by Jay Fox
“No, at a party in Williamsburg.”
“What type of party?” he asks as I close the door to my bedroom.
“Where have you been?” It's him again; I just think there is a long enough pause to warrant a new paragraph. I don't respond to either question for a few minutes.
I finally open the door as I am putting on my belt. He is at the table smoking a cigarette. “I don't even know if you're going to believe me.”
He smiles as he looks up from the June issue of Harper's. I think he envies me. “Really?”
“Can I bum a smoke?”
“Sure.”
I take a seat across from him. Yo La Tango is busy covering a William DeVaughn track in Jeff's room. He slides the pack across the table.
I explain everything to him: Patrick, the A-R-E, Daphne (The cigarette is finished. He hands me another one.), the argument with Sean, the day and night spent with Vinati, the conversation with Willis Faxo, the histrionics of Connie, my transformation into Diego for a portion of the day. He nods enthusiastically as I retell all of these events, interjects rarely, and laughs in advance. I finish the second cigarette as I tell him what happened after washing dishes: eating Connie's meal with the hostess, two of the waiters, and the bartender. The bartender gave us copious amounts of wine and, without patrons to mollify, activated an iPod playlist filed with fin de siècle pieces, which included “Claire de Lune”, “Gymnopédies”, and the first movement of Elgar's Cello Concerto in E Minor (which may be considered too late to fall in with the fin de siècle, but, for whatever reason, its always related to Dvorák's “New World Symphony” in my mind). Efren, the bartender, described Elgar's compositions as majestic, as if something out of an excellent fantasy film. Satie, he said, is the most haunting composer of the period, perhaps ever. I modified the adjective to “harrowing” without remonstration on his part. As he popped another cork from a previously opened bottle of red wine that was probably worth forty or fifty dollars retail, he explained that the owner didn't care about conserving wine once the bottle had been paid for. “It's fucked up how often these rich people buy a bottle, have a glass, and then leave the rest.” We talked about Philip Glass for a while. He was ambivalent about much of the composer's corpus, but thought the world of an album of études that was released in 2003. I had never heard it, which he found criminal. Soon I was promising that I buy it whenever I got the chance.
I didn't understand his attachment to the album until he told me that he was a struggling composer, and that most of his compositions were for solo piano. He also wrote for string quartet and quintet on occasion, but preferred to work with just one instrument. Since he only played the piano (and a little guitar), this seemed to be the most rational instrument for which to write. Some of his work has apparently been featured in a few video-game soundtracks. Much to my surprise, this is a pretty big market for contemporary composers. “It sounds like a joke, but, man, even the New York Times will be reviewing video-games in a few years—if not sooner. It's a legitimate artistic medium now.”
“And that's what I've been up to.”
“I told you that Connie was unstable,” Jeff says with a shake of the head.
“I know. But love blinds you, you know.” Caesura. “I guess I should have known that she was going to pull some type of stunt.”
Jeff stares to the table somberly as though he is studying a recondite text that demands no small amount of concentration. “Is this how you're going to remember her?”
“What?”
“Can you even remember her—before all of this?” as he pushes his glasses up.
“I guess I just remember that she was always…”
“Always what?”
“I don't know. My thinking is a bit cloudy. It's been a long day.”
“What did you see in her?”
“I don't know,” with a shrug.
“Seriously, man. What did you see in her?”
“I guess she's really intelligent. She's just prone to these bouts of—I know I've already used this word today, but it seems to be the only one that fits—histrionics. It's as though she has this pathological need to create dramatic situations.” I pause. “And maybe I felt like she was the only person who really fit, you know. There are only a few redeeming qualities that I can think of right now, but, for whatever reason, there just seemed to be something there, something deeper that I've lost. Does that make any sense to you?”
“Not to be rude, but it sounds like you spend two years settling. She may be intelligent, but it sounds like she's emotionally retarded and, to be blunt, a total fucking bitch.”
“Maybe you're right.” I pause for a while. “The thing is that I spent so much time with her that I can't really see myself with anyone else. Not even now.”
“What about this Vinati girl?”
“The whole situation just seems too good to be true. Maybe it's even surreal—I don't know. You haven't seen her, but, man, I've got to tell you, she's just…she's something else.”
He smiles. “Did you know Hegel believed India to be home to the most beautiful women on Earth?”
“I didn't realize Hegel had much experience with women from that part of the world.”
“Maybe it was just common wisdom at the time. To be honest, I don't really know. It's just something that I've always found funny.” He lights a cigarette. “Herodotus said the same thing about Ethiopian women. Neither one stated it as an opinion, either. They both considered their statements to be established facts.”
I nod.
“What else do you see in her?”
“Connie?”
“No, this…what's her name again?”
“Vinati.”
“Vinati. It's a beautiful name.”
“It is. And she's just incredibly beautiful. And she's, you know, fairly intelligent, too. I mean, I never considered her to be a great intellect or anything, but we had a lot of good conversations yesterday.”
“So she's not a dummy.”
