“I don't know,” I respond. “I'm supposed to be looking for an artist,” I say as my eyes inevitably make their way towards her bounty of cleavage.
“Ya looking fa an artist in dis ear dump?” Charlie looks over to her. I look to Charlie. “No fence Charl, but I tink dis kid's got da jerkoffs at hang round ear confused wit DUMBO.” Her inept humor is endearing even to those she insults; it's never mordant enough to provoke much more than a thin shawl of derision or one of those grins that expands when doused in alcohol. “Seriously, dough, ya came ear lookin fa an artist?”
“A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary to measure kingdoms with his feeble steps,” I respond.
“Yo, Charlie, how many beers ya feed Hamlet ear?” It's no use; Charlie's attention is being courted by the pulsing of the crowd, its gregarious cacophony managing to even drown out the well-known Edwin Starr track rumbling out of the jukebox. A man in a red beret is dancing a derivation of the Charleston not known in most parts while various onlookers encourage him by clapping along with the rhythm of another song. Pepper looks to Charlie for a long time like an orphan gazing upon a suburban Christmas Morning, but Charlie's still captivated by the commotion overtaking the back of the bar. She finally concedes to futility as he starts mixing what looks to be a Manhattan for a man with a mustache stained hangover-piss brown. “Ah, faget you,” she says as she turns back to me. “So. Ya lookin fa dat Tourette's guy, I take it?”
“Tourette's?”
“Yeah,” she says with that you-think-I'm-stupid-or-something grin that, once again, may be flirtatious. “Hate to burst yer bubble, bud, but some a us round ear ain't as dumb as we look.” I look to her apologetically. “I'm just bustin yer chops, kid. 'F I weren't a nurse I wouldn't know coprolalia from aphasia,” she says with the same coy grin that guides her from one bar stool to the next.
“So you've heard of Coprolalia?” I ask with wide eyes. “That's so (caesura) great.”
“Yeah,” she explodes. “I heard a'im, but I don't know'm a'nuttin. What gotcha' tawking wit Midas.”
“I don't know.” I look down to the dregs of beer in my bottle before placing it back on the bar. “Exchanging life stories, I guess — his bad luck versus my waning expectations.”
“You're what? Twenty-six?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Twenty-two? Wow.” She pats me on the shoulder. “Buck up fella; you gotta few years left four you can bitch like dat.”
“I guess so.” I take down the rest of my beer. “Guess I'm better off than Midas, anyhow.”
“Psh,” she responds as she reaches for her glass of whiskey, “He'd blame da hangover he wakes up wit every mornin on his crummy luck 'f he thawt someone'd listen.” Her face contorts into a pincushion wince. “None a what I'm saying ear's any different den what I've said ta'm a thousand times over. He's a loser, kid. I known Margie since we's in junior high. Guess 'at makes me a friend a'is by proxy, huh?
“Yeah, but (largo) he's a pussy and she's a bawl-breaker. Reminds me of her parents' situation.” She takes down whatever is left in her glass and slams it back down on the bar with enough force to grab Charlie's attention. She then resumes, allegro: “Gen! I ain't sayin this cause I like sayin shit bout my friends, understand. I just want to inform you at Midas ain't some guy, oo's just down on his luck; he's a fuckin doormat and no'uns gonna give him a break 'f he don't wizen up and (staccato) take some-fuck-ing initiative. Ya know, Margie does ride him a lot — granted; but she's only doin it to get'm off his ass.” She reaches for the pack of cigarettes in her purse. “D'jew smoke?”
“When I drink.”
“Well, ya drinkin right now, huh; how's'about you accompany me out,” she says as a bit of saliva (perhaps a pebble) flies off her tongue and slaps me on the cheek.
“I don't see a problem with that.” I try to find my sea legs as I stumble into the man next to me. He smiles awkwardly.
It strikes me that Pepper's gestures aren't flirtatious; rather, she embodies the gaze of a guardian angel hired to make certain that the demons I've been ingesting don't get too out of hand, no matter how tenaciously they may fight for control. The Atlantic-Motown argument can be heard above Esther Phillips' “Release Me,” which seems to be serving as quite the soporific for the patrons still riled up from the previous song.
Many eyes (perhaps an odd number) follow us as we make our way from the bar to the front door on shifting floorboards that the regulars learned to navigate long ago. From behind, I would have guessed Pepper to be in her mid-twenties. Short, denim skirt; black, sleeveless V-neck blouse; pigtails of over-dyed hair — these are features that would have produced a shortage of blood in the head had it not been for the steady hours of drinking. She wears three-inch heels on her open-toed shoes, which reveal freshly applied fuchsia polish, as well as freakishly elongated toes. Her belt circumnavigates no less than two feet of waist, and her hips and ass still appear to be awaiting puberty. On her right bicep is a tattoo of something that holds far too esoteric a significance to go into, she tells me as we stand outside in the sultry night, her cigarettes tasting of bargain and sawdust. She takes down two before I can finish the first.
Pepper breaks down Midas' life into seven phases, and explains that he has the tendency to regress into denial when drunk. “Problem, course, is he's always fuckin drunk,” she adds as Debbie comes back and asks for a cigarette.
“Youse talking bout Midas?” she asks.
“Who else?”
“Jesus, he's a real shit show tonight. What'd ya do to'm, kind?”
“He just kept drinking. I wasn't encouraging him. We just started talking and Charlie just kept giving us beer and now it's ten.”
“Dahling,” Pepper says as her hand makes for my shoulder, “'s almost one.”
“Really?” I ask with a smile. She nods sedately and quickly removes her hand to check her watch. It's actually one-fifteen. “Well,” I respond, “He was upset because he lost his shoe and his job.”
“'At sounds like a load,” Pepper scoffs. “Shit, whateva dat guy don't have'n confidence he sure as shit makes up in nerve.” She turns to Debbie. “What'd Margie say when ya brought his drunk ass home?”
“No idea; s'not like I was gonna wait around and see. Fer'all I know he's passed out in the stairwell.”
My phone rings. The two look to me, shrug, and then go back to talking about Midas. It's Tomas. By the urgency in his voice, it's implied that there are a few coke peddlers at whatever bar he's set up shop, but the actual words themselves are indecipherable until he kicks open the door and escapes outside. The sound of traffic compromises a few syllables here and there, but the blanks are filled in without recourse to repetition. After a few platitudes and what seems to be a desire to hold out information, he finally reveals the purpose of the call.
“It's a fucking haiku, man!” ecstatic. I can almost picture his stout body swooning like a question mark as he begins to contemplate the possibility of a Zen influence in the new piece — certainly an anomaly, if not a reason for skepticism. “I'm sure it's a Coprolalia, man,” he reassures me. “You need to fucking come and see it, dig? I've been calling you for, like, two hours. Where the fuck are you?”
“I'm still in Red Hook…I think.” The two women walk inside. The street is suddenly devoid of all life. The steady flow of B.Q.E. traffic resonates through the air like the sound of choppy surf. “Carroll Gardens or Red Hook.”