Most forgot about the offer after a couple of months, though, according to Sean, the publication still gets about ten or twenty of these manuscripts a year. Sean has said that the majority of the entries are either confessionals or pseudo-confessionals in which the interviewer turns out to be interviewing his alter ego, who is (big surprise) Coprolalia. “It was far more common when the contest…well, it's not really a contest, but you know what I mean. It was really common back when the offer was first made — probably due to the popularity of Fight Club,” he explained. “Of course, now the whole idea has become so overdone that it's too banal even for Hollywood; but people still try to pull it off. Regardless, it's one of those tricks that needs to be put to bed.”
The magazine doesn't publicize the offer any longer, though Sean has assured me that the editor is still accepting submissions. I had never heard anything about it until the early May of 2007. I had just turned in my final paper to Professor Winchester.
“So what do you have planned now,” he asked after I handed him the thirty page paper that already seems too esoteric and silly to even bother describing. “You're graduating with a major in Art History—”
“—And English,” I responded. “And I'm not an Art History major; this class was for my History minor.”
He nodded. “So you intend to go to grad school, I take it?” he asked as he turned to look out onto Washington Square Park.
“It certainly seems to be the route I'm on,” I responded. “Of course, I want to take a year off in order to get some real-world experience.”
“Any jobs lined up?” he asked as he began to sort through some papers on his desk — a disorganized mosaic of, perhaps a testament to, his general disinterest in teaching.
“No. I've been on a few interviews, but so far nothing has worked out.”
“Well,” he turned to me, “You should enjoy the time you have between school and the working world. During that period — I took a year off from school, as well — I did a lot of reflection on the direction in which I wanted my life to go. I ended up back in Seattle, my hometown, and took up a paralegal job. A year later I moved out here for school. I haven't looked back since.”
“Well, I don't think I want to take up a paralegal job. I don't really know what I want to do.”
“Well, you could always take up the search for Coprolalia,” he responded sarcastically.
I had heard the name more than a couple of times, seen a few pieces, and even caught wind of the artist's reclusive nature, but that was about it. When I asked Sean what he meant by the remark, I was amazed to find out about the reward awaiting anyone capable of producing a bona fide interview with the artist. We talked about it for some time. By the end of the conversation, I decided that this pursuit was something that I had to undertake.
It wasn't just the money. One hundred thousand dollars would obviously be enough for me to live on for quite some time, on the condition that I keep with my thrifty lifestyle. However, this was not the real end. If I proved capable of finding and interviewing Coprolalia, this would guarantee a reputation, an ability to publish freelance in virtually any journal of my choosing. Through Coprolalia I could exit the pedestrian world. And yet, at this point, I've lost that grand sense of ambition. What lay ahead seems inconsequential right now — I simply want to know who Coprolalia is. It's this ambition that I have projected to the world for so long that by now it seems like the only thing that keeps me going.
“No,” I tell Jane, “It's not just the money. I mean, I certainly could use it, don't get me wrong; but, to me, it's become so much more.”
“Well, that's good to know,” she smiles.
Fearing a lapse in conversation, I quickly change subjects. “What's the deal with the triplets?”
“They're my roommates. And,” she beings with a roll of the eyes, “Those aren't their real names. They always come up with these stupid pseudonyms whenever they go out together. The whole rhyming thing was Nixi's idea.” Whether a form of ESP or a simple coincidence, we both look over to Nixi, at present occupied by a man wearing clothes that show off his anemic body. He holds what could only be tequila shots in one hand, two lime slices in the other. “Another awkward morning is on the horizon,” she says with a sigh of exhaustion.
“So my professor says,” Trixi explains to Tomas, who listens with cucumber coolness, “The only problem with your story is that it isn't published!” They both laugh with breaths both quick and resonant. Mixi occupies Aberdeen with the story behind the barbed wire tattoo on her arm.
“Do you want to see the Coprolalia?” Jane asks. She blinks quickly as her head darts towards the bathroom, a valuable piece of property considering the fact that it will soon be expropriated by Nixi & Co.
We have to tiptoe past Nixi and her friend for the evening in order to reach the bathroom door. There is no longer a line because of the busy couple and the fact that there's a second bathroom downstairs. Jane knocks on the door with all the force she can muster as a gesture to ward off the malign spirits of awkwardness. She turns to me with a nod of assurance. “I think it's clear,” she yells over the electropop that blasts from the nearby speaker.
We enter a bathroom that is covered in purple faux-velvet from ceiling to floor with the exception of one framed reminder of the scourge of B.O. and the benefits of smelling like chemicals that are scientifically proven to…well, science is for fucking fags, bro. The door is olive drab, perhaps thick enough to withstand a payload from the Enola Gay. There is nothing written on the wall, nor is there even space for one to do so unless one considers the mirror or the ad. The toilet's white porcelain shines like a celebrity smile, illuminated by one bare bulb hanging from a heavily insulated cord. The floors are sea-green linoleum and tattooed by paralyzed shadows or stains that may or may not be of the fecal variety. There is no sink. How the hell do you have a bathroom without a sink? I turn to Jane: “Where is it?” She slams the toilet seat down, not sparing the typical resentment for male inconsideration, and glides her hand in the direction of the plastic donut. The words are written in green ink. Some of the letters have already been smudged from inaccuracies and, dare I venture, petty malevolence. I don't say anything for a long time; I just stare to the words, which appear without punctuation or break.
Fast Food looks better
Coming out of my ass than
Going in my mouth
“This is bullshit,” I do declare.
“What?” she exclaims. “I think it's pretty funny. I mean, I don't want to be gross or anything, but….”
“Not that,” with frustration. I grab a piece of toilet paper and wipe away the final word of the haiku.
“What are you doing? Don't you want to preserve this?”
“When did you find out about it?”
“What?”
“Did Tomas show it to you?”
“Yeah, like five minutes before you showed up.” She looks to it again, incredulously. “You just know it's a fake — just like that.”
“I need a fucking drink.”
“What's the matter?”
“Yes, it's a fake,” I respond as I reach for the door. “It's the work of one of those two dipshits out there.” The door opens to Nixi and her bare tits being kissed by the toothpick with a burgeoning erection that would probably not be visible if not for the make of his jeans. Her nipples are of that incredibly long stock that are rare even in porn. “Come on,” I yell back to Jane, who is still gawking at the toilet with her mouth ajar. Had anyone been able to see her, they may have assumed her to be gazing upon something far less innocent.