Tomas is reticent when in the presence of an extroverted character with whom he is not well acquainted. I realized this when I was introduced to Keen Buddy, but Patrick seems to exacerbate the phenomena. For the majority of the initial hours we spend together, Tomas simply looks to Patrick with quiet derision in the manner a judge may look at a career criminal. It's a stern expression, one that Tomas denies conveying even after his second or third trip to the toilet. He eventually justifies it as a form of simple skepticism as opposed to misanthropy, or, worse, elitism. Even this he admits reluctantly.
By the time the hours turn to double digits, Tomas has become somewhat inured to the rantings and the divergent method of conversation favored by Patrick. They begin to joke with one another, even finding common ground in their mutual respect for James Lovelock and Lynn Margolis. When I admit that I have no idea who these people are, Patrick takes the opportunity to explain the rudiments of Gaia theory to me. Tomas, meanwhile, leaves to order his sixth gin and tonic. I'm still on my fourth thirty-two ounce beer — probably about half way down. Pat appears as sober as when we entered even if he's taken down seven or eight double-pints. He has begun to quote British poetry at random, but I admittedly don't know how accurate he is. There is a harangue against the IMF and the Chicago Boys. He tells me all I need to know is that Milton Friedman is the devil, that the freer a market is, the more volatile it will be, and that the cycle of boom and bust will prove to enrich the super-wealthy at the expense of the working class, who will never see their wages substantially increased “Because of the ever-present specter of recession.” He calls me Maecenas at one point, and asks why I envy the lives of other men. He laughs when I look to him with confusion, and announces that I shall henceforth be known as Maecenas.
Once Patrick leaves to get his eighth or ninth beer, I turn to Tomas: “What the hell is wrong with this guy?”
“I don't know. He just talks. He's like Joe fucking Biden: you ask him a yes or no question about Coprolalia and he rambles on for an hour about ants. I mean, seriously, ants? They're not fucking super-organisms.”
“Okay, let's not get back on that.”
“I'm just saying…” he begins as he looks over to Pat and the barkeep, who are busy trying to talk over a track off Beggar's Banquet. They exchange exaggerated laughs like old friends. “I think this is a waste of time. Then again, this what you get for posting something on Craigslist,” he scolds, not even bothering to mention Patrick's attire — a rare omission for Tomas.
“That was your idea,” I respond with indignation.
“Yes, and it was a stupid idea I came up with when I was drunk. How many of those ideas do you actually listen to?” Silence. “Do you know how many fucking maniacs prowl that shit? Dig this, man: There was actually a guy in Germany who posted a request that went something like this: Virgin cannibal seeks first meal,” he begins.
“Better to sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian.”
“Better to sleep with a drunken cannibal than a drunken priest.”
“Ha!” actually said.
“Okay, but due I’m in the middle of a story here.”
“A cannibal on Craigslist…”
“Yeah, and what's even more fucked up is that someone replied! Someone wanted to be fucking eaten!”
“What happened?”
“He ate her!”
“Did he get in any trouble?”
“I'm sure he did,” he says with a suspicious look in Patrick's direction. “I don't know, though; I didn't really follow the story. In fact, I'm not sure if the person eaten was a man or a woman.” He shrugs. “But think about it, man: cannibalism.”
“He's not a fucking cannibal,” I assume. “I think he's just lonely. I mean, a normal guy doesn't just go on like this the first time you meet him. He's lonely, man,” with more confidence. “That's all it is.”
“I don't want to take the chance. Plus,” he trumps the right bower already on the table, “He's fucking annoying. It's like someone gave him a fucking emetic; it just keeps coming and coming, and I don't think it's going to fucking stop soon.” He pauses. “Has he said one fucking word about Coprolalia?”
“No, not really.”
“Oh, and have you heard of any of these fucking people? Who the hell was the one guy who ‘may have inadvertently caused the Reformation’?”
“Erasmus?”
“You know him?”
“Yeah. Didn’t you have to read In Praise of Folly in school?”
“That was him?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
One of Pat's songs appears at this point. It's fairly obvious when they do. In this case it's another AM hit from the seventies: Three Dog Night's “Shambala.”
“What if he is Coprolalia?”
“Him? Are you fucking serious?”
“Serious enough.”
“No. No fucking way, man. That guy is a fucking whack-job. You've said it yourself: Coprolalia does not stand out. Anonymity is the best camouflage.”
“Did you just come up with that?”
“No, I think I heard it in some detective movie from the forties — you know, real film noir shit.”
“So, what were we talking about?” Patrick asks as he takes his seat with two more double-pints in Styrofoam cups.
“You were just about to tell us about Willis Faxo,” Tomas responds. “Have you seen his piece in front of the Keens Center?”
“Of course. I'm the one who recommended they purchase it. The Keens family and I go way back.”
Tomas says nothing.
“About Mr. Faxo — as I said in the previous correspondence with your friend,” as he turns to me, “I have never met the washroom fellow, and I've only met Willis, a good friend of his, twice.”
“Where?” I ask. “Do you know one of his friends or was this just a random occurrence?”
“Well, I said twice, which precludes a random occurrence, eh?” as audacious as it appears. “He was dating a friend of mine some time ago,” he says with a shrug. “At the time he was living in a rather dismal flat in Astoria. This was roughly five years ago. I would tell you the address — perhaps it is his current flat, perhaps it is now his former — but, unfortunately, I didn't have the mind to make such an observation. What I can tell you, however, is that he lived within walking distance of the rather famous beer garden up there. We — myself, Willis, and my friend, Daphne, whom Willis was dating at the time — spent a good deal of time there, too. It's a fantastic place. You've been there, I presume?”