by Jay Fox
“Would it be in Park Slope or Windsor Terrace?”
“I never could distinguish the two. Do you know, honey?”
“No,” she said with a shake of the head. She then smiled. “I'm still just shocked about all of this. Our little Mordy is Coprolalia. Who could have known? He was always so polite and quiet. Such a genuinely nice person.” She turned to Früvous. “And to think he never mentioned any of this to us. It's so unbelievable.”
“I guess he was always a bit secretive.”
“Well, secretive is such a negative way to put it.”
“I didn't mean for it to be negative. He was just always more of a listener. You never could tell what he was thinking.”
“Why would Dick Keens go that far south?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Didn't he live on Garfield…or at least close by Garfield?”
The two looked to one another. “It's not a particularly long walk,” Moxy finally responded. “Dick made it a point to know everyone in the neighborhood.”
“Do you know if Mordecai still works at the store?”
Shrug. “I have no idea. As I said, we haven't been down there in quite some time. I would be very surprised if he didn't any longer, though. He really enjoyed it.”
“What about his father?”
“His father?”
“Yes, do you think his father still owns the store?”
“Yes. Unless he retired.”
“Or relocated.”
“Or got bought out.”
“Well,” I said to Tomas, “It looks like I have something to do today after all.” He tried to smile.
Moxy asked about Boots as I stood there feeling truly sanguine. Gone was the negativity, the cynicism. I figured there couldn't be more than fifteen delis on that stretch of Eighth Avenue, that it would probably only take two hours to find and call all of them. I would just have to ask the name of the owner at each place. The only difficulty would be getting Mr. Adelstein's address.
“She's a bit odd,” Tomas responded, concerning Boots.
Moxy and Früvous laughed quietly. “Odd?” Früvous began with a grin; “Yes, that is one way of putting it.”
The five of us were now standing in a solid rain. Aberdeen's coat smelled like wet dog. Tomas, on the other hand, looked worse than he smelled. His complexion was a pallid gray. I'm sure I was a delight to neither sense, but I wore an indelible grin regardless. Everything was in the process of working out. I was going to find Coprolalia today. Perhaps tomorrow. In fact, it didn't matter. Even if it took two weeks, it didn't matter. The deadline was arbitrary to begin with. Now it was completely irrational, too. I was close. I knew it. I was going to interview him, perhaps over a round of beers. I could tell him all of the stories I had accumulated over the course of the previous weeks. I could ask him about his involvement with the A-R-E, maybe even advance my understanding of the group. Maybe Vinati would come meet us. And then it would be the three of us. We'd talk late into the evening about everything: art, love, the human condition, baseball…it didn't matter. And then I'd publish the interview. I'd have the money to live without restraints. I could get a great job writing for a great magazine. Maybe Harper's would commission me to write something for them. And then I could afford a place in the City. I could live there, maybe even with Vinati.
“What is so odd about her?” Aberdeen asked.
“She explained the boots to you, correct?”
Tomas nodded sheepishly.
The couple soon took their leave. They were on their way back home after brunch in Williamsburg. I left Aberdeen and Tomas at the corner where I first met them, caught the southbound B43, and then transferred to the train down by Woodhull. On my way back home, I kept going back to the tirade from last night. I can still see Tomas trying to defend himself in the tub, his mouth contorted, his body plagued by tremors and the glean of cold sweat. The image is all the more lucid because of the stinging brightness of the lights surrounding the mirror. Actually, all of my senses were made a bit keener by the environment in that bathroom, much to my chagrin. I don't think I'll be able to eat any tomato-based sauce for a couple of days, as Tomas had had pizza prior to going to see the Sheeps. Perhaps it's the company I keep, but it seems as though most of the barf I have encountered in my life is just like me—half Italian.
