by Jay Fox
The article ended up being six pages long. It was initially nine. As I have said, or perhaps implied, I kept it as impersonal as I could, but certain incidents were detailed somewhat extensively in the first draft. For one, I spent a good deal of time recounting my interactions with Mr. Adelstein and Willis Faxo.
The first draft was well-received by Jeff, who ended up being the only proof reader. After going over it together on Saturday night, the two of us had a few beers and talked about all of the revisions that he recommended (among them, that I edit some of the passages that made Tomas look like an alcoholic and Aberdeen a pompous ass, abridge the conversation with Willis Faxo, and reduce the amount of time dedicated to my talk with Daphne to three sentences), women, and our youth.
I met up with Tomas and Aberdeen on Sunday night. I covered our meal at Wo Hop, that little basement place with its pictures of celebrities that no one remembers anymore all covered in more recent signatures and graffiti. We then went out to one of Tomas' favorite bars, a small, clandestine place on Canal Street. Nikki happened to be there with her new boyfriend, Doug. Tomas described him as a “fucking twat.” The three of us were initially pleasant, however, even if the guy was, indeed, a “fucking twat.” After asking my name with a flamboyant affectation, he inquired into what I did.
“Dig it, man; this guy does the fucking impossible, that's what he does.” Doug was intrigued. “He fucking found Coprolalia, man.”
“You found Coprolalia?”
“I did.”
“So who is he?”
“Mordecai Adelstein.”
“Mordecai whom?”
Whom? “Mordecai Adelstein. He grew up in Midwood, worked at a deli in Park Slope, and died a few months ago in a car accident.”
Doug shook his head. “I believe you're mistaken.”
Silence overtook our trio. Nikki sipped her cocktail through a red stirrer and possibly considered using a stronger moisturizer on her elbow.
“What makes you say that?”
“Professor Winchester just wrote about a new Coprolalia exhibit on his blog. You do know of him, right? Sean Winchester?”
“Yes.”
“Wait, what the fuck did Sean say?”
“There's a new exhibit. Professor Winchester is, like, really excited about it, too. It's a Latin adage.”
The fucking twat turned to Nikki. “What did it say again?”
“Like, death is everywhere, right?”
He sipped from his glass of wine and nodded thoughtfully. “That was it.” He then looked me in the eye. “I hope you haven’t put too much work into this little manhunt. As you can see, you’re quite mistaken—Coprolalia is alive and well. Perhaps you should consult an authority on the subject before you claim to have (sigh, roll of the eyes) accomplished the impossible.”
“There has to be a fucking mistake, man. This guy met Coprolalia's father, dig? He’s been to the motherfucker’s grave. He's been all over the city looking at this shit. He's spent fucking three weeks doing it. He's not fucking around, man; he knows what he's fucking talking about.”
“Yes, Doug, our friend here has good reason to believe that Coprolalia is dead.”
“Well, I guess three weeks is like way more time than Professor Winchester has dedicated to researching Coprolalia. How long is that again…a decade?”
“Look, Sean was only interested in the pieces; he didn't care about the bigger picture. I know him; I've been in contact with him for the past month. He didn't care about finding Mordecai or even understanding that Mordecai's real goal had more to do with context.”
“Sure. Well, before you begin to tell me about this real goal, why don't you start by telling me how a dead man writes something on the wall?”
“Is that a fucking riddle?”
“Shut up, Tomas.”
“So how did he do it? If he's dead, how did he do it? This is a mystery movie with Lindsay Lohan written all over it,” with a sly look to Nikki. She smiled without teeth and nodded along with a track off the most recent Wilco album. The bartender and a young couple at the end of the bar were convinced that the album was an instant classic.
“That's simple. I did it.”
“What?”
“You did it? I highly doubt that. Do you even know wh—”
“Et In Arcadia Ego. And, yes, I know where it appeared. I also know exactly what it means. I know why I wrote it, too, but I really don't see why I should have to explain it to anyone, especially you.”
“Pardon me,” Doug responded. “I didn't mean to offend you.”
“Nikki, your new boyfriend's a fucking twat.”
“Excuse me?” with shoulders perked.
Tomas knocked his shoulder into the sinewy barrier as he walked past, turned, and then said, “Don't act like didn't hear me. Go back to your fucking thesis, you goddamn cake-eater.” Before Doug could respond, Tomas added, “And don't try to play the part of the tough guy, you fucking candy ass; it doesn't fit you.”
The three of us went into the backyard. The fucking twat and Nikki did not follow.
