by Jay Fox
“Hold on,” he replies as he lights a cigarette of his own.
“It's perfect. He creates entirely for himself and the community at the same time. It's brilliant.”
“Why doesn't he just do murals on the side of buildings, then?”
“Because—thanks—because you need permission to do a mural. Also, your identity is known. Consequently, it becomes his. It's not simply that he's shy. It's that he believes the only possession that should not belong the community is the will—or ego and perhaps even id, sort of—and the body. And while it's obvious that it is his work, that he is responsible for it, he doesn't want his work or the result of his work to become a commodity. Therefore, the work has to be free, and the result of the work must be available to anyone who wishes to view it without cost. True, children can't see his work, but that's not something that he really cared about. He did try, for a long time, to do work in only unisex bathrooms to allow women to see his exhibits, too, but he eventually realized that no one really pays attentions to which bathroom belongs to whom.” He pauses. “Do you know which bathroom a transgendered person is supposed to use? Like, if a person is born a woman, never gets an operation, but identifies himself as a male, should he go into the men's bathroom or the women's bathroom?”
“I really have no idea.”
“You match bathroom signs with hardware, dude,” Scooter says. “How's a guy with a twat supposed to piss in a urinal?”
Laughter.
“I like that rule, Scoot,” Faxo says.
“Just came up with it, man. I was at this one place on Jefferson (turns to me), downtown Detroit (back to Faxo), and this fucking tranny, who was like six-eight—like, Big Fish shit—was just kicking it in the fucking chicks' room. You know, it's like what the fuck? There's a fucking huge chick with a dick just hanging out, acting like everything's fucking cool, but you could tell everyone in there was totally bugging the fuck out.”
“What happened?”
“Fucked if I know.”
“What if she went in the men's room?”
Scooter giggles. “I don't know, man—same type of shit, I guess.”
Faxo smiles and takes a drag from his cigarette. “So what was I saying?”
“About Mordecai's work being communal.”
“Yeah. I don't know if I really have anything else to say about it. The motivation behind the location of his work is anarchistic. I guess that’s it.”
“Do you like all of it?”
“No; but I rarely like everything that an artist does. I wouldn't call myself a critic. I hate critics. How these people manage to think themselves above anything, considering the fact that they create nothing of value, is beyond me. Then again, it is the nature of the parasite to think itself superior to the host.” He pauses for a moment to take another drag. “Look, all I'm saying is that there's a lot of brilliant people out there, but that they don't always reveal their brilliance in their work. Faulkner put out Pylon; Morrison put out The Bluest Eye…”
“But that was her first book.”
“Still; I'm just saying that an artist's genius doesn't always materialize in everything they create. I mean, DeLillo managed to put out The Body Artist only a few years ago, but I still regard him as one of the best American novelists today. Maybe one of the best novelists, period.”
“You didn't like that book?”
“Did anybody?”
“Well, I didn't think it was terrible.”
“It was such a huge departure from his other work—so much so that it seemed almost disingenuous. If you're going to do something like that, you need to have a stronger show.” He shrugs. “Then again, people tell me that I'm an opinionated prick, so I guess I am sometimes too harsh on things that I don't instantly love.
“Regardless, the pieces that are attributed to Mordy I usually find amusing, even if some of them are horribly banal. I mean, if you're going to denounce conformity and consumerism these days, I'm fairly sure you're not going to say anything unique. If the Gap and Old Navy run commercials that essentially convey the same puerile message, it's time to pick either a new or more specific gripe. It's a lonely world of frightened people: it doesn't get much more succinct than that.”
“Dude, that's totally it,” Scooter says as he grips his forehead. “We need to stop the fear. That's why I'm voting for Obama.” He puts down the bong, which must have a slide piece like a chalice, to tend to his cigarette. “Hey, I'm going to put on that Dave Holland album we were listening to earlier. Is that cool guys?”
Faxo says as he relights his cigarette. “Sure thing, Scoot.”
“How do you two know each other?”
“He’s my cousin.”
“Really?”
“Well, not literally. I mean, we're not related by blood.” A gray-blue fractal grows from his lips.
“Shit, Willis, I've known you longer than anyone besides my fucking mom.”
“How do you know each other?”
“It's a long story. I don't want to go on some long, self-absorbed tangent. I did enough of that in my younger years.”
“Thank you for sparing me. God knows I've heard a lot of those lately.”
“What? Did you meet Pat Shaheen the other night when you were out with Daphne?”
“Yeah,” I laugh. “He’s really something.”
“Tell me about it, man.” He laughs, too. “I met him at the beer garden in Astoria back when I was together with Daphne, and I couldn't believe—well, I couldn't believe how much he drank, for one—but I couldn't believe how much he talked. The guy has to go through a kilo of blow a day.”
There is a pause in conversation. The stereo prevents awkwardness.
“I'm sorry that the jet lag is fucking with my head so much. I'm really having a difficult time remembering Mordy.”
“Well, what does he look like?”
