A Naked Singularity: A Novel

by Sergio De La Pava

  “My life? What life man? I have nothing. My life is being thrown in and out of here. You want this life?”

  “It’s the only one you’ve got.”

  “No I’ve thought it all throughout man and I definitely want to do this. It’s going to work out for me too, I have a good feeling.”

  And in short order did the three—D’Alessio, Dacter, and Gans—after pausing to make sure it was okay, come back into that office to offer precisely what I’d predicted. And even quicker was Ramon’s breathless acceptance followed by a consensus that the case would be advanced to the following day in Part 49 for DeLeon to plead guilty in front of McGarrity, be released, and begin his career as de facto law enforcement agent.

  Maybe what I should have felt then was dread or whatever comes immediately before it but instead it was relief washing over me, relief because I could finally leave that office where I’d spent my entire morning. But also a strange excitement had dawned in me during this telling and only then was it winding down. I liked hearing DeLeon’s story. I had done countless buy and busts without ever thinking of the machinery behind them. Not that it was the most complex or scintillating thing either but still I liked hearing it exposed and laid bare. This wasn’t some guy snatching an old lady’s chain. There was planning. I liked that. I responded to that.

  Of course the planning was shit. I thought about Dane and his ruminations on the nature of crime. What if a truly talented person turned those considerable talents to the successful commission of crime? What did I mean what if though? Surely loads of such people were at that very moment devoted to successful criminality and I just never met them because a large part of being successful means not getting caught. DeLeon, and Escalera for that matter, disqualified themselves from that group by risking their share of upwards of ten million dollars by not only doing risky street sales but then getting caught.

  I thought all that but mostly I thought about ten million dollars. I thought about each of those dollars all the way back to the office. In the warmth of that office, with Swathmore in front of me all animated and sounding like a Peanuts adult, it was the money I thought of. At my current rate, it would take me a little over two centuries to gross ten million dollars. Patience, it seemed, was all I needed. With ten million dollars I could return all my phone calls and answer all my mail without my heart tightening.

  I would never ride the subway again and even if I did it would feel different. I would do very little I didn’t want to and lots I did. I would feel joy and relief.

  I would have a library.

  Well, first a house to put it in, not a glorified closet. And there I would sit, in a crazy regal chair made of fine Corinthian leather smoking a pipe for no good reason while draped in a crushed velvet robe. I would read until my eyes failed and my head overflowed. Any book that sounded even mildly interesting I would buy. And not cheesy paperbacks either, hardcovers only. Leather-bound collector’s editions if possible and appropriate. I would read everything of note ever written. Gilgamesh to Grendel, Gibbon and Gass, Goethe and Gödol, Günter Grass and non-G works too. I would devour them all. And when I tired of reading I would swim in my pool, parting the azure blue water like a veloce human knife. Or I would visit the equally lush home of my mother and her others, now swimming in the knowledge that I singly moved them out of their cramped quarters.

  I would grow wings and shed the shackles that kept me tethered to this place and day. Thus freed, I would soar up and through the air, above the Earth, to exotic locales where I would be pampered beyond my wildest dreams. Venice, Paris, Rome, Sydney, Tokyo, Rio, Athens would be my homes.

  No, better yet, I would be homeless. Owning and owing nothing and no one. I would exist well outside the norms and concerns of society, my only concern my personal advancement and evolution as a human being. As such I would only intake the very finest our tepid species had been able to produce. Only the finest foods in my shell, which shell would be subjected to only the finest medical care. Through my repaired ears and into my melon only the most angelic music would pass, which by now you know would include a healthy dose of live Ludwig. And along with those notes only the finest thoughts, arguments, theories, hypotheses, assessments, deeds, proofs, actions, creeds, kudos, slogans, phrases, sayings, limericks, and memories. Okay that last one’s tricky but beauty in, beauty out, as I would be transformed into a timeless yet evanescent superbeing who didn’t know what anything cost.

  “Success Casi! Sweet success!”

  I recognized Conley’s voice but didn’t see him. “Remember this date for it is truly a great one! Not this date actually, rather the date success was achieved. Today’s just the day I confirmed the findings.”

  “The hell you talking about?” I said as I entered his jack o’ lantern office where he sat alone on his couch waving a newspaper.

  “The Human Genome Project, what else?”

  “Oh that, right.”

  “The project has borne the sweetest of fruit my friend who possesses fine feathers and you’re one of the few people here who can appreciate the awesome significance of this.”

  “I know, they’ve mapped the human genome or whatever.”

  “Jesus, you say it like you’re ordering fries with that. Are you sure you understand exactly what has occurred?”

  “I’m quite sure I don’t, but I have to get going actually.”

  “Fine, I’ll explain. You were once a single-celled egg. That’s right you. A single-celled egg! Did you ever wonder how you were transformed from that into your current condition?”

  “Genes?”

  “No, genes! Your genes orchestrated the whole thing, cooking you from a raw egg into a fully-functional human being. What do you think of that? Genes are the life force! How you say? What are genes? Think of genes as little packets of instructions that tell a cell what to do. They’re hereditary instructions written in a four letter code.”

  “A, G, C, T.”

  “The letters of this alphabet are A, G, C, and T. Each letter corresponds to one of the chemical constituents of DNA namely Adenine, Guanine, Cytosine, and Thymine. So note that while genes give you life they also serve as a type of prison. By using this language to tell cells how to behave, genes ultimately tell your body what to look like, how impressive to be, what diseases to fall victim to, what infirmities to have and all other sorts of freedom-stultifying limitations. Scientists looked at this situation and said Fuck You, no way shall human beings be thus treated for long! And so was born the international consortium of scientists known as the Human Genome Project. They set about studying the genome or the entire collection of genes with a goal of identifying and locating all the genes and what they are responsible for. In essence they were looking for the blueprint for making a human. You see genes are made of DNA or rather they are in fact short segments of DNA. DNA, as you know—”

  “Yes.”