So it was just the three of us again: Tomas with the hangover of success, Aberdeen intoxicated by it, and I awaiting its effects. The moments staggered on into the future—quick and clumsy—as we laughed and took down copious amounts of beer for the sake of having nothing better to do. Apartment lights came on, went off; sirens whined calamity and faded into the distance; lovers quarreled or cuddled while watching small televisions with uneven rabbit ears and grainy pictures, had sex or didn't, felt guilty for not being completely certain whether or not they were happy or felt total elation, rapture ecstatic and jubilant (escaping anchors and holds), because they had faith not only in love, but in the person there with them, too; pigeons dawdled from place to place; keys unlocked deadbolts, but did not open doors; silent peaceful lonely apartments became occupied or vacant; luxury condos echoed with the sounds of solitary footsteps, bathroom-going footsteps that were soft like misting rain on well-groomed grass or patient fingers on ivory keys. The past was receding from the present, and its indelible mark would remain like the rock-face behind a waterfall. We would always be subject to it—required not to live in that realm, as so many would like to do, but to accept it as a construct of necessities and antecedents and bastards of chance that were once just potentialities. And as we sat there, the three of us among the great rondure, reclined in uncomfortable chairs and safely harbored among vacant seats and the amorphous background of City and sky (an expanse that is a necessary lie, a composite of various pasts that come to form one heaven for us), it dawned on me not only that I was complacent, but that I felt this way without guilt. I could not remember the last time this happened. I could not remember a time without that profound sense of obligation that had birthed not only this project, but so many others—so many that had been entertained without an earnest desire for fruition, not because I wanted to fail, but because I felt I needed something by which I could define myself. Perhaps all young adults identify themselves by what they do as opposed to who they are.
Sometime around twelve, Patrick called me. I had not spoken to him since the first night I met him, and I was rather amazed when he showed up a few minutes later with Poot Moint in tow. Daphne appeared first, almost gingerly, with a bottle of wine in her hand. She was wearing an ensemble that would have been fitting on Annie Hall. Aberdeen quietly noted that she did indeed look like a young Faye Dunaway.
“I'd rather see a good band comprised of men before I go see a group of guys and one chick who can barely play her instrument. It's patronizing,” she says to Patrick, who appeared with a bottle of wine in his hand. He was dressed in an expertly tailored suit with a very thin tie, the type of fashion that brought to mind a late-sixties spy film.
“Such a practice became common in the nineties.”
“And the nineties produced the most bastardized version of feminism—just think of…(roll of the eyes)…girl power.”
“Interesting choice of wordi
ng, Ms. Karev. 'Bastardized'?”
“Well, Mr. Shaheen, it was Adam who gave names to everything, wasn't it? Doesn't that make the very language we use patriarchal? And, before you butt in, isn't language the chisel that shapes thought?”
“And yet your argument entails a knowable meta-language.”
“You know I'm right.”
“You know you just hate my conclusion, but can't find fault with the premises.”
The remaining members of the band, all dressed in red, corduroy three-pieces, then appeared. They, too, had bottles in their hands. With the exception of the drummer, who had a kazoo in his mouth, the band sang an a cappella rendition of Five Foot Two, Eyes of Blue.
The bartender approached soon after: “What the fuck is wrong with you people?”
“Plenty,” Patrick responded with an exaggerated smile (actually, on anyone else it would have been exaggerated; on him it was standard). She did not have a retort readily available. “We had a slight moment of jubilation, my dear; I promise it won't soon happen again.”
“It better not.”
“It won't.”
Caesura.
“Look, I don't want to be a bitch about all of this,” which was debatable, “But you have to keep it down.”
“My dear, you will not hear a peep out of us.”
“Okay, fine. If you guys aren't too loud, I'll keep the back open until one. That gives you a little more than half an hour.”
“Marvelous. You are as considerate as you are beautiful, a modern day Barnabas.” He paused. “And it is now his day, too,” as he looked to his watch. “We shall crown you Miss Barnabas.”
“Why?”
“Because of her good nature. She is no Sapphira. We all know what happened to her.” Silence. “She was smote for not relinquishing all of her property to the community. Come now,” with a bombastic flailing of the arm, “We all know that the early Christians were communists; it's right there in the New Testament, as well as in Josephus—who said the Jews were 'Communists to perfection', though I will quickly note that his assessment applies to the majority of Gnostics, the early Christians, and the Jews. Not to go too far off topic, but will someone please tell me how the right justifies—”
“Just keep it down, okay.”
“Indeed, Miss Barnabas. We will—”
“Patrick,” Daphne sighed. “Shut the fuck up.” She looked to the bartender. “You won't receive any complaints. I'll keep all of them on a short leash.” She looks to me. “Especially that one.”
The bartender disappears. “Come here, you. Come on,” Patrick begins. His arms are spread out wide; his head nods enthusiastically. “Get up, man!” I rise. He then wraps his arms around my ribcage and lifts me off the ground.
“Who are you?” Aberdeen asks.
“I am his Highness' dog at Kew; Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?”
“Patrick Shaheen?”
“I've been known to go by that name, too.”
The members of the band, with the exception of the drummer, all vaguely remember Tomas and me. Aaron, the man once the robot, shakes a finger at me to express recognition. “You. I remember you. You were at the party, you know, with the uh…the uh…” he snaps his fingers, “…the guys launching the oranges and the melons, and then Mongo with the big sword—”
“Katana.”
“—The katana, which ended up somehow in the toilet. You were talking with the French guy.”
The others nod and smile. Before they sit, however, they state their names and instruments to Aberdeen.
“Andreas Vanderhurst: Drums, percussion, jug, kazoo, vocals.”
