THE WALLS

by Jay Fox

  “I've got, like, two eggplants. And this one isn't good. You know, it's…it's bad.” He scratches his head. “I mean, it's not bad…like bad. It's going to go bad. Like, soon.”

  “Wake the fuck up.”

  The washcloth is removed from his face with a painful and torpid motion. His eyes begin blinking rapidly. I'd forgotten that he does that. He's looking around, trying to place himself. He clearly cannot understand why he is where he is, nor can he entirely remember why he's in the condition in which he finds himself. He's like a newborn still unaccustomed to the world to willingly admit light into his eyes.

  “Where am I?” His lips are coated with a thin, white residue reminiscent of Spackle dust.

  “You're in your bathroom.”

  He licks his incisors and rubs the back of his head. His teeth are probably wearing sweaters. His tongue probably feels swollen. He winces after applying pressure to his occipital bone. I guess that's my fault; I let go too soon while Aberdeen and I were transferring him into the tub—or I dropped him, which I guess would be the more accurate depiction of that event.

  “And why the fuck are you here?”

  “Because I have nothing better to do.”

  “Why am I na—” he looks down, feels his boxer shorts. “Why am I almost naked?”

  “Because you puked all over yourself.”

  “Did I do anything stupid?”

  “You puked all over yourself.”

  “Did I do anything worse than that?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “Good.”

  Caesura.

  “Wait…what?”

  “Why haven't you told me the truth about Coprolalia?”

  His eyes are red, exhausted symbols of pain. “What? About that night out with Jane?”

  “Who the fuck is Jane?”

  “Jane—that chick from the other night. We wanted you to talk with her about the poem, the…” he snaps his fingers at roughly 135 bpm.

  “The haiku?”

  “Yeah,” drowsily. “The haiku in the bar.”

  “No. This is bigger, Tomas.”

  “Not bigger than my dick.” He chortles slightly as he turns away.

  “Are you fucking twelve? Look at me, you fucking asshole. Look at me, and tell me that you didn't fucking have a hand in all of this shit.”

  He has the harrowing, sour grimace of a cancer patient, though it's not because of my words. He's about to vomit again. I almost feel guilty for berating him like this. “What the fuck has gotten into you, man?” meekly.

  “I've realized that you're full of shit.”

  “Yeah…well…art is all pretension these days.” He spits. “The more pretentious, the better.”

  “No. You haven't been honest with me. You haven't told me the truth.”

  “Look Mulder, I don—”

  “How much did Sean pay you?” Sean has connections. Connections in the art world. The more pretentious the better. Tomas has sold me out in order to get good reviews. Reviews published by Sean's friends. They're all involved. Everyone. The whole university; the university beyond the university. The art world is nothing but fucking nepotism and everyone knows it. Faxo was right. Yeah, he knew. It was his tacit admission of guilt. He felt guilty about the bullshit that he was feeding me. He still has a conscience. That's what makes what he did even more despicable. “Coprolalia doesn't exist.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about, man? Will you chill the fuck out.” A classic tmesis, one he uses frequently. Wouldn't his speech patterns be different under duress? Why is he so calm? He's just in pain. If he were feeling better, he'd be acting more defensively. “Will you at least tell me why your fucking panties are all in a bundle?”

  “You know damn well why I'm fucking pissed.”

  He is wincing. Soon those portentous cringes take hold of him. He vomits up a few millimeters of whatever acids have managed to accumulate in his stomach over the past few hours. He then looks up to me, his face now coated in a fine layer of sweat. “No dude,” sternly, “I fucking don't.”

  “You're leading me down the wrong path.”

  “No one's forcing the bottle down your throat, Dante,” he responds before letting out a mouthful of viscous spit. Would he be the leopard or the lion? “Look, I'll deal with my problems; you deal with your fucking own.”