Everything I believed last night was just paranoia. I recognize that now. I guess I've always had something of an attraction to conspiracy theories, though I've never been blind to the fact that most believers regard the absence of evidence as a veritable piece of evidence. Perhaps I was just upset about Vinati. That would make sense. I overreacted. Her phone has gone straight to voice-mail since the last time I spoke with her. Maybe she stayed at her parents' place last night after work. Getting from Park Slope to Williamsburg is a serious pain in the ass unless it's during rush hour—when the M is running south of Broad Street. And it's not like she's going to have a charger with her. And her parents probably have different phones than her. And it's not like she just remembers my number off the top of her head. So her phone died; she stayed with her parents because she was tired; she'll call me once she gets back to her apartment to apologize and make new plans. Done deal.
Jeff is at work, so the apartment is once again my own. I look around the walls, the maps of the city filled with pins and tacks. I have been to all of the places that those instruments represent, but it is not until I approach the map that the memories come into focus, that these mental cartes de visite become clear and animated. Some memories are easy to recollect; others are quick, disjointed, and susceptible to error.
It's still raining and the wind has picked up. The open window by which I find myself allows the sounds to wash through the apartment—a calming hiss interrupted by a few, abject questions that all begin with either “Yo'” or “Bapi” and remain unanswered. I look down to cement littered with dried-gum ocelli, to parked cars from either the previous decade or the early years of this one. The air in my room chokes in the thick smoke of several cigarettes, courtesy of a pack I picked up at the nearby bodega.
The first thing I did upon returning home was check my email. It's become something of a habit—and a disappointing one at that. Besides the chain letters from my relatives, the preponderance of the messages are solicitors offering up a myriad of beautification drugs, dick pills, and “barely legal” porn. Just what makes it “barely legal” is something I don't really want to discover. Most of these sites probably aren't operated by a company based within the United States, which leaves only the truly gruesome on the table: acts that are “barely legal,” not because they embrace all of those taboo words that end in -phile, but because most of the acts caught on film flirt with various -cides.
I was hoping for something less impersonal when I turned on my laptop. I was anticipating something from Patrick or someone else who happened to have some information concerning Coprolalia, but my guess is that the Craigslist post is now on the fourth or fifth page of the classifieds. It's as good as forgotten. And yet I don't see the need to repost it. I'll simply end up with more speculations about Andy Bates. (I haven't mentioned those, have I? Apologies. I'm still learning that narrating is a lot like weeding: after congratulating yourself for finishing one region, you turn to find that there are still a few stragglers imploring your attention. Regardless, there have been about thirty Bates apologists, including Pepper and Debbie, who addressed me as “Quiet Riot.”)
The search for Mr. Adelstein's store didn't take long. By following Eighth Avenue from Ninth Street to the cemetery on Google Map, I found nine delis. Within about fifteen minutes, I managed to call five of them. This fifth one was owned by a Mr. Adelstein. Predictably, the employee with whom I spoke, Miguel, could not provide Mr. Adelstein's first name or his home address. This was not a reluctance to disclose information. He was friendly and more than willing to cooperate; he simply didn't know any personal details about his employer. Mordecai, however, was a subject that evoked a ser
ies of evasive answers and at least one protracted “uhhhhh….” I hung up well after the interaction had become awkward.
My optimism is fighting for its survival. The rain continues to come down, which casts the apartment in a languid and oppressive gray, an almost sinister and ominous portent to what may ultimately be yet another failure. I know that I am now closer to finding Coprolalia than I was only a few hours ago, yet it feels as though I've removed a speed bump in order to have a clear shot at a wall. I take a drag from the cigarette, watch the wind charm the serpentine smoke rising from its cherry. I'm completely out of ideas.
The best thing to do is the simplest: Just go stand outside of the deli; wait there for either Isaac or Mordecai to come in. Even if they don't, there has to be someone who knows one of them. After all, there are always those few people who chat with the employees for at least six or seven hours a day; one of them would have to know where either Mordecai or Isaac lives.
