“But the problem was that the decree, which allowed Haman and all his buddies to kill the Jews, could not be revoked.”
“Why not?”
“I don't know, dude; I guess the king couldn't go back on his word. He couldn't…what's the fucking word. You know, like go back?'
“Renege?”
“It’s like that…but different.”
“Contradict?”
“Yeah; the king couldn't contradict himself. Anyway, so the king allows Mordecai to write his own decree, which says that the Jews can rise up in self-defense, and kill whoever they want. In the provinces, they were allowed twenty-four hours to slaughter all of their enemies. In Susa, the capital, they were allowed forty-eight.”
“So the Jews kill all of their enemies.”
“Yup. And that's what Purim is all about. Now, the cookies, the hamatashen, are eaten because, apparently, Haman wore a tri-cornered hat.”
“That's a pretty fucked up holiday,” Tomas says as he takes the first sip of his fresh beer.
“I know dude, right!” she says as she slaps Tomas' arm. “But I like it because it's one of the only times in the Bible where God doesn't really do anything. You know, He doesn't need to because the Jews can handle themselves.”
“I guess this was a few years before bulldozers and refugee camps,” Tomas mutters.
Luckily, she ignores or doesn't hear the comment. “So that's where the name Mordecai comes from,” I conclude.
“Yup.”
“So why does your friend think this Mordecai person is Coprolalia?”
“Apparently this Mordecai dude was reading an article on Coprolalia one night. He just kept saying that the guy who wrote it didn't know his ass from a hole in the ground. He — Mordecai — kept pointing out things in the artwork that you wouldn't know just by looking at it. He knew way too much. So my friend figured, maybe this dude actually is Coprolalia.”
“Do you know if the article of which he was derisive was written by Sean Westchester?” I ask.
“Of which he was derisive? Couldn't tell you,” she responds with a shrug and a look to Tomas. Tomas chuckles. “Detroit Rock City” is suddenly audible. She pulls her phone out of her pocket, studies it, and then looks back to me. “I have to take this. I'll be right back.”
Her beer is placed next to mine. She disappears.
“So Mordecai, huh?” Tomas laughs. “Should we call her Esther?”
7
Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday: Nothing.
8
The bathroom walls have already been painted over in Miami aqua. I am also again reminded that no woman will fuck you if you smell (unless, of course, it's the second or third or (who knows?) fourth time for the night). When I call Sean to break the news that his most recent prospect in Red Hook has been lost he is all profanity and groans; there's no conciliatory prize I can offer him besides a joke about the possibility of there being fuchsia trim in the bathroom's near future. For a moment I believe the line has been disconnected.
“Weren't you supposed to come down here a few days ago?” I ask as I step out of the washroom. Otis Redding sings of the glory of love.
“I got sidetracked,” he laments. “I visited the courts in both Manhattan and Brooklyn yesterday. The day before that I ended up at Shea Stadium—”
“For the shutout?”
Caesura. “Sure.”
“But Bonds didn't do shit. Ain't hit shit since Sunday.”
“Seven forty-six, right?”
“Seven forty-fuckin'-six. And if he hits that magic number…if he does it, he'll defile the dignity of da' fuckin' game. 's a fuckin' travesty.”
“Who's that?” Sean asks.
“The bartender.”
“Name's Charlie.”
“Charlie the bartender.”
“Charlie the bartender.” He sighs. “Anyway, I didn't find anything there. Terrible leads, really. I don't know why I even bothered going all the way out there.”
I order a pint after hanging up with him and quickly start up a conversation with the unoccupied and loquacious Charlie, a pock-marked man of fifty-something, who sports a Yankees cap, a faded blue shirt, and a pair of shorts that are held up by frequent tugs from his calloused hands. It's not quite five, and the sun comes through the front windows in delicate beams of illuminated dust. Besides me and the bartender, there are six other people in the bar: a sullen man at the next stool who is missing a shoe, a young couple playing pool, and three men in front of the jukebox debating which record label had a greater impact on American music, Motown or Atlantic. William DeVaughn begins to urge the few of us in here to be thankful for what we got.
Charlie lets out a reluctant laugh when I ask him about the recent paint job. “My wife picked da' culla out.” The half-shod man makes a whipping noise, which provokes “Shut the fuck up, Midas,” as rebuke.
“No, I mean why did you repaint the bathroom? The most recent Coprolalia may have been in there?”
“'Da fuck is 'at?”
“It's a who, actually. Coprolalia is an artist,” I add. He squints. “The bathroom wall is like his canvas.”
“Some guy used my shitta' as his canvas?”
“No, he uses any bar's bathroom as his canvas.”
“Sounds like a fucking vandal to me, Charlie,” the man with the one shoe says.
“Oh yeah,” Charlie says with that Staten Island accent that turns the monosyllabic yeə into the polysyllabic yē´ä. “I read something about him in the-uh…in the-uh…in Da (uh) Post.” He shrugs. “Well, s'not like 'at was the only thing in there, you understand. Now I ain't the owner a' the Ritz by any means, but I got a solid establishment ear, not to mention a reputation to uphold, ya' get me, kid?” he adds with a less than amiable tone. “Now, look, I ain't got no problem 'f this guy want to come back, ya know…uh, do some type a' mural or some shit, but I tink it a bit fuckin' rude fa' some fuckin' asshole to just waltz on in ear, and draw some stupid shit on my fuckin' wall like it's his motherfuckin'…you know,” slowly, “like it’s his fucking his prerogative. Who da' fuck he tink he is, anyway?” he asks to no one in particular one octave up.
“He's just some dope from the City, Charlie.” Shoeless Midas speaks from the bottle. “Besides, it ain't like this kid scribbled anything on your wall. Lay off of him.”
“Shut the fuck up, Midas,” he says with facetious cruelty. Apparently, this is something of a refrain. “I ain't talking to you,” he adds. Charlie looks back to me with a smile. Midas continues to macerate his liver with cheap beer. “Look: I don't mean to be short or nothing,” slowly, “but I know how this shit goes. I been here since before you was born. And I know this: once some douche-bag writes something on the wall, it's like an open invitation to every other jackass in town. I just try to stop it before it gets outta' hand, ya' get me, kid?” He smiles and turns back to Midas. “Hey, Midas, what's da' name a'dat one place in the City where we went fa' Mardy's fortieth?”
“I don't know, Charlie,” he responds. “You talking about that place on Saint Marx?”
“No, s'on First, remember?”
“But close to Saint Marx, right?”
“You're right. It was like a block away.” Midas doesn't respond. He's not contemplative, nor is he engaged by someone or something else. He has merely resigned from the conversation because he is a breathing shadow, an irrelevant detail in someone else's dream. Charlie eventually shrugs. “Irregardless,” he turns to me, “It was a fuckin' disaster.”