“No, she's not. She's bright. She's fairly well read. She has a good sense of humor, which is a hell of a lot more than I can say of Connie.”
“It sounds like all the necessary building blocks are there.”
“Yeah, they are. Definitely. And I feel bad that I can't really tell you about all of her idiosyncrasies yet—that's just because I'm getting to know her.”
“Really? You?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Look, it's not that I'm accusing you of being judgmental. You just have the tendency to…I guess construct personae and back-stories for people out of nothing more than a glance. I guess all people do it; you just seem to go into a lot depth.”
“So I over-analyze people?”
“Yes. Look, dude, I'm not trying to insult you. It's not like it's a character flaw or anything. I mean, you're just like Zuckerman.”
“Dylan?”
“No, Roth's Zuckerman. I don't remember his first name.”
“Okay.”
He drags from his cigarette in silence. Where did the music go? “I just find it odd that you haven't seriously thought about this girl.”
“Sometimes I just don't. Certain people I just accept at face value.”
“Okay,” he says as he reveals his palms to me. He's quiet for a moment. “But, going back to Connie, it seems as though you were in love with the idea of having a girlfriend. In other words, the particular person wasn't all that important; you just wanted to be in love with someone. Some people may say that you were in love with the idea of her.” He ashes the cigarette, looks to it, and then puts it in his mouth. “I'm sorry if any of this is out of line or overly cerebral.”
“No, not at all. You know, given the circumstances…”
His nods. “Let me ask you a question,” he begins as his expression mimics one often worn by Aberdeen. “When you read a poem about love, do you instantly imagine Connie? I mean, even if the author describes a person bearing no physical
resemblance to her?”
“Still?”
“As of yesterday.”
I think. I think for a while. She is that personification of the loved. The self I have constructed for her is an avatar that materializes as Juliet, as Werther's Lotte, as I-330, as pre-veil P.G.O.A.T. She's every heroine, every love-interest. Connie's identity has become almost meaningless over the years.
“I'll take that as a yes,” he says.
“Well, it was because I was in love with her.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I mean,” I stumble, “We had our squabbles, but, yes, I definitely loved her.”
“I'm sure you did, or at least you believed that you did.”
“Don't pull this type of bullshit with me, Jeff,” with a roll of my eyes.
“Am I wrong? It seems like you enjoyed her company occasionally, the ability to have sex without having to form an intimate connection with a stranger—to begin anew, so to speak.”
“This was not a protracted fuck-buddy situation.”
“That's not what I'm saying,” calmly. “It's more that the two of you are very similar in the sense that…well, how do I put this?” He takes a long drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out. “You don't jump into relationships, and I'm guessing she's the same way. You're both marathon runners, so to speak.”
“So it was a relationship of convenience, in other words?”
“Look, I'm not trying to be an asshole here. I'm just telling you what I see. To be blunt, my hope is that you get this bitch out of your life. She's terrible for you. She makes you miserable, and I'm pretty sure the two of you have hated each other for well over a year now.”
“Hate is a pretty strong word. I'll agree that the relationship did kind of become routine. You know, we were in love. It was a fact, like something you don't really have to think about. It wasn't contingent upon any feeling or emotion; it just was. Milton wrote Paradise Lost; your hair is brown; we live in Bushwick. There's no need to reflect upon any of this. I never had to ask myself if it was true. It just was.”
“It was the status quo.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you ever think the two of you would get married?”
“Not especially. It, the relationship, just became so natural. I don't know how else I can put it. I feel like I didn't even like her the entire second year we were together. I don't really know, though. All of the problems just became so much more pronounced once she moved to Boston. There was just this constant animosity between us. Privately, I actually referred to this period as the Animosity—you know, as if it were its own special era.” He laughs uncomfortably. “It almost seems like we stayed together out of spite—both of us.”
“Love as a form of reciprocal torture,” he laughs.
“Proust?”
He nods. “Honestly, it seems like this may have been helpful. I understand that washing dishes was probably not the best epilogue to the relationship, but maybe now you can finally move on, and maybe even begin a relationship with this Vinati girl.”
“On the subject of women,” I begin, “What happened with you a Melissa?”
“Sometimes people just grow apart, man,” stoically. Thom Yorke mutters the first lines of “Kid A” in Jeff's room. I guess the previous silence was actually just an MP3 of very poor quality.
“But you don't seem to see any of your friends anymore.”
“They're her friends. All of the friends I've met in this city, with the exception of Melissa and her group, are either engaged or married. That's what happens when you get to be my age.” He's twenty-six. “People just grow up.”
“What about your friends from college? Don't any of them live in the city?”
“A few, but I wouldn't call them good friends by any means. Sure, I might meet up for a drink with some of them every once in a while, but, by and large, I don't talk to many of my college friends anymore. I don't really keep up with anyone from high school, either. So whom do I have left?” he asks himself. He then answers: “The people I've met here; and, as I've said, they're all fucking married or engaged. And, just like good intellectuals, they are all with dominating women who keep them on short leashes.” He rubs temples for a few moments. “Have you ever been around married people? Not just your parents and their friends, but people who are close to your own age? It's terrible. Everything is so saccharine. They have dinner parties and drink modest amounts of wine. They talk about bad television, acknowledge that it's bad, that it's utter garbage, and then proceed to talk about it for the next hour. And they always want to set you up with someone, too. And these women to whom you're introduced—my God! It's like these people are running kennels.”
