers at first-hand, and thereby acquires what I’m sure is genuine prudence.’ We are sitting in one of the entrepôts of history, of revolution, where ideas congregate with brute, historical forces. This is it, my friend; its potential to become an urban Thélème rivaled only by Detroit.” He laughs at my crossed eyes. “And yet there’s friction between so many people here, as so many are afraid of looking foolish. But I bet you've made quite a number of friends looking for this Coprolalia fellow, have you not? True, you probably don't call them on the weekend, you probably don't even think about them all that much; but something tells me that you're learning that most of the people in this city are not crazy or stupid or dangerous. They're just like you; they just have different preferences.”

  “Well, thank you for your input, but—”

  “But nothing.” He smiles as he places his fist on his chin. “I love this song.”

  “Seriously? The fucking Partridge Family? Would a little Foghat every now and again kill you?”

  “But this is so innocent,” with a dreamy smile.

  “Your know what your pal Greene said of innocence, don’t you?”

  He chuckles. “The more pertinent issue here is that you agree with everything that I have said. It's time this recognition begins influencing your actions. Prove Aristotle wrong.” My eyes narrow. “Prove that a man can be continent prior to the age of thirty.” I nod hesitantly. “Look, the world is a wonderful place for those capable of appreciating the company of others,” he points a finger up, which brushes against his lips. He notices that Tomas has just exited the bathroom. Tomas looks somewhat lost. “He needs to sober up a bit before we get to this party,” he begins somewhat quietly. “You are coming, correct?” I respond in the affirmative. “Well, I'm not about to bring someone assured to make a perfect ass of himself because he can't handle his liquor,” he says as if to drive the point home. “Anyway, I asked the barkeep to brew up a pot of coffee. It should be ready by now.” He looks to the bartender, and then back to me. “It wouldn't kill you to liven up a bit, too. You don't talk all that much, Maecenas, do you?”

  Tomas is all smiles as he returns. “Sorry that took so long. The line for the can was six deep.” He looks to the back of the bar quickly, turns to me, and then leans in close. “Did you get a load of the mutton chops on the guy two tables down? Looks like Chester A. Arthur on meth.”

  10.1

  Tomas takes his coffee light and sweet. Patrick manages to convince me to take the brackish sludge he's pushed on the two of us without so much as a grain of sugar. I don't know why, but he finds this incredibly funny. Perhaps this indicates a nascent sign of drunkenness, but it's difficult to tell. He has once again become overly genial after his earlier harangu
e, which marked Tomas as a conceited jerkoff (“A poor man's Vronsky,” as he said during one of Tomas’ trips to the bathroom) and me as a particularly importune pest.

  Tomas maintains that Patrick is a rabid bullshitter while the latter is in the toilet. I'm still on the fence. While I share Tomas' suspicions about the party to which we both have agreed to go—cannibals, after all, are not typically known for their candor—I can’t help but feel as though this odd man will eventually lead me to Coprolalia.

  As we drink our coffee, conversation begins to flow less erratically. This is yet another one of Patrick's peculiarities. Apparently, the drunker he gets, the less his mind wanders, which would indicate that his previous foolishness is more sophomoric than moronic—like a sagacious mendicant. He is also becoming visibly anxious to get to the party where we are to meet Daphne, who may or may not know Willis Faxo, who may or may not be in regular contact with a man named Mordecai, who may or may not be Coprolalia.

  We linger in grays and speak into our respective beverages. The bar, meanwhile, becomes more and more populated with each passing moment, mostly by kids who have spent the previous hours preening themselves in order to tell the world that they don't give a fuck about convention: the typical Hair Product Anarchists and Quadrennial Democrats that make Williamsburg the most salient example of my generation's political statement of vanity and civic paralysis. Their looks in Patrick's direction are more contemptuous than those he had initially received from the blue-collar elements, who, by this point, have become accustomed to him: his ability to straddle the line between pontification and tirade, his lack of what one might call “appropriate attire,” his insatiability, his audacity, his loquacity, his spastic facial movements (and these involve the whole face, too), possibly even his taste in music. Most of them have said at least a few words to him whether at the bar or from their table; they have judged him a harmless anomaly with a benign smile, an animated disposition, and a good sense of humor. They raise their glasses to him every once in a while in order to make certain they don't only know him from a dream, and seem Christmas-morning delighted when he accepts the toast, not without a belch of laughter alongside his random and mirthful proclamations, which continue to captivate the otherwise languid chorus encircling the bar like parishioners around an altar.