Aziz Monet
by David E. Puretz

When I moved to New York City for the summer, I became an embellisher. I would hype myself up to others even if I wasn't worthy of such hype, partly in an effort to feed my own ego. I would blatantly lie about myself and about things I had achieved often to complete strangers, in an odd attempt to better my sense of self. So often was the case when first acquainting myself with people in the city, at work, bars, parties, even on street corners. I've realized though, that when I lied to someone about myself in an effort to make them think highly of me, it would, for that short-lived moment, increase my self-worth, but afterwards, later that day or that night when by myself with the opportunity to reflect, have the opposite effect and make me feel even worse. It was almost like an addiction because when my self-esteem would begin to peril back down that steep dirty hill of self-value, I would regress right back to my old ways of self-embellishment. The next person that would have met me, would not have been meeting with me, but with a different self, one more accomplished and confident and gifted, because when I stepped into those shoes, they became mighty comfortable, but every night before getting into bed those shoes had to come off and all that I was left with were my bare feet.

I was in New York City working as an editor at a small independent publishing company called Four Walls Eight Windows. I lived rent-free in a two-floor grandiose apartment by my lonesome for the first month of the summer on West 67th Street. Central Park was my backyard. My dear friend's uncle, Charles Klein, a renowned interior decorator, had just bought out the apartment; knowing I was good friends with his niece, he allowed me to occupy this vacant, utterly white dwelling until he moved in in the Fall.

Though the apartment was elegant and elite, it made me feel empty to be there by myself with no furniture or television or microwave, no wall decorations or air conditioning or stereo system, not even a bed. Just vast open space, huge windows, and high ceilings. There was a winding stair case which led to another empty room, a bathroom, and an open foyer which looked out upon the open vastness of the first floor. I slept on a blow-up mattress in the center of the huge hardwood floor of the bottom level. Late at night I would often times put the book down that I was reading and simply stare up at the ceiling which seemed miles away. I would make strange noises or talk gibberish just to hear my own voice echo throughout the castle.

This isn't what I told people though. I embellished. When meeting people, I would sometimes try to give the impression that I was a pompous high-class bachelor, supercilious, romantic. When talking to girls, I would make it my business to tell them where I was living. I would purposely say it with little emotion as if it was no big deal to possibly imply that it wasn't a temporary stay, to possibly imply that I was rich and eloquent as opposed to practically-broke and bored.

I was walking in Union Square Park one day during a lunch break and a young lady with a guitar on her back was standing atop a flight of stairs of a citadel-like building and pointed at me and yelled if she could bum a cigarette. I figured it a perfect chance to try out my high-class facade as a means of feeding my ego, of possibly getting her into bed, or blowup mattress for that matter. After giving her a cigarette, we introduced ourselves and I told her that I was a writer, that I lived on 67th street, that central park was my backyard, that she should come to one of my parties, that there was going to be margaritas and fancy foods and tons of pot and lots of good-hearted people. In reality, I had no plans of such a party. We exchanged numbers and went our own ways. Then I began to think. Did I put too much emphasis on the fact that I was a central park westerner? Was I putting too much stress on high-class living? Does one need to have at least five minutes of regulatory discussion before leading on to the fact that he is rich and powerful and dignified and horny?

In discussions with one of the other young editors working at Four Walls for the summer, I tried to give the impression that I was living a romanticized life, writing by candlelight, getting inspiration from walking the streets like Paul Auster, listening to classical music, and having sex with my newly found girlfriend against the ten-foot high windowpane of my apartment on 67th street where central park was my back yard. Yet I never found a girlfriend to have sex with upon the windowpane, I didn't have a stereo for classical music, the streets were sweltering hot, humid, and dehydrating during the day and too abandoned during the night to find any source of inspiration, and I ended up doing a minimal amount of writing and when I did, my stories ended up being dim and predictable.

I ended up finding myself wanting most to bring guests into the apartment to try to show off my high-class living--people from work and bars, and yes, even people I met on the street. I would tell newly befriended strangers something along the lines of, "yea, I'm just moving the rest of my stuff in after the summer ends," or "It had recently been renovated, that's why the apartment is empty. (That's why I'm sleeping on a blow up mattress)" I had people over a bit excessively and sometimes a tad too late in the night, at least in the eyes of the management and neighbors. I was forced to leave the apartment only after the first month, not by Charles Klein, but by Carl Gins, the proprietor of the complex, for noisy and disruptive behavior.

He told me that I had "outstayed my welcome." It was not my place to argue with his decision; if they wanted me out, I had no other choice but to leave. "When do you want me out by," I asked him. "We want you out tonight," he said. "We want you out now."

