15 :: parallel conversations ::
[posted 2/2/01]
A plate scattered with blobs of oil and the remnants of salad. Fletcher's book: John Ashbery, As We Know. Jakob sips from his coffee mug, sets it down. The mug is one of those thick cream-colored ceramic jobs that Jakob has seen in a million different diners and cafes. One stabilized element in a personal iconography that's normally prone to shift.
Fletcher says —So, how go your attempts to bang my old friend? and Jakob laughs at the unexpected crudeness. Deep down, he knows that it serves a purpose—it masks the true business of talking. When two men try to talk directly about their feelings about women they worry: they don't want to be seen as the kind of people who see themselves as sensitive.
—I don't know, Jakob says. —I've been thinking a lot about our date.
—Date? Fletcher says. —What the hell was I, your chaperone?
—You know what I mean, Jakob says. —I could say I've been thinking a lot about the first time that she and I hung out for an extended period since I decided that I was kind of interested in her, that may be more accurate, but Christ, doesn't it strike you as unwieldy?
—Point taken. So, go on.
—I don't know. I wish it had gone smoother. I wish we'd clicked a little bit better.
—Yeah, well, the Gold Star is probably not the best place to have, like, an intimate conversation.
—I just kept saying these things and I could hear myself from outside, and I just sounded like this fucking pointy-headed academic geek...
—Yeah, well, you are an academic geek. But Freya's pretty smart. A lot smarter than you'd expect for someone who didn't finish school. I don't think she was, like, put off by that.
—Mm.
—In fact, I think she's kind of craving some, you know, intellectual discourse. (Fletcher puts air quotes around these words.) —It's hard, you know, to find a community of smart people if you didn't go through school. I don't think she really meets that many through the record store. And, uh, I've seen some of her last few boyfriends, and they didn't particularly strike me as real strong in that department.
—Great. She likes big dumb tough louts. I don't stand a chance.
—No, Fletcher says. —I think she's, um, had her fill of those types of guys for a while. (He remembers, not last summer but the summer before, remembers her face, the space around the eye swollen and green. The television broadcasting a South Park episode in bright colors. Her cursing— fuck I'm so stupid. Her huddled shape on the couch suddenly boiling up into action. She seized a milkcrate full of Mike's LPs, hauled it out to the back balcony, lifted it, pitched it down into the alley below. Fletcher had reminded her of Mike's anger, and what it would be when he returned —and Freya pulled an aluminum baseball bat out from under the sofa and screamed I'll split that fucker's face right in two.
—I don't know, Jakob says. Every time she and I talk it seems like we're having two different conversations.
Fletcher hears someone at the next table over: She's actually funnier on e-mail than she is in person.
—Different conversations aren't necessarily a bad thing. A faulty connection between two people is often more interesting than a clear one. It can stimulate in unexpected ways.
He thinks here of the Ashbery book he's reading. The long poem “Litany” is set up in two columns, and its introduction instructs you to read them as simultaneous but independent monologues. And yet each of the two parallel signals invariably interferes with the other; there's no other way to read the thing. The intersection of different voices is what makes the poem interesting.
—So there's some interference, Fletcher says. —It's no big deal. That's where complexity enters.
—The Situationists say “cities are born from interferences of situations,” Jakob says.
Fletcher nods, and thinks of the cafe's side wall, where people have posted various bulletins and flyers. Before he'd placed his order he'd checked it out for a few minutes, let the culture flow over him. Requests for roommates and flyers for shows. A poster for this band Town and Country which reads it all has to do with it. A photocopied image of a television remote with the word LOST written at the top. “Remo” : missing since 12/15/00. Reward! If found, please call. A number. One voice in a field.
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