This is something I can do tomorrow. Look at it out there. It's pouring. I really don't feel like standing in the rain. But how else can I find him? What about public records? What's a public record? What about deeds? Is there a way to look at those over the Internet? What if he rents? Well, he may have a lease for the store, but he probably owns his own home. Wait. What about the guy from the Ribs. Didn't he say he made copies of court cases?
The floodgates suddenly open once I hear the voice of Willis Faxo in my head: He wouldn't shut up about this lawsuit against his dad's store. Apparently, it was a slip and fall accident. The plaintiff and her husband were demanding something absurd…something like three million dollars. Would this suit be public record? Would it be filed in the court? Is there a record room or something? There has to be. That's what Rob does for a living. Maybe Isaac Adelstein's address will be in the file. They have to serve papers to him, right? Yes, they do. His address will be in there. It has to be.
18
The rain has subsided, but the sky is still the gray of cigarette ash. As the train begins its ascent into the landscape, I am welcomed to a neighborhood that is oddly reminiscent of Queens (perhaps it's not all that odd, as the two are parts of a greater whole—i.e. Long Island). Small, brick buildings flash by like frames painted on cellophane, the denizens of these structures hidden behind near-obsidian windows thick with generations of soot and dust. The train becomes saturated in the stunted light, in its shady optimism, and the faces of my fellow travelers begin to transform like Monet models.
I was amazed by the ease with which I retrieved the case file that contained all the information of the action against Mr. Adelstein. A man who sounded like Tone Lōc brought it to me. The case caption was:
Shannon Mason and Jeffrey Mason,
Plaintiffs,
V.
Isaac Adelstein, et al.,
Defendants
There was only a summons, a complaint, two affidavits, and a stipulation of discontinuance. On the summons, as well as one of the affidavits, was the address of Isaac Adelstein.
I look down to the copy of the summons in my hand. At the time of the purchase date, he lived three blocks away from the Avenue M stop on the Q—so much for Willis Faxo's complaint about Brooklyn natives' bizarre conception of space and time.
On the way there all of the various scenarios begin to play in my head. There's the one where Mr. Adelstein castigates me (“Do you know how many people have come here searching for that stupid artist? My son is not Coprolalia! Now get the fuck out of here before I call the police!”), and slams the door in my face. There's the one in which Mordecai's mother answers the door, and then does pretty much the same thing. There are other ones, too—positive ones. Mr. or Mrs. Adelstein could invite me inside to provide some background information on their son. One of them shows me Mordecai's old room, tells me about him, and then gives me his number. There's the one where Mordecai answers the door. There's also the one where someone named Jones or Goldstein or whatever opens the door, and then proceeds to inform me that the Adelsteins moved to Florida some time ago. Possibilities are limitless when one refuses to seek answers in earnest. Perhaps this is why I can conjure up so many.
I begin to walk up to the door, but feel guilty for smelling like smoke. I take another lap around the block (my seventh). I look at the clock upon my return. It's just half past five. Maybe no one's home. Maybe I should wait.
And yet I know this isn't the time for hesitation. This is it. This is either the last place I will have to go, the last place I will have to ask for information, or simply the end of this thread. I'm at the door, the chime of the bell fading as footsteps crescendo. A thin, older man opens the door. He has taupe-gray hair, thick brows, and crystalline eyes that are a glacial shade of blue. Stubble shadows his cheeks and neck. His nose has outgrown his face, but his ears are still relatively proportional to the rest of his head. He looks to me with his head slightly cocked. Debussy's “Clair de Lune” plays quietly in the house.
“Are you Isaac Adelstein?” I ask after a few moments of awkwardness.
“Yes.” He smiles curiously. “May I help you, son?”
“I-I'm here to see your son.”
“My son.”
“Yes, your son.” He is awaiting clarification. “Your son…Mordecai.”
“Mordecai,” he responds plainly. There is a certain patience in his voice, that slow determination that one has come to expect from older European men of the Greatest Generation—at least from those still lucid. “Come in, come in,” he says in a suddenly emphatic tone. The door opens wide.
