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 series 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.