  “Why aren't you listening to me? I know what you and Sean are up to. I know that everything—Coprolalia, the A-R-E, the girl from the bar…Esther, or whatever her real name is—I know it's all been a ploy. You're playing me. There is no Coprolalia. There is no A-R-E. You've been hired out, just like Patrick, Daphne and Faxo. You've all been hired out by Sean to make it seem like there is a Coprolalia.”

  “Why?” incredulously.

  “Because it will make him money.”

  “Who?”

  “Fucking Sean, man. There is no art if it isn't appreciated by Sean and the rest of the collegiate aristocracy. There is no art—”

  “Unless you're told it's art. The urinal thing—is that what you're getting at? Who did that?”

  “Duchamp.”

  “First of all, that’s bullshit, and you know it. Out of you, that's fucking something. Second, this isn't the Maltese Falcon, man. No one's lied to you. No one's guarding some grand secret. We've done nothing but try to help you out.”

  “But—”

  “But what? What the fuck are you accusing me of? That I'm…I'm…doing a conspiracy….” Caesura. “Not doing. I'm acting…participating in a conspiracy against you? Why? You're my fucking friend, man. You don't try to get anything out of me. You don't try to use my name for anything…not even to fucking get pussy. You're the only friend I've made since I published that stupid book.” His face has become wrinkled, like a deflated balloon. “You're the only friend I have besides James.”

  “That's not true.”

  “Oh yeah, there's Randy,” acerbically. “Randy, who tries to push his shitty novel on me whenever I see him—yeah, he’s not self-interested at all.”

  He vomits again.

  There is a lapse in conversation that lasts for some time.

  “Tell me the truth,” I begin. “Is there something I need to know about? Have you been dishonest with me?”

  “Dishonest,” he laughs. “Jesus, man, it's like I'm talking to the fucking principal.” He clears his throat. “Yes, there's something I was dishonest about. Jane didn't dig you. We just wanted to make you feel guilty.”

  “No, about Coprolalia.”

  Pink Floyd's “Echoes” continues to play in the next room. It is currently at the point where it sounds like dolphin genocide.

  “Why are you so sheltered?”

  “What? What does this have to do with anything?”

  “Why are you content with your solitary-ness? Is that a word?”

  “Sure.”

  He's pensive for a long time. It appears as though he wants to say something, but it is difficult for him. He holds down several retches. “Why are you so afraid of getting pussy, man?”

  “You've obviously forgotten that I got laid about twenty-four hours ago.”

  “What?” He laughs. “The Indian broad?”

  “Vinati? Yes, I had sex with her.”

  “You had sex with her,” dryly. “That sounds fan-fucking-tastic. It really sounds like you enjoyed it. Are you sure you didn't 'do it' with her?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You've detached yourself from life, man. You just kind of float above everything, look down on it. Maybe 'float' is the wrong word. You just…you just think about things way too much. You just…wait…wait…the moment is coming. You have to just experience this. Don't think, man. It's fucking indescribable.”

  He trails off. The music has gone from ambient to majestic. Tomas has closed his eyes again. He looks almost at peace.

  17

  I got back in my apartment around one. After waking up on the floor of the bathroom to the sound of Aberdeen taking one of tho
se choppy and protracted pisses, I somehow found the resolve to get up. This proved futile. Aberdeen, on the other hand, was rather chipper. I could hear his bare feet slapping the concrete floor in time with E.L.O.'s “Mr. Blue Sky.” Once the song ended, the faucet went on. For a long time. The song began again. The faucet went off. Aberdeen appeared. In his hand was a bucket of water. The two of us caught eyes for a solid few seconds. There was something very different about him, something not quite berserk or mad or sanguine, but a combination of the three would probably fit the bill—perhaps the grin that one could imagine Mack the Knife wearing during his gory sprees. The contents of the bucket ended up on Tomas.

  “What the hell was that for?”

  “Yeah, ya' dick,” came a derelict echo from the tub.

  “Payback's a bitch.” Aberdeen popped up one of the cigarettes from the pack on the counter with a quick flick of the wrist. He placed it in his mouth, lit it, and then looked down to me. “Ask him about last week.”

