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 those 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.