11.1
The heat is beginning to make life in the city that genre of annoying that requires all conversation address and exhaust complaints about temperature, humidity, precipitation, and Global Warming (or, provided you're too stubborn to use a term favored by environmentalists, Global Climate Change). “Hot one today, huh?” Sean says as I approach the table.
“Yeah,” I respond as several beads of sweat aggregate to form one big tear, which descends down my cheek. “I could barely sleep. My roommate is too cheap to have an air conditioner in the apartment.”
“Well sit down,” he says as he picks up his coffee as though to toast. “You look like you're been to hell and back.”
“This search is killing me, Sean. Seriously, I think I'm taking tonight off. I can't keep drinking like this.”
“You're twenty-two, right?” I nod hesitantly. “It gets far worse, my friend. Just wait until you have to start dealing with the two-day hangover. Just another bead on the con side of age.”
Sean has a bad habit of sounding patronizing even when he means well. A part of me thinks it's the environment in which he resides — that fantasy world of academia, where people lapse into worlds that only exist on paper, lose entire months of their lives to esoteric projects, revile sleep, subsist on strict diets of coffee, cigarettes, and consumables that contain heavy amounts of additives and require only the opening of a bag or a can to eat, and somehow always manage to under-appreciate a far too attractive girlfriend or boyfriend. When they reemerge, terrified of light and most forms of human interaction, they often make comments that seem bizarre, as they have forgotten that they are the only passengers on their train of thought. The significant other, of course, finds this endearing; just about everyone else finds it anywhere from perplexing to creepy.
The tangential form of consciousness and the absence of healthy eating habits are probably the least deleterious aspects of living a life that is defined by hermeneutics (in several ways). The greater concern has to do with amphetamine addiction, insanity, and all of those other adjuncts of solitary confinement that rear their ugly heads around the corner like potential assassins contemplating the best vantage from where to take their shot. The mathematics, economics, biology, and physic students are probably the worst in this aspect — what little time they do have to themselves they reserve for all-night drinking bouts, sleepovers in various psyche wards, or hours spent on the benches in the park where the largest populations of pigeons are known to congregate. The philosophers use their free time to argue via recondite and archaic terminology, which I suppose is nothing more than an extension of their already useless hobby; history students are prone to relegating sleep to a diminutive position, one valued only slightly more than masturbation (they are, after all, the biggest readers in the world of academia — something that law students like to deny, as law students are convinced that studying law is the single most demanding occupation one can have until they begin practicing — guess what becomes the most demanding occupation then?). Women's studies majors get offended by universal statements, generalizations, and any remark that requires it be taken either as a joke or with a grain of salt (the fact that you're getting upset by this comment only proves my point). The literature students tend to work hard enough to sound intelligent at parties where they are required to relive scenes from the Dharma Bums. In their more cloistered moments, they drink coffee and conjure up theories that trivialize and generalize things like sexism and racism, as comparative literature is less of a concentration or major, and more a method of autoerotic foreplay for nerds. Regardless of intellectual focus, the academic world breeds many things, but it must be remembered that, in some cases, it can cultivate introversion, narcissism, and the complete detachment from the world in which most of us reside. That being said, Sean is far more personable than most who have dedicated so much time to the university.
The people in the garden of the café look to me with suspicion. It is not an expression of condemnation that they exhibit; rather, they seem preoccupied in trying to find conversation matter, and I am evidently a more than worthy candidate. Although I am wearing the sunglasses from last night, I suppose there are other features that reveal the magnitude of my hangover.
“What's so important that it couldn't be discussed over the phone?” I ask.
“Nothing. I just wanted to see you in person, that's all. It's been quite some time.”
“I see.”
“How many of those bars have you been to?” I shift my gaze. “You know…the list that I gave you a few weeks ago.”
“Oh,” I laugh. “That list is pretty outdated.”
“I just made it,” defensively. “Are you sure you didn't just miss some of the pieces? They're not labeled or anything.”
“Yes, I know. Most of the bathrooms have been completely painted over — even in that one dive on Fifth Street.” I name the bar. “It was the first place I went.”
“That's right; they called me,” he chuckles. He taps his forehead with his fist. “I completely forgot about that.”
(It is said that Thales, one of the Seven Sages of Greek Antiquity, was so captivated by the heavens that, as he was escorting a woman from her house so they could star-gaze, he fell into a ditch. When he called out for help, she responded: 'Do you think, Thales, that you will learn what is in the heavens when you cannot see what is in front of your feet?')
“What's your favorite piece so far?”
“The more I think about it, the more I like Herculi Romano Augusto.”
“That's a great one. That's on Fifth Avenue, right?”
“Yeah, but it may be gone already.” I pause. “Sean, there's not going to be anything left soon.”
“That's not true,” he responds, but he cannot meet my eyes.
“There are still some pieces up around here, don't get me wrong; but it seems as though Coprolalia is slowly being wiped off the entire island of Manhattan that exists above Fourteenth Street. Even the Brooklyn and Queens corpus is beginning to disappear. The Bronx is different, but it doesn't matter because he never goes up there. Regardless, so much of it has been erased that it seems almost pointless to abide by that list. I mean, you remember the other day,” I begin. “You know, when I called you from that bar in Red Hook?”
“Yes, I know.” He lights a cigarette and blows the exhaust towards a yuppie couple. They examine him with scorn. “Look, I know it seems to be a daunting task and all, but Coprolalia is alive and well. The only thing is that he moves around a lot. There are entire months that I go without finding anything, and then, suddenly, pieces appear in places as far away as Jamaica and City Island. We've been over this.”
“Well, that could lead us to believe that he doesn't live here anymore — at least not all year.”
“You sound like James,” he derides.
“Well, maybe he's on to something.” Sean rolls his eyes. “I'm not saying that he's definitely right, especially since it would mean that this Mordecai guy isn't Coprolalia.”
“Mordecai — I haven't heard that name in a few years. Never did get a last name, either.” He shakes his head. A long caesura ensues. “You don't believe any of it, do you? You couldn't possibly be that gullible.”
“I'm certainly not going to dismiss the possibility without seeing some type of evidence. Furthermore, it validates my belief that Coprolalia has some type of base south of Prospect Park.”
“Okay,” he begins calmly. “First of all, he's far too young. As you have said, he's only thirty-two years old.”
“I don't know that. I just assume that he's the same age as Willis, and Willis will be turning thirty-three in a month or so.” Sean nods. “Regardless, I still think it's something I should follow up on. I have Willis' number. It couldn't hurt to give him a call.”