How does one respond to that?
“As I was saying,” he resumes, “I was dating this girl a while back. Everyone told me that she was crazy, that she was going to hurt me, that she had an eating disorder. But I refused to believe them. You know, she was such a great fucking person. She was smart, she was witty, she was cultured. And let's not forget that she was fucking gorgeous, too.” He looks from side to side. “And, between you and I, this broad knew how to fuck, dig? I mean she was fucking dirty as shit when it really came down to it. She'd slap me around, I'd pull her hair and shit; she'd scream, and I'd just go to fucking town on that shit. Man,” he exhausts, “probably the best lay of my fucking life.”
“That's…that's…wow.”
“Fucking tell me about it, man. But, you know, it didn't make sense — the whole bulimia thing. How could someone like that (caesura) succumb to such a thing as an eating disorder — which, if you ask me is more of a symptom of a personality disorder than a fucking disease in and of itself, but, hey, what the fuck do I know. This goes for alcoholics, too.” He takes another drink. “Either fucking way, it wasn't until I had to take her to the hospital one night that it all came out.” He pauses as though awaiting a rim-shot. “Okay — bad choice of words; but you know what I'm getting at, right?
“When you're close to someone, you look past their flaws; you create an image, a mental image, of that person. It's like a mirage, dig; it doesn't really exist — it only exists for you. It's how James is with fucking D-Bag Buddy over there,” his head motioning in the direction of their table. “James went over to Scotland for a year during high school — you know, as like an…an….”
“Exchange student?”
“Yeah, as an exchange student. And he fell in love with the fucking country and his (caesura) surrogate — if that's the right word — family. He became incredibly close with Buddy, who was something like the older brother he never had. I humor him, of course, but I only do it because we rarely see that rancid asshole. He's in fucking denial — like some fifteen-year-old (fingers in quotations) virgin complaining about the warts on her snatch, who…”
“What?”
“…Has managed to block out the memory of that one time mom's new boyfriend stumbled into her room all drunk with his pants around his ankles.”
“…”
“Look, the point is: If the guy actually lived in New York, I'd have to tell James how I felt. But, you know, because I only have to see him once or twice a year I keep my mouth shut.”
“Where does he live?”
“Fucking Boston,” as he brings his pint to his mouth. “Fucking Boston,” as it comes away. “If you want to talk about cities with inferiority complexes…”
“Yeah, I'm not particularly fond of that city, either.”
“You have a way better reason for hating it than I do,” he says. I don't know what he's referring to. “I mean my real problems with that shithole are, I guess, somewhat superficiaclass="underline" the guys are these unhappy trolls, the women are as pudgy and as fucking busted as British chicks, the trains shut down too early, the bars shut down too early, there's nowhere to eat after ten unless you want bar food, it's cold, it's dreary, it's too white unless you're by Harvard; the coffee sucks, the pizza sucks, the Red Sox…”
“Fuck the Sox,” the man next to us exclaims.
“Right on, brother!” Tomas yells.
“Where was I?”
“About Boston?”
He shakes his head. “No. Oh yeah, going back to what I was saying — things get complicated when you're too close. It's so problematic that just about every system of ethics refuses to deal with it.”
I have no idea what he's referring to, but I nod obediently. “What happened to the girl?” I ask.
Tomas becomes slightly morose. “I really tried to work it out with her, dig? Honestly, I–I did. And I felt like complete shit when I had to call it quits. I mean, I really felt guilty. A-and I knew that it would only make things worse for her, but, you know, I didn't sign up for that shit. I was in it to be her boyfriend — in the end, it felt like I was her fucking therapist.”
He lifts up his beer. Before he drinks, he says, “And I have no idea what happened to her. We broke up right after college. I think she moved back to Washington with her parents. We haven't spoken since.”
“Dude! Well, if it isn't Mike the Mechanic and Whoseville,” from behind. I turn around to see the woman from the last time I was in this bar. “What are you doing back up here? I thought those stories Vanessa told you guys would keep you out of Greenpoint for at least a few months.”
“I live here.”
“Vanessa?”
“And why is she calling you Whoseville?”
“You know, my friend.”
“Is this 'King of Carrot Flowers'?”
“The dominatrix?”
“Oh my God, I haven't heard this album in years.”
“Oh, you probably know her by her copro- thing…pseudonym.”
“Coprogenic Coprophile.”
“Yeah, that one.”
“I used to listen to this album all the fucking time.”
“Her real name is Vanessa?”
“Yeah,” she says. I don't remember the woman's name. She clearly doesn't remember ours, either (at least our real ones). Still, she's friendly and not passively so. Her gregarious nature is not something that she cooks up for the sake of occupying time while a friend is in the bathroom. She's genuinely pleased to see the two of us. “Where's the third stooge?”
“He's talking with his friend, Buddy.”
We point. She nods.
“I have a question.”
“What's that?”
“After meeting with Vanessa I got to thinking: What kind of dominatrix gets off on shit? Right? I mean, I could understand it if she liked shitting on people, but her name….”
“She's just really into poo.”
“Into poo?”
“Yeah — into poo. We don’t talk about it. It's narsty.” Narsty? “Fucking grosses me out.”
“Does she have a preference — creamy, chunky….”
“She's just into poo, dude. That's all I know. That's all I want to know.”
We're all quiet a moment.
“Well, I've got some good news for you, Whoseville.”
“Really?”
“Yup. I talked to a few friends of mine — you know, people real in-the-know when it comes to the art scene — and they got me some information about that dude you're looking for.”
“Really?”
“See, I knew you'd be happy to see me again. I told my friend, 'Holy shit, this dude's just totally gonna flip when I tell him'.”
“Yeah…wow…I mean, thanks for looking out for me.”
“You're a nice kid, and I could see you needed some help; so I talked to these friends of mine, and they told me that your guy used to live around here…in Greenpoint.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, like a few blocks down from here. My girlfriend, Marta, told me that he used to hang out in Van Gogh's all the time back when it was called…um, whatever it was called.” She looks to the ceiling. “Ah, dude! I'm not going to remember. Anyway,” with a sweeping hand motion, “I don't know if she's one hundred percent sure about all of this, but it's not like she has a reason to bullshit me.”