“We have abolished all legitimacy: our economy is based on a confidence that can be decimated by the utterance of truth. Our physics is based on theories that can be justified by the addition of theoretical dimensions that are said to exist because they justify said theories. Our metaphysics is based on social constructions that are both subjective and objective, that become objective once the community unconsciously validates them. Our epistemology is digital, subject to neither matter nor spirit. High art is nepotism. Low art is deception, at best nothing more than a satire of itself.
“We can accept it. We, here, can deal with the lack of legitimacy. Most men, most women, cannot. And this lack of legitimacy bothers them. So they look for legitimacy, and they realize that it was not even available in the Modern Era. So even this, they reason, must be fully cast aside. Do you understand me? Do you understand that the reaction we are about to face, the reaction to our world — this world without the concrete and easily discernible constructs and structures of Positivism and its allies — does not embrace the institutions of the eighteenth century; they abandon even this, and they consign themselves to God, and to God alone. So we are not confronted with people who will battle our claims with empiricism. To them, any errancy in our theories confirms the inerrancy of the Bible. Yes, I know, it doesn't make any sense. But it's getting worse. One well-intentioned scientist proves that there's an inaccuracy in a putative belief, and the fanatics say it's proof in the infallibility of the Bible. We tell them that this is not the case; the two components of their proposition are not conditionally linked. What does this lead to? A character assassination campaign. And so we lose. We lose in the eyes of the public. They provide unsound premises to counteract our arguments, and people believe them. Because they sit and believe everything these men, these fat white men, tell them when it comes to the miracles of Jesus. You see. They are operating on faith as opposed to reason, and these pastors exploit it. Reason, critical thought, is suspended in order to accommodate the Gospel, but the pastors are not just giving them the Good News; they are filling them with right-wing ideology, conspiracy theories, schizophrenia, xenophobia. And the language is getting more violent, more reactionary, more Manichean, nationalistic, jingoistic. The Evangelicals are giving Paulist arguments for the sanction of torture and unilateralism. My friends, Rome has ceased to be Babylon: The Sermon on the Mount now comes from atop the Tarpeian Rock.
“This is the problem advanced during our generation, but, more importantly, it will become the primary problem of your generation,” he says as he looks to me. “You do understand that we've failed, right? We did not seek to usurp the generation prior to us, and for reasons I cannot fully understand we now face a backlash that for decades, if not centuries, has been waiting to materialize.
“You do understand that our greatest minds decided to embrace cynicism as opposed to action, and that we have now become the generation of self-pity; of bubble economies because we have neither the foresight nor the hindsight to understand the virtue of moderation; of art that says nothing because we know nothing; of politicians who demand more power but refuse to accept any responsibility. We are the generation that fails so completely so that you may succeed.”
“This is all on our shoulders?” I ask.
“Another generation such as ours will forfeit the world to superstition, demagoguery, chaos.”
“Patrick, you're just drunk,” Andreas says in a light German accent I had not previously noticed.
“Am I?” he asks himself. “Yes, I undoubtedly am. But what did Generation X do? It has sought nothing but personal gratification and petty rebellion. And what's left? What's left of our rebellion? Corpses and fucking Fundamentalists. The former are dead because they did not have the will power to control their addictions; the latter have returned to Christianity because they fear responsibility. They cannot deal with it. They blame society, they blame their parents, they blame everything that they fucking can, and only find what they are looking for, the one thing that they need, in Christ — the innocent lamb they believe themselves to be. They are always victims, underdogs. Rich, white men complaining that they are the victims! It's fucking preposterous. But it points to the deeper problem that I see everywhere in this country. The most sacred virtue of the new America — surrender, forfeiture. That is the great goal of our generation: retirement.”
“What about us?” Tomas asks.
“Maybe the two of you can change. Maybe the two of you are younger at heart than you appear.” He shakes his head. “But it's that one that I place my hope in.”
“Are you now going to ask Mr. Baggins to return the ring of power to the fires of Mordor?”
“Willis Bloody Faxo!” Patrick announces.
“Is this one of his tirades about our generation?” he asks Daphne. She nods. “Is this the beginning or am I catching the tail end of it?”
“You got here a bit late,” Daphne laughs as she pulls the bottle away from her lips. Patrick stands to go to the bathroom.
Faxo looks to me as he sits. “So how goes the search?”
“Well…I found him. That's why I'm celebrating tonight.”
Poot Moint (minus Daphne), Patrick and Faxo gasp.
“Oh my, I'd completely forgotten all of that. We never asked, did we?” Patrick begins. “What's he like? How did the interview go?”
“Is he completely bald yet?” Faxo laughs as he lights a cigarette.
“I wouldn't know,” I respond.
“Why not?”
Faxo takes a languid drag. Andreas notices something in the sky, ignores it, and then looks back to me. Patrick is dancing a bit. Aaron grins absently. Sam fidgets, probably because he, like Patrick, has to urinate. Lucas looks to Tomas. Tomas doesn't notice the look. Aberdeen, like Tomas, fixates his attention on me with an expression that could be called guilty. Daphne places the bottle on the table, one side at a time. I swallow with difficulty.
“He's dead.”
19.1
What began as a celebration became something of a belated funeral party, one filled with dirges, requiems, and threnodies — depending whom you asked. Faxo became quiet and pensive. Just about everyone else, however, simply became less boisterous and more reflective — not plagued by the end of a life, but grateful for the continuation of their own. Miss Barnabas politely ordered us inside shortly after Faxo's arrival.
We quickly came to dominate the bar, as there were only three or four others in there, including the bartender. Daphne eyed the piano for only a few minutes before the bartender told her that, while it looked as though it had been kept around either as decoration or to collect dust, it was actually in tune. She implored Daphne to play, and after only one refusal, Daphne launched the band into a version of “Goodbye Pork Pie Hat,” arranged for piano, two kazoos, wine bottle percussion, and cigarette break. Once Sam returned from his smoke, the band wrapped up the elegy.
The band was about to call it quits, but the bartender pressed them for another tune. As the five deliberated on the subject, Patrick began lecturing a lesbian couple sitting by the front window on the subject of Feuerbach's The Essence of Christianity. Tomas and Aberdeen, meanwhile, chatted with the bartender and her husband. Faxo sat next to me quietly taking down a double Jameson on ice.