“Dude, fuck this,” Tomas says as he finishes his drink. “I have to take a fucking piss.”
I turn to Patrick as Tomas stumbles from his seat. Patrick is ostensibly upset. “Don't mind him,” I say. “He's just drunk.” The conversation stalls for a few moments as we both look around in something akin to an awkward silence, perhaps a distant cousin. I become better acquainted with the aesthetics of the bar, which could be one of the last authentic drinking establishments left on the north Bedford strip: the lack of renovation, the surly-looking bartender, the absence of a woman both single and under forty, the wood veneer, the Christmas lights that are on even in the summer, the pictures of the place from back in the seventies, the availability of seats, the drink specials that do not cater to consumers of pink or green concoctions, the paucity of concern, the stools, tables, and patrons standing on shaky ground, the dirty mirrors, dart holes, and ancient beer advertisements that adorn the walls. People here do not wash behind their ears, nor do they inhabit the world of will; they reside in the realms of should and could and would, an unfortunate domain in which the magnanimous contours of fantasy never seem to comply with the path that reality has decided to take. Sometimes they compare these lines and measure the degree of the angle created when the two diverged. Sometimes it seems more bearable to see the tears of our mothers than the harrowing face of reality.
“You do know that progress is measured by the degree a society understands light, correct?”
“Sure.”
Is that a Plato reference? Is it simply a fact about the progression the study of physics has taken? Does it concern digital technology?
Conversation comes to a halt once again. The jukebox continues to grace us with the sounds of the seventies — now John Sebastian's “Welcome Back”—thereby providing a protracted reprieve from the hair metal medley on which some dude in a Def Leppard had spent a small fortune. Most of the songs were less famous than the typical arsenal of albums these types of bars often carry — records by Poison, Ratt, Warrant, Whitesnake (or is it White Snake?), Motley Crue, Skid Row, Quiet Riot, Twisted Sister, Scorpions, or any of those bands that regularly gig in Purgatory — but each track was known and enjoyed by the majority of the patrons. The Journey requisite was taken care of fairly early on; Guns n' Roses, however, lay in wait, perhaps on reserve. I am expecting Patrick to put on Dusty Springfield or Wham! at some point in order to cement his places as the most annoying presence the bar has seen in recent years, but the John Sebastian seems to be enough to put him there.
“So what do you know of Coprolalia?” I ask plainly.
“Nothing really. I've seen a few of his pieces and most of my friends think he is just the bee's knees; but, like I told you earlier, he's a friend of a friend, who, I suppose, is something of a friend of a friend. Do you know anything of Willis Faxo? I figured you would have come across his name in your search for the artist.”
“Not really,” I respond. “I've heard a few things about him — and only then from Tomas or our friend James.”
“He's a very odd bird — Willis, that is. Something of a Pygmalion, I suppose, though he makes furniture — tables and chairs mostly. Everything is fashioned out of wood. I was under the impression that he was still in Astoria, but a less than reliable source recently told me that he's moved into a space somewhere in that limbo region between Williamsburg and Bushwick — the one the real estate brokers are now calling either East Williamsburg or the Williamsburg Industrial Park. Industrial Park.” He lets out a caustic laugh. “There's an oxymoron if I've ever heard one.” He picks up one of his beers. “It's a desolate area, really. I've known quite a number of people who've been mugged there.
“But you have no need for this information,” he says before taking down about a quarter of his beer. “You want to know about the artist. Well, according to my friend Daphne, the same Daphne whom Mr. Faxo knew biblically, the two were roommates in college.”
“Wait. Who was roommates with who?”
“It's whom — but that's irrelevant. Mr. Faxo roomed with the artist. They both went to that art school in the East Village. Cooper State? Cooper University?”
“Cooper Union?”
“Yes, Cooper Union. They went there. Your artist's real name is Mordecai, but I don't know his last name.” I smile. I don't know the adjective that would qualify it. “Also, he grew up somewhere in Brooklyn — either Midwood or Bensonhurst, I believe.”
“Bay Ridge?” I suppose.
“No, certainly not Bay Ridge. It's one of the neighborhoods to the east of Bay Ridge, and west of Sheepshead Bay. It’s north of both of these regions, as well.” He pauses to scratch his head. “You probably want to know some more details about him, but I can't offer you much help. I haven't seen so much as a picture of him.”
“Well, do you know how I can get in touch with this Faxo character?”
He does not respond with a word; he merely pulls out a sheet of paper that contains a name and a number. “I don't know if Daphne still speaks with him,” he says as he points to the name on the paper. “The two were together for a short time, so don't be too upset if she can't help you.”
“Why didn't you just bring her along?”
“You need to relax, mate,” he snaps with a sudden look of severity. He pulls his head back and regains his former, gregarious constitution. “I was going to surprise you, but it seems as though the two of you are well on your way to making perfect asses out of yourselves if we don't get out of here after the next drink.” I look to him with a wince. “I'm to meet with her tonight at a party. You can either come with me or you can go home and call her tomorrow. It's your choice.” There's a lapse of sound as songs change. The new tune evokes an elated grin from Patrick. “Do you like Seals and Croft?”
“I have no idea. Is this them?”
“Of course it is,” he replies with wide eyes. “You do know that they are both Baha'is, right?”
“No,” nor do I know what the hell a Baha'i is.
“See: this is what happens when you talk to strange people at the bar.”
“Why are you only telling me about this now?” I ask.
“What? About the Baha'i faith?”
“No, about Coprolalia and Willis Faxo and Daphne…what’s this say?” as I point to the piece of paper.
“Karev.”
“Why is this coming out only now?”
“Because Americans hate talking to strangers, even at the pub. I figured I'd have a few drinks with some of the younger artistic types until it was time to go the party. God knows I've met enough of your types, but I still believe — perhaps foolishly — that I'm bound to stumble upon your generation's Kolya one day.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Are you not familiar with The Brothers Karamazov?”
“I get the reference. I don’t—”
“So are you curious about the implication that God's knowledge is all-encompassing?” he asks with a facetious grin. “Or are you more curious as to my frequent interactions with artistic types?”
“Either,” I proclaim.
“Well, in terms of God, I feel His — and might I say that this pronoun is obviously a homonym — omniscience arises from logical necessity, provided one believes God to be both eternal and omnivolent. Now, if one accedes to what I have said — that omnivolence and eternal life suffice for omniscience — then it must be acknowledged that the possibility of any individual will outside of God's is negated. This is a simple exercise in logic based on a somewhat Russellian take on definite descriptions. Not to depart from the subject at hand, but, as an aside, don't you think the word “univolent” would be a far better fit than omnivolent?” He scratches his head. “Regardless; it's best not to dwell upon the ambiguous lexicography one is doomed to encounter when prowling the tomes of theology.