“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.