“Lucas Filoramo: Bass, trumpet, baritone, tuba, sousaphone, kazoo, vocals.”
“Aaron Hirschfeld (a/k/a The Domesticon): Clarinet, oboe, saxophone, organ, violin, cello, kazoo, vocals.”
“Sam Washington: Guitar, mandolin, banjo, uke, harmonica, kazoo, vocals.”
“Daphne Karev: Piano, organ, vibraphone, xylophone, marimba, accordion, melodica, kazoo, vocals.”
“Patrick Shaheen: Thinker, nonconformist, ethicist, socialist, epic rhapsodist, philologist, sophist, idle theologian, soothsayer, poet.”
“Don't forget bullshitter,” Daphne laughs.
“That's the most important one, too! The fecundity of bullshit is nothing short of amazing, my friends.”
The small enclave is constructed entirely out of cinder-blocks—with the exception of a wood fence that parallels the back entrance to the bar—and dimly lit by small lights and candles and a Nite Brite that has been converted into a Virgin icon. Though I have never been to Paris, this “garden,” and perhaps the bar in its entirety, reminds me of the city (or maybe a Parisian-style café in Mexicali; or perhaps a Mexican-style café in Paris). It's narrow, filled with mesh iron tables and mesh iron chairs. The tables have been configured into an ellipse around which the nonet sits. We have in our possession eleven open bottles of wine and not a single glass (save for the three pint glasses Tomas, Aberdeen, and I had been drinking out of).
“So is this what a night off looks like?” Daphne asks. She lights a cigarette. “Sure as hell beats the graveyard shifts you've been working.”
“It's more of a celebration.”
“What?” She hands me a bottle of wine. I don't examine the label; I simply drink.
“I found Coprolalia.”
“So how does it feel?”
“It's kind of weird. I have to admit that I didn't think I was going to do it.”
“Was Willis helpful?”
“Yes and no. I really enjoyed meeting him, though.”
“He's coming tonight. That tenth seat should be reserved for him.”
“Really? What about Scooter? Is he still in town?”
She exhausts. “I totally forgot about him.” She examines the extraneous furniture. “He's got a seat if he shows.”
“So are the two of you on better terms now?”
“Now?”
“You referred to him as a misogynistic prick the last time I saw you.”
“That doesn't sound like me.”
“He's not a misogynist?”
“No, he's not a prick—at least I wouldn't call him a prick because I don't use the word 'prick' very often, and on the rare occasion that I do refer to someone as a prick I sincerely mean it. In fact, in the past five years I probably haven't used the word 'prick' more than I have just now.”
“Glad that's straightened out.”
“Well, the truth is that he and I weren't on any terms. We just kind of drifted apart. I have a very active lifestyle; he has a very sedentary one.”
The two of us continue to converse in symmetry: question, response, question, response, question, response, etc. Our interaction lacks the almost coquettish tone it had taken on when we last saw one another in Keens' study, with its redolence of old books and the memorabilia from decades now buried in dust, lived in black and white, encrusted with nostalgia and less innocent fabrication. We are now outdoors, the fresh air not fresh, but neither humid nor stagnant. It is cool, perhaps a bit milder than one would expect in the beginnings of mid-June. It's curious that you never feel as though you are outside in New York unless it is winter or the peak of summer. At this point, the night sky is a canopy of muddled purples and occasionally nacreous clouds; the moon is nowhere to be seen; the Evening Star has returned to the horizon. It is not a claustrophobic feeling. You just notice the absence of the heavens when you are here.
“A month ago I was celebrating. You know, I had just graduated. I was at some bar in Williamsburg—The Levee, if you know it,” nod, “planning to discover Coprolalia, worried that I never would, that I'd just end up with some dead-end job until giving up on the working world. I'd apply to grad schools and probably leave the city because of some opportunity. But, even then, even after the additional school, that doesn't guarantee anything. I'd still have to get a job—that, or else I could stay in academia. But, I don't know, it seems like I don't really want any
thing, but, at the same time, I know I can just kind of fit in anywhere, that I'm not necessary to any exact location. I know this sounds kind of juvenile, but ever since I've graduated I really feel that I can identify with the protagonist in the The Stranger or even Nausea. What's his name?”
“Mersault.”
“I know that. What's the protagonist's name in Nausea?”
“Antoine,” Patrick responds. He then turns back to Andreas. “As I was saying, it's like something out of Salvian…”
“Yeah, so I feel like them. And, again, I know it's kind of juvenile. I mean, everyone relates to Mersault when they read The Stranger in high school. But suddenly it's all become relevant again. I feel like I'm just going through the motions until I realize I'm going through the motions. And, I mean, I always understood the whole Kierkegaard thing, where you go through the motions and laugh at their idiocy because you're beyond them. I always got that. There was never a time in the past five years when I didn't feel that way. But I now feel this burden. It's like I want to return, but at the same time I want something new. It's like I'm both exile and explorer.” I take a sip from the bottle of wine. “I don't know if that makes any sense to you. Maybe I'm just rambling.”