I enter into his den, a warm space with abundant light. A piece in the style of Pollack catches my attention, as does a bookshelf that comprises an entire wall. The former is above the mantel; the latter is opposite the windows that look onto the street. He directs me to a chair as he walks to a desk that contains a lamp, an open book, and a legal pad. “You were a friend of his?” he asks as he closes the book and turns off the lamp. “You seem a bit young,” he adds.
“No, I've never met him,” I respond. “I would like to. That's what this is all about.”
He nods. I cannot see his expression because he begins looking through a vinyl collection that sits in a hollowed-out credenza adjacent to the bookshelf. “And by whom have you been sent?” he asks.
“No one. I'm here because I believe your son to be a famous artist.”
He laughs quietly as he pulls an album from the collection. “So you have come in search of Coprolalia, I presume.”
I return the quiet laugh. “Well…yes. I take it I'm not the first.”
“You're the first one to come to me.” I want to respond with something, but he begins anew before I have the opportunity with, “Sit down, please….” He turns to me with a raised brow. “My, you are a quiet one. Have you ever considered becoming an assassin? Perhaps a samurai?” He smiles again. He then pulls the needle before the last notes of the piece are played, removes the record from the turntable, places it into its jacket, and then reinserts the album back into the collection. “This is…this is never easy to say,” as he cuts the power of the player. He stares to the turntable as it loses speed: “I've grappled with it for nearly two months now.” He then turns, slowly, and begins in my direction. He sits upon a small sofa opposite me. A coffee table separates us. “Mordecai passed in April,” he says stoically. “He died in a car accident.”
The moment is suspended like a photographed gymnast. She strikes the trampoline, it recoils, and then shoots her into the air. In the photograph she remains meters above the trampoline, above the mats that have been carefully placed in strategic locations should the worst happen. She is the focal point, both of the photographer and the spectators (themselves just blurs and amorphous components of the necessarily amorphous crowd). It is irrelevant whether she is ascending, descending, at the apex of her parabola. It doesn't matter because we all assume that she will once again come back to the Earth.
“I'm so….”
He only raises his ha
nd.
“I-I'm sorry I intruded, sir; I….” as I stand. “Really…I should be…I should be going. I didn't mean—I didn't mean to intrude like this.”
“You're not intruding. I invited you into this house,” he responds patiently. “Please. Sit back down.”
“How did it,” as I fall into the chair with a resounding fufseef.
“He was waiting for a light,” slowly. He is looking to the table with his fist on his chin, his elbow on the arm of the sofa. He has clearly gone over this countless times. “It was late. He was always coming back late. If you're familiar with his artwork and where it appeared, then I assume you know this much.” He pauses. “He was waiting for the light at the corner of Union and Broadway. A drunk driver rear-ended him. The force of the impact pushed his car into the intersection.” He licks the undersides of his lips, bites his lower lip, and then sighs. “He was pronounced D.O.A. at the hospital, so I know he did not suffer. I am grateful for this much.”
“Grateful? How—” I take a deep breath. “Again, I'm sorry to hear about your loss.”
“Would you like anything?” he asks. “I recently put a pot of coffee on.”
“Coffee? You just told me that your son died,” in a sheepish rage. “And now you're offering me coffee?”
He nods patiently and looks to me with what feels like pity. “One can not stay forever in mourning,” as stoic as Seneca. I suddenly understand the metaphors that are conveyed by Superman's powerful eyes. “I have no reservations about expressing my emotions, and I have worked to do so as constructively as I can. But I do not see any purpose in lamenting events that I cannot alter. Am I in pain? Of course. What kind of man would not be devastated?” His tone becomes less aggressive: “But I do not let the pain, the grief, the rage, consume me.” He looks to the floor. He remains in this position for some time. “Am I to seek vengeance due to the fate of my son?”
“…”