  “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

  “Fine,” Tomas exclaimed. “You got me back. Are you happy?”

  “What time is it?” I asked as I reached for the cigarette. My spine did not appreciate sudden movement.

  “Breakfast time,” Aberdeen announced. He then lit my cigarette. “Get up; I'm buying.”

  Tomas struggled to find the will to move. My presence seemed troubling to him. I guess I shared his sentiment somewhat. Aderol-induced paranoia proved to be more virulent and accusatory than I would have expected. It's a great drug for writing papers, as you suddenly become conscious of connections that only appear perspicacious at four in the morning. True, most of these theories seem patently absurd in the light of sobriety, but there is no shortage of professors who entertain such fantasies, especially if they're the type to whom the more unpopulated and tenebrous regions of the library provides a second home.

  I guess one could say that paranoia is too easy; it's vain, self-absorbed, and need not rely on anything more than logical validity. The problem with reality, however, is that things don't have to make sense—there are too many premises to make sense of this world. True, coincidences happen, but, without modern English's imputation of an almost magical element into the meaning of the word, it's really just two incidental incidents happening at the same time, usually in close proximity to one another. That's the pure coincidence, unadulterated by the filthy teleology of mystics and the confused etiology of historians and lunatics. Our lives are filled with them—events that are connected, but connected in such an innocuous manner that they are inconsequential. It's only later, when we feel the need to revise and enhance our relationship with another person, that we take on the task of conflating histories, maybe even identities. Weddings and funerals tend to be filled with such revisions.

  We ended up at a Mexican place up Manhattan Avenue. Tomas' relation to the waking world was characterized by an awkward tension—as a true hangover and the recognition of Absurdity feel essentially the same, though it's usually only the latter that sparks either an epiphany or a nausea of the spirit. Angelina, our waitress, initially tried to resume the flirtatious banter in which she and Tomas had partaken the last time he had appeared in the restaurant, but she quickly apprehended the severity of his condition upon looking at his face. On top of the scent of alcohol, which had not dissipated even after a shower, he had managed to vomit with such force that a blood vessel in his right eye had ruptured. She levied upon him a sardonic pity that he seemed to mildly enjoy.

  “Though it's hardly tactful to toast oneself,” Aberdeen finally began after the arrival of the coffee, “I will beg your forgiveness on this one occasion. I would have opted for champagne, but I was quite certain that it would have been more than a bit messy to introduce alcohol after the events of last night.” Tomas lifted his right middle finger before resting his head on the meat of his left forearm. “Come on, Tomas, this is good news.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “This is important. Will you please just—”

  “What? What happened? Did you finally fuck Lindsay last night?”

  “No. She ended up at the boyfriend's pace,” he added spitefully. His smile returned quickly. “Anyway—”

  “How come you don't have a name for him?”

  “What?”

  “You guys have a nickname for everyone. What's his?”

  “We've been kicking a few things around the office, but nothing seems to stick.”

  “I see.”

  “—Anyway, I'm here to tell you both some very good news,” he resumed as he picked up his coffee cup. I followed suit. Tomas picked up his head. He blew on his coffee while staring vapidly to Aberdeen. “Will you just pick up the fucking coffee, man. I mean, for Christ's sake…”

  “Fine.” He clumsily picked up the mug. A few drops fell onto his hand, which he did not bother to wipe off; he merely winced and muttered a few profanities. His other hand was used to convey impatience with Aberdeen's silence.

  “I'm obviously in high spirits today, and there is a very good reason for this.” Pause for suspense. “My piece in the Graham Gallery was purchased last night.”

  “Holy shit, man,” I said. “Congratulations. That's great.”

  “Well, shit. If it were any other morning, I'd say break out the fucking Moët.”

  “Yes, well, here's where it gets better: The buyer is commissioning two more pieces. He or she is going to advance me all of the money, too.” He laughed. “This is rent for the year. In a fucking day!”

  “Come here, you. C'mon,” Tomas said as he stood. The two embraced. I continued to sit. “So much for your unlucky streak,” he added.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “James here hadn't sold a piece in six months. It's weird, man. He fucking cleaned up last year.”