“Dumbo ears,” he laughs. “That's the first thing everyone notices.” He pauses. “I couldn't tell you the color of his eyes. He's got brown hair. The last time I saw him he had it really short. It wasn't that good of a look because he's got a pretty serious widow's peak now, and he's starting to go bald on the crown of his head.” Caesura. “He doesn't wear glasses. He's about your height, maybe your weight. How much do you weigh?”
“One-sixty,” I respond.
“Five-nine?”
“Thereabouts.”
“He doesn't look like you, but, on a superficial level, you two are very similar.”
“So you're saying I got big ears?”
He laughs. “Besides the ears.” He pulls from his cigarette. “That was good, man. But, no,” he begins, “You know, he really doesn't have any features that make him stand out in a crowd. He doesn't have the stereotypical Jewish nose. He just looks like…I don't know. He looks like a white guy, you know?”
“What about his voice?”
“It's deep. He definitely had himself a thick-ass accent, too.”
“What type of clothing did he wear?”
“He had a lot of long-sleeve shirts. Not button-downs. He was a fan of that layered look: short-sleeve on top of long-sleeve. He had a gray hoodie that he used to wear a lot, but I would guess that that thing decomposed a few years ago.” He pauses. “You want to get that?” I pull my phone out of my pocket. Connie. I am in Bushwick, hating the fact that I'm in fucking Bushwick. This terrible place with its stench of grease and garlic and canned-beer backwash, its aesthetic of indifference and decay—; the men screaming in Spanish, the women crying in vowels—; children wailing so hard that their vocal cords tear and shred—; doors slamming. I'll have to deal with Lolita (the epithet for the hipster girl next door, who's into rough sex, but still blushes when she notices my eyes on her bruises that appear every now and again) playing the part of Electra again. She's not in yet, but she will arrive around three or so. Because it's Saturday night, and Saturday night is a waste so long as it is not a precursor to an awkward Sunday morning. I'll hear them talk—murmurings that s
ound like a squirrel taunting a mastiff. And then I'll hear the foreplay and the verbal salacity, the yelps and the sound of skin smacking skin, the climax and the whimper. I won't get used to this. I won't get used to the humorless faces, the pride so many take in their poverty of hope and spirit. It infests everything around here as if a fine layer of dust. And it is so pervasive, so pervasive that it's accepted as normal. I am the anomaly, the freak who receives askance brows and derisive grins when he reveals his disbelief. At what? At everything about this place. True, Denise would denounce these thoughts as bourgeois, but if it's bourgeois to think it necessary to feel you belong to something, to someone, then I guess I'll always play the part of the parlor socialist as opposed to the militant Trotskyite, eager to sacrifice one's humanity for the sake of…well, humanity. Because I need someone, anyone, who at least shares this one belief, this one belief that it's not normal to think that vapidly consuming luxury items represents the pinnacle of human existence. Is this excommunication or is this exile? I think it's exile. Because everyone lives so far away. And I'm here, here in my full-size bed, which takes up less than a sixth of the room. The twin in the dorm had comprised almost a third. I have been too lazy to install the shelving unit, so books are stacked upon the floor like blocks of skyscrapers, a skyline of academia in silhouette. Cottony snow tumbles down from an amethyst sky; it accumulates upon the windowsill. Some of it falls to floor and instantly turns to water. I need to buy a screen. I should close the window, but it's too hot in here. Always. The radiator hisses like a goddamn viper at random hours of the night. The super is supposed to come up to fix it, but he keeps putting it off for a myriad of bullshit reasons. He tells me to just shut it off myself at the beginning of every conversation, and then feigns revelation when he remembers the fact that the knob is broken, and that I, consequently, cannot turn it off. I can't sleep; I can only stare to the ceiling with its topography of shadows both grainy and distorted. The room is dimly lit by the moonlight radiating off the snow and the clouds. Pearl Jam’s “All or None” plays on repeat because I need a reference point. Jeff and Melissa are bickering in the other room. They don't realize that I can hear them with perfect clarity. She doesn't think he should come in to ask me if I want anything from New Garden, the Chinese place down the block. —He's not hungry, Jeff. She's right. She's right even if I haven't eaten anything since the Boston-bound Fung Wah pulled into a plaza somewhere in northeastern Connecticut a little over twenty-four hours ago.
“No, that's all right,” I respond.
“Regardless, I don't remember anything else about him in terms of fashion. He wasn't out to prove anything with his clothes.”
I have a new voice mail.
“I'm sorry if this seems a bit out of line, but I'm just curious: what happens if you find him?”
“If I interview him?” I ask. “I basically make a name for myself as a journalist. Also, there's a reward.”
He smiles. “An honest one.” He looks over to Scooter, who, by this point, has fallen asleep. Smoke from his cigarette drifts languidly from the ashtray like a weak faucet, reverse-tape. “One of the greats once said that journalism is a business; and, like all business enterprises, it knows neither laws nor good faith.”
“Who was that?”
“Balzac. If I remember the passage correctly, he goes on to say that newspapers don't create opinions—they flatter them.”
“That's a pretty cynical outlook.”