“I didn't think that was happening as much as it used to,” after laughing a bit.
“What, that people push their ugly friends onto you like shitty hors d'oeuvres?”
“No, not that.”
“Oh, that smart men continue to take on horribly bitchy women who make them miserable?” He pauses. “Not to say that smart women don't do the same thing. It's just more prominent with men. I guess a lot of smart people just have masochistic tendencies.”
“I see. Well, I was talking about marriage.”
“Oh. I guess that's just the people I've met. I don't know if it applies across the board.”
“Did you ever think that you and Melissa had a chance?”
“A part of me did, yes; but she had other ideas. She was young. It's not that she was all that young in age. It was more that she was socially bound to an age group of which she was not really a part.” I tilt my head. “I'm not saying that I have arrived at a higher emotional or ethical level than her—we are equals in those regards. Speaking of which, have you ever heard of Kohlberg's hierarchy of moral judgment?”
“No,” I respond.
“You may have come across it if you've read Habermas.”
“I never had the pleasure. I've heard plenty about him, but I haven't had the time to pick up anything he's written.” I point to the pack on the table. “Mind if I grab another one.”
“Sure. Well,” as the lighter makes its way across the table, “I guess it's exactly what it sounds like. Kohlberg breaks basic moral development into six stages. And it's different than Piaget, primarily because some people never make it to the sixth stage.” Okay. “Regardless, these stages, to me, also map emotional development to a certain degree, but that's another can of worms. I'll just say that I believe that Melissa and I fall into the same stage of moral development. Socially, however, we are very different. Our projects and aspirations are very different. She still needs to go out all of the time; she refuses to be content with a sedentary life because she equates stability with adulthood, and adulthood with death. Her parents really cemented this into her head because they both worked twelve and fourteen hours a day for pretty much the entire time she was growing up. In other words, she is a fully mature adult on just about every level, but she is terrified of having a career.” He pauses. “To her, it's not just the end of childhood, but the end of autonomy, and, ultimately, the end of life. I see that fear in you, too.”
“There certainly is some truth to that.”
“One could say it is the fruit born of the Me Generation.”
“You sound like me.”
“What?”
“You're rarely this cynical.”
He shrugs. “Well, anyway, this is why all of the friends still see her—because they're her friends, not mine; they were mine only by proxy. It's not that I did anything wrong; it's just that I'm giving her space, which means I'm also giving them space.”
“So there's no animosity there?”
“No, not especially. There was at first, but each time that I've seen her since we decided to…I guess separate, it's been a little better. It wasn't the typical break up. It's not that I did anything, and it's not like she was guilty of any infidelity. I guess we both just realized that we wanted different things. It was kind of
a Woody Allen moment—though, I admit, to a certain extent I blame her for killing the shark.”
“So that was it? You wanted to get married; she didn't?”
“It's not that simple, but I guess that's the gist of it.” He digs at a cigarette that refuses to stop burning in the ashtray. I take a long drag. “What did you think?”
“Honestly?”
“Yeah,” he chuckles. “Honestly.”
“I thought you cheated on her. It explained the reason why you don't see any of those people anymore.”
He laughs. “You want a beer?”
“Sure.” He's quickly back with two unopened bottles of Sol. “What? No lime.”
“Fuck you, man,” he laughs. We both sip. “I'm curious about this A-R-E business. What the hell is an eidolon?”
“It's difficult to explain. I guess it's the ideal form of an individual, something along the lines of the soul. I mean, I initially thought it was just another word for soul or ghost, but Faxo clearly believed there to be some type of nuance there. All he did was make the whole thing more convoluted.”
“So it's not synonymous with the soul?”
“I mean, a thesaurus may tell you differently, but there are a number of distinctions between a soul and an eidolon—not that I really know what any of them are. There's more than just the spiritual connotation. There's another side, but I can't seem to figure that part out. Faxo couldn't explain it all that well. He was kind of a pedantic guy.”
“A pedantic artist?” he laughs. “That's unheard of.”
“Seriously, though, it just doesn't make any sense to me. I understand the drive to be without the restraints of convention, which is what he kept talking about; but he also mentioned some other context in which the word applies without really explaining it. I don't see how the two interact. A part of me was thinking that it had Scholastic implications, but I don't see Faxo as being that type of person. Then again, he did bring up Plato once or twice. And Aristotle.”
“What about thetans?”
“What?”
“It just sounds like a cult to me.”
“That's what I said.”
“My guess is that it doesn't explain anything because it's not supposed to,” he continues. “It's just some bullshit ideology that lumps all of the problems of the world together so that it can then proffer some vague solution. This is how all cults and conspiracy theories operate. The schizophrenics aren't all that different.”