  “And spent much of it prematurely,” Aberdeen added.

  “This is great, man. Who's giving you the commission?”

  “I don't know yet. I should be finding that out later today—around four or so.”

  “I bet it's Forrester. Forrester's been buying a lot of shit lately, man. He apparently sold a Miro and a Mondrain a few months ago. He wants to update,” as he rolled his eyes, “his collection.”

  “I really have no idea who it is. David refused to mention who it is.”

  Tomas' spirit picked up as we ate. Aberdeen remained on a cloud, though he did begrudgingly agree when Tomas complained that the coffee was not up to snuff. Had he been in a less jovial mood, he would have probably brought it up first. The rest of the meal was neither terrific nor terrible; it lacked all forms of ostentation, as the menu refused to offer anything more exotic than what most American children find upon their breakfast tables any given Saturday morning—pancakes, eggs, potatoes, bacon, etc. Aberdeen left the waitress a large tip and flattered her in broken Spanish; she, in turn, blushed and smiled in a not non-seductive manner.

  We stepped out into a faint drizzle and fog that cloaked the view of Manhattan in an opaque gray, a barren panoramic more commonly associated with seasons of melancholy and lament. “It's a shame the sky isn't blue today,” Aberdeen said as he lit a cigarette. Tomas shook his head disparagingly.

  We were stopped on the corner of Eagle by a couple claiming to be Moxy and Früvous. They were dressed in loud colors and sharing one of those British umbrellas that can shelter an entire family, including distant relatives. The two of them were a lot older than I had assumed. Moxy was easily forty. She looked a bit like Eleanor Roosevelt, buckteeth and all. Früvous appeared to be around thirty-five. He was swarthy and bearded, and had placid eyes that were more serene than dull or unresponsive.

  After we introduced the two to Aberdeen, they immediately started in on the A-R-E festival we had attended the night before last. They assumed we were friends of Daphne, as I had spent such a long time talking with her. When I informed them that Patrick had brought the two of us in order to get information about Willis Faxo, who w
as supposed to lead us Mordecai Adelstein, with whom Faxo had lived, they became a bit uneasy.

  “What do you want with Mordy?”

  “You know him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I think he's Coprolalia.”

  Früvous laughed. “You think Mordy's Coprolalia?”

  “Yeah. But you know him?” The two nodded. “How?”

  “Through the A-R-E, of course. He was particularly close with Dick.” Früvous paused to scratch at his beard. “Didn't someone tell us,” as he turned to Früvous, “that he was in Bellevue. Not Mordy, of course, but…”

  “Andy Bates.”

  “Andy Bates. That's right.”

  “So Andy Bates isn't Coprolalia?”

  “No.”

  “Wait a second,” Tomas ordered. “Who's Dick?”

  “Keens, of course. You three must know him, right?”

  “I never met him, but I've certainly heard quite a bit about him over the course of the past few days. I didn't realize he and Mordecai were close.”

  “Well, actually Dick was close with Mr. Adelstein.”

  “How did they meet?”

  “They were both chess players. I'm guessing they met because Mr. Adelstein owned a little deli not too far away from Dick's place.”

  “Where?”

  “Where?”

  “Yeah, where was the deli?”

  “On Eighth Avenue. Do you remember where, honey?” Früvous asked.

  “For the life of me, I can't recall. We haven't spent much time down there since we moved into the neighborhood. Do you three live here?”

  “Yeah, we live down on Green Street.”

  “Don't you just love the neighborhood? We're renting a loft up on Box Street, and we couldn't be happier.”

  “How's the rent?”

  “Look, I don't want to be a dick here, but it would be a really big help if you told me the general vicinity of the store.”

  Früvous was unmoved by my petulance. “I know it's south of Ninth Street, north of Greenwood.” He fondled his beard for a moment. “Yeah, it's just a regular deli. You know, a convenient store. There's really nothing distinguishing about it.”