There was only one other person that I knew who I could have possibly stayed with, Mike Stiller, a friend from college who had recently transferred to New York University, who lived on Fulton Street near the south side bay. I had lost his number but knew where he lived (I had reveled there earlier in the summer), so I packed a small duffel bag and took the train to his apartment. I knocked on his door and when he answered his eyes immediately stared down at the duffel in my hand, subsequently the frown on my face- I must have looked like a lost puppy- and he put two and two together. He told me that I could stay at his apartment rent-free as long as I bought his groceries every week and cleaned for him. It was the only option I had- I had to take it. Michael was feeling rather dismal and lonely at the time anyhow; he needed some companionship, he lived by himself and had been off coke for three-and-a-half weeks after a long winding binge that lasted for four months. I was also in need of a little companionship; I hadn't many friends in the city and had been living alone in an empty mansion.

I had brought many of my belongings back and forth from West 67th to Fulton Street via train the day I moved into Michael's (I probably must have made five trips). Around 10:00 in the p.m., after I picked up a few remaining books and tidbits left behind, I took the train to midtown to meet Michael at his favorite bar to celebrate the fact that we were new roommates. We proceeded to take shots, drink mixed drinks and a few brews for most of the night. Around 1:00 in the a.m., a rather attractive young lady I had never seen before who seemingly had met Mike prior to this occasion, tilted against him and whispered something in his ear. To this day, I still don't know what she said, but after she said it, Michael's countenance lit up with drunken joy; his face shined brightly as if he had won the lottery. "Can you chill here...for a while," he said quietly to my ear. Right away I knew exactly what he was referring to and I didn't blame him for asking me to not come home because if I were in his shoes, I probably, no, definitely, would have done the same thing.

Drunken casual sex is exactly what he needed. Shit, I could've used the same remedy. So I stayed at the bar until closing, until 4:00 in the a.m. I was tired but decided to not go back quite yet for Michael's sake. I purchased some coffee and rode the train to the lower East River and found a well lit alluring bench where I sat reading some of the books that I had brought back from west 67th that night. I was reading Lost Pages by Paul Di Filippo and Collected Novellas by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. When the sun had just started to prevail and light was vaguely splashing upon the choppy waters in front of me, I decided to head back to Michael's.

I walked down the stairs, through the turnstiles and found myself in what seemed to be an utterly deserted train station. I paced slowly down the yellow line of the cement, still conscious and capable of thought; it felt odd to be thinking so clearly after being awake for oh so many hours.

I spun directions on the yellow line and began pacing back to where I had entered. When I was approaching, a man walked through the turnstiles. He was a short dark-skinned fellow wearing small glasses that made him look like a chipmunk. He had a calm appearance, his back was arched slightly forward, there was a slight unvarying bend in his knees, and his walk was more of a shuffle. We looked at each other when he entered, both thinking it strange to be witnessing another in the small train station at that hour.

We didn't say anything to each other at first. We both stood in place, in silence, but more and more time passed and no train had appeared, so he decided to break the ice between us. "Where is this train?" he proclaimed, and I responded with a shrug of the shoulders and raised eyebrows. .

He walked over to me and stuck out his hand. "I'm Aziz." "Dave." "So, what do you do." "I'm a writer." "Ah yes. What do you like to write?"

"Well my first two books were magical realism, but the one I am working on now is creative nonfiction." In reality, I hadn't anything published at the time.

"Oh, well congratulations! That is quite a success!"

I waved my hand downwards modestly and told him that it was nothing. I enjoyed being able to create a diligent history for myself. I was able to instill within myself a noble sensation: I felt for a few short-lived moments the thrill and honor of being a novelist. I knew the feeling would dissipate shortly after the encounter, so I wanted to prolong it.

"What do you do?" I asked him. "I'm an artist... a painter." "Oh very nice, very nice," I told him. Would I know any of your work?" "Yes, of course, he said, I painted the Bordighera. I'm Claude Monet."

Then he gave a quirky smile. Aziz's response about being Monet and the subsequent smile could have meant a number of things. It could have meant that he knew I had been lying about being a published novelist and wanted to smear the fact in my face, or that he was simply crazy and had an alter ego of the famous 19th century French impressionist painter, or like me, wanted to pretend he was something he wasn't- to try gain the small aesthetic of having a stranger believe in your greatness.

Many months later after the summer had ended, after my editorial job had come to fruition, I had thought that my self-embellishment had come to an end-I thought it was rooted and developed strictly in New York City and had died out after I had left, yet my roommates came home around 8:00 and found me sitting on the couch. Jeopardy came on TV and I persuaded them to join me in watching the program. Question after question I would get right, what is Poland, who is McArthur, who is Rockefeller, what is the telegraph, who is Saint Nicholas, what is the Boston Tea-Party, and so on and so on, up until the last couple questions of Final Jeopardy when I had stopped taping. I changed the channel quickly to make it look like it wasn't a tape that we had been watching. That night lying in bed I had thought about telling them that I was a faker. A liar. A low down dirty embellisher, but I didn't do so. I just rubbed my bare feet against each other, started making strange noises and talked gibberish to myself until I had fallen asleep. Yet there was no echo.