“Is the coffee ready yet?” I ask dispassionately.
“Look, I don't want to pick apart your motivations and all of the other shit you've managed to rationalize. I can tell you, however, that this is a textbook defense mechanism. Not only that, it's an unhealthy lifestyle. When was the last time you went a whole day without a drink?”
“That's irrelevant.” I walk to the kitchen and pour myself a cup of coffee. When was the last time I did the dishes? This clearly doesn't help my case. The remnants of a massive scrapple project are everywhere you look: a faint dusting of cornmeal coats much of the counter, two pots are still on the stove, a measuring cup stained by homemade pork stock (made from neck bones) is next to the refrigerator. This looks like a site of desperation, but, in all honestly, I've never been one to spend much money on food. Previous budget meals include: chicken soup, lentil soup, Purple Soup (pork shoulder, beets, and shredded cabbage in a broth not too dissimilar to red borscht), rice and beans, franks and beans, hot dogs, the three sister medley (squash, corn, beans), and condiment sandwiches.
Being that most of my eating habits are without frills and lack intensive labor, I have always been one to keep my kitchen tidy. This apartment has reinforced such a preference. We do not live in a nice building. (This has been established already, but it should be reiterated here.) Though the apartment came with a fresh coat of a paint and new appliances when Jeff moved in, there are signs of decay just about everywhere you look: the soiled tiles in the hallway made to resemble some arabesque mosaic in tawdry teal, pale maroon, and smoker-teeth white. The walls are thick with that type of oil-based paint that looks as though it's almost dripping — the paint that doesn't chip, but peals off like the skin of a potato; the paint that seems to become viscous in the heat, to sweat and sheen like some alopecic Russian baking on the Brighton boardwalk in an article of swim-wear that leaves nothing to the imagination, but does exercises the brain, as you inevitably attempt to come up with the best simile to describe the gelatinous bulge of flesh that's been shrink-wrapped in a pastel package of synthetic fibers; the paint that is gray like watery gravy, like cigarette ash, like an Oregonian day, like the dust that accumulates behind and beneath couches with the hide-a-beds that mercilessly dredge hardwood floors when moved without the aid of a dolly or a forklift. And then there are the pinecone-sized roaches — explosions of appendages, feelers, and, when struck with a shoe or broad object, bile-colored goo. They're truly gruesome customers even if the grue [yes, this word is actually featured in the O.E.D.] that they evoke is difficult to explain. They have neither venom nor fangs nor stingers; in fact, the only real threat they pose concern the allergens contained in their pheromones and their feces. Still, they are terrifying creeping things, especially since they are the only organisms with heads that can continue to move around for more than a few moments when they lose them. Maybe Energizer had it wrong. They may sell fewer batteries, but they would certainly convey a more accurate rendition of life and tenacity if they switched their mascot from a pink bunny to a roach (though, to avoid bankruptcy, it may be wise to have marketing alter the image of the new mascot so as to not have a dried date gone self-ambulatory peddling batteries). Our roaches are not only driven; they're fearless, too. They have been known to raid the kitchen even during the day. Their bravery, however, has sometimes come at a high cost. Perhaps the worst incident concerned Jeff's craving for toast one still-dark morning and an overly zealous connoisseur of crumbs. The lingering smell proved to be one of those indelible memories like the losing of one's virginity. Hence the reason we don't lament the toaster's absence.
The rest of the apartment is not messy. All of the dirty dishes and empties are confined to the kitchen with the exception of the twenty-two on the coffee table. I swept about three days ago. I mopped last Sunday. The trash is not overflowing, but it should be taken out soon. Still, those dishes do not help my case.
“Can you pour me a cup?” he asks from the other room.
“Is this Tripping Daisy?” I ask.
“You know them? Yeah. I’ve never considered them a one-hit wonder. ‘Piranha’ is a great song.”
“Here you go,” I say as I come back to the table. “Look, I'm sorry about the dishes. I was going to do them yesterday, but I got caught up…”
“With an alcoholic named Midas?”
“…With the search Coprolalia,” somewhat deflated. “My bad.”
“Look, just say, 'Yes, I'm sorry I've been associating with a bunch of street urchins and derelicts as opposed to properly managing my responsibilities. I'm sorry I've been avoiding the real world by searching for an artist who clearly doesn't want to be found. I'm sorry I've been so inconsiderate, Jeff; it will never happen again.'” He smiles with a nauseating tint of smugness. “You need to get your shit together, my friend.”
“Like I said, I'm going to do this for another two weeks. After that, I'm going to start on the job hunt,” I say as I get up to check my email.
He sighs, stands, and then walks to his room. I resent him for a time, but know that his frustration is actually directed at his parents. This was their first time visiting the apartment even though he's lived here for almost a year, and they live about an hour and change away. They stayed for all of twenty minutes.
I open my email account. There are three new messages: one offering me natural male enhancement — a great little euphemism that implies that insecure people will buy just about anything. Another contains a Nabokov reference. The third is actually addressed to me. It is from patrick.y.shaheen@gmail.com, and reads as follows:
I came across your post on Craigslist. While I do not know Coprolalia personally, I may be able to provide you with some information that will lead you to Willis Faxo, a previous friend of his. My contact information is below.
Cheers,
Patrick Shaheen
(The remainder of the transcript has been redacted to assure the privacy of Mr. Shaheen)
10
Patrick Shaheen stands at five feet six inches. His hair color is a most ordinary brown with timid portions of gray and white. While his facial features are neither minatory nor particularly inviting, there is that potential serial killer allure in his eyes. There is an ease about him that seems disingenuous. His outfit is certainly different — a type of fashion statement that invites ostracism even here in Williamsburg, the Mecca of a hipster movement that has so far heeded a lot of bad music and a lot of fashion statements that future generations will witness with the same horror a man may feel upon waking up with a tequila hangover and seeing a four am call to an ex-girlfriend logged in his phone. Patrick wears a black, mesh tank top and green running shorts, which reveal the majority of his relatively pale thighs. Tomas asks if he is just coming from the gym. He receives a negative response.
Patrick is not mysterious by any means; at least he does not try to be. Open and more than willing to impart any information requested of him (not always with either much detail or the omission of some irrelevant tangent), he embodies whatever the antithesis of social awkwardness is called, though his candor clearly elicits awkwardness from others. His tenor is reserved, but he trollops through conversation topics like an elephant on eggshells. He utilizes the conjunctive “not to go too far off topic here, but…”, which seems to indicate that he has yet to discover the function of the left parenthesis.