“Well, you always come off as cynical when you're considered an opinionated asshole. It's the reason why the white community, the black community, and the artistic community have all rejected me. The Japanese community…” He laughs. “Well, it's hard to be rejected when you're not even considered for acceptance.”
“What do you mean by that? Why have you been rejected?”
“No one likes to be criticized. The black community was terribly offended when I said that the leaders perpetuate a culture of victimization and self-loathing as opposed to a culture of empowerment. They disowned me when I said ghetto-fabulous is just a polite way of saying nigger rich, that rap culture's decadence represents one of the lowest forms of existence in any civilization thus far—that nigga's gotta get paid isn't much different than the Nuremberg credo of I was only following orders. And then there's the whole subject of rap stars essentially serving as pawns for different corporations because these corporations think black people are fucking stupid—that they'll buy anything so long as it's endorsed by one of their own. And you know what really fucking pisses me off? They're fucking right. The symbols of black power, within the ghetto anyway, all revolve around conspicuous consumption of designer good, which are virtually all owned by the same white people they claim to resent, hate, whatever.
“The feminist community rallied against me when I said they only fight against the most paltry examples of sexism because they have yet to establish a solid ethos, and, consequently, lack not only direction but an authentic community. They evidently didn't understand the irony of their actions when they launched their relatively large campaign against me. But I don't think it's sexist to point out the inadequacies of theory; I don't understand how anyone could, unless their accusation is just a defense mechanism—which it usually is. Seriously, though, if half of the elite within the feminist community think they are doing something intellectually stimulating by pointing out misogyny in nineteenth-century fiction, they really have nothing to offer. It's like showing racism in the same era. You have to be a child not to notice it. Yes, I understand the desire to map out a genealogy and all of that, and there are great books of postmodern and feminist theory—though the former almost necessarily encompasses the latter—that rely on doing similar things, but, at this point, every dipshit with a trust fund is writing a thesis on late-capitalism's hegemony over discourse in regards to x. It's intellectual masturbation.”
“You said you feel rejected by the white community. Why?”
“Well, there isn't really one community for any culture or social group in this country—with few exceptions. The so-called white community is no different—something that a lot of my black brethren refuse to consider. It's not limited to these, but when I think of white people, I think of people who belong to the corporate culture, to the redneck, proud-to-be-a-Bush-voter culture, and to the white, counter-culture crowd—which envelops the artistic community, as well as much of the music and entertainment industry—you know, those people who always say, Race doesn’t matter here,’ because I’m always the only brother floating around. Regardless, one could say that the only reason that the latter two, the hillbilly and the hipster communities, exist is because each community shares their own unique delusion when considering their relation to the former, which is hegemonic, monolithic, etcetera. The corporate culture is considered the dominant culture, but you will rarely find someone who believes that they are a part of it—there are not that many Patrick Batemans out there. The ultimate joke of it all is that every person is a part of it to some degree, even those who feel they don't belong to any particular sect of American culture—they think themselves just Americans. Now, these people, as well as the rednecks, don't really know anything about me. The other group I mentioned, the so-called artistic community, thinks I'm a conceited prick because I refuse to participate in the little enclave they've carved out of the media. I believe the exact wording I used in an interview a few years ago was: The group is not only narcissistic in the sense that it wants to go fuck itself, which I think it should do if it gets the chance, but in the sense that it's in the midst of drowning in its own hubris.
“I guess it's not that I feel rejected by every element of the white community, just some of them. I think it's more that I can never fit in completely because I'm not white. It's racist, but it's not like most white people want things to be that way. I mean, what's racist about it is that they want people like me to assimilate, even if they don't actively seek to change things one way or the other. All in all, they don't really
care; they just accept that the status quo is normal, natural, and that others should follow suit. More importantly, the only time they seek to alter society or culture is when it most flagrantly contradicts its own tenets. They recognize and hope to eliminate racism in its most explicit forms, but they neither question nor abhor the more insidious elements, probably because they don't really notice them.
“The average white guy is a man who cannot be woken up. He is kept in a state of Denkverbot.” My curiosity is discernible. “It kind of means a prohibition of critical thought, though it may not have to be that strong of a word, depending on usage. Regardless, he, the average white guy, doesn't even notice that he's getting screwed, too. That's just how the mechanisms that operate in this society have been set up—keep people oblivious, cloaked in Maya's veil. And while he's not getting screwed as badly as women and people who aren't white, he, the average white guy, is beginning to realize that even his cut of the pie is diminishing. Less government does not mean more power to the people; it means more power to the corporations and the wealthy. Just look at the way the gap between the rich and the poor has expanded over the past thirty years. The obstacle, of course, is that no radical group will reach out to this huge demographic of white men who aren't rich and who aren't poor, who aren't smart and who aren't dumb, because, to radicalized people on the left, it's almost like conceding.
“But nothing is going to happen in this country until the people as a whole recognize that they are all suffering under the same system, and that—while the judicial and martial branches of the government are clearly sexist and racist, while misogyny and bigotry will never evaporate because of an atavistic orientation to the world that most white men unconsciously possess—the economic system—the system that determines virtually every aspect of an individual's life—is still primarily classist, and it is necessarily so.”