  “—is that long threadlike, double-helix whammy-jammy that’s coiled inside our cells. If you look in the cell’s nucleus, as I have done, you will see that the DNA is packaged into 23 pairs of chromosomes. If you look inside any of those chromosomes, which I have regrettably not done, you will see up to thousands of genes arranged like beads on a string. Now if we knew what each gene was responsible for we could have all sorts of fun. The problem is there are about a hundred thousand of these slippery suckers and they used to take forever to find and identify. I say used to because we’ve done it!”

  “We?”

  “I won’t bore you with a detailed description of the amazing machines and computers necessary to do this but realize that through the use of certain genetic markers, such as distinctive pieces of DNA that serve as landmarks, we have created genetic maps that allow us to pinpoint the exact location of a particular gene. So, for example, we now have a detailed map of chromosome 22. We know it contains 545 genes, 298 of which were unknown to science before The Project. Mind you, we haven’t gotten to that level of detail with all the chromosomes but we do ha
ve a rough map of humanity’s genetic makeup and we will relatively soon have a perfectly precise map of the entire genome. I don’t have to tell you what that means do I?”

  “I suppose we, there’s that word again, could better treat genetic diseases for one. Although I seem to recall one kid dropping dead from early attempts at gene therapy. I guess you could better identify high risk people for various illnesses and engage in preventative measures. Maybe we could find the gene that causes this guy I know to sometimes double over in ear pain.”

  “My god! Will you forget medicine? Of course people are talking about those things but they’re idiots. I’m thinking big. Because while I’m fascinated by them I also know that genes are evil. They’re our enemy because they are fundamentally unjust. They tell us who to be and what to do and there’s nothing I hate more than being given orders. But now we’ve been liberated. Because of the Human Genome Project mankind will soon leapfrog several evolutionary phases. This is how it should be. I’m pissed I was born too soon. I should have been genetically altered in the womb. I want the gene for extreme intelligence not the run-of-the-mill shit I got. I want to look like the guy in the Calvin Klein ad. And throw in the big-dick gene too. We will create superhumans, thereby fulfilling our destiny to replace the God we killed off long ago. I’ll even throw you a medical bone. Life spans will triple. We will conquer death, the impediment God threw in our path to keep us in our place. All women will be as beautiful as Greta Garbo, as brilliant as Emily Dickinson, and as charming as Snoopy. Of course all that is secondary to the advances the Project will make possible in the field of human intelligence. We are meant to figure out this whole mess called Life yet we haven’t. Intelligence is what’s gotten us this far but past intelligence will seem quaint in comparison. Last century belonged to Theoretical Physics but this one and the rest will belong to Biology. All other fields of science will have to defer into a lesser role. This is obvious if you think about it. If advances in biology lead to the creation of a race of superhumans far greater in intellectual ability than the humans that have existed heretofore, then predictable advances in other sciences will follow. This is extremely necessary as we appear to have hit some dead ends. In Physics we still haven’t reconciled the very large with the very small. And what of Time? Does it even exist? What in the fuck is it? What about consciousness? What the hell is it? What causes it? With respect to this last question especially, it doesn’t just seem a question of needing more effort to answer these questions. Something more radical appears to be required. I agree with this nut Colin McGinn who says that when it comes to the vexing questions about consciousness our brains, as currently constituted, are simply incapable of adequately wrapping themselves around the problem. What is needed are new and improved brains and because of today’s news we will soon have them.”

  “Great, let me know when I can pick mine up.”

  “Too late for us unfortunately. We’ll both be dead. Besides I’m talking about fetal intervention.”

  “I have to go.”

  “What’s with the face? You concerned about the mother? Don’t be. These babies will be formed in artificial wombs. It’ll be a transparent encasement so you can stop by and check on its progress, make sure everything’s going according to plan. Do you realize the amazing number of uncertainties and potential toxins present in a human uterus? Those kids should get hazard pay.”

  I was in the hallway heading to my office.

  “A natural womb is no place for a baby, Casi!”

  In my office I found only Dane, sitting intensely in the chair facing my desk. He was balancing on the back legs of that chair, seesawing back and forth courtesy of his feet on the edge of my desk.

  “Make yourself at home,” I said.

  “Where’ve you been all day?”

  “DA’s office, listen to this.”

  And he did, as I told him all about DeLeon, Escalera, and the others. This was done under guise of the common practice of talking to other attorneys about one of your cases presumably for a fresh perspective or whatever. Thing is Dane didn’t really listen. He was looking around the whole time, yawning and stuff, and never saying a word. Normally I would have taken this nonverbal cue and cut short my spiel with minimal embarrassment to both parties. But instead I felt compelled to continue as if ridding myself of unwanted skin. And when finally I was done Dane looked at me as if in pity.

  “Your guy’s a scumbag.”

  “Really? I like him.”

  “No way, take your medicine like a man. Why does he have to go trying to bring everyone else down with him?”

  “Normally I’d agree but fuck these other guys for trying to cut him out.”

  “Listen I didn’t get a chance to talk to you and tomorrow’s my only good day for the week so I had Rane produced for a counsel visit tomorrow. What’s your day look like?”

  “Good, I just have DeLeon taking his plea and getting out. But I can’t work on Rane anyway. Been meaning to tell you, I’m too busy.”

  “Nonsense, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Maybe,” I said. Dane left.

  I sat there. It was getting dark out. My window fought against the wind. I lost at least an object a day and that day I’d lost my hat. I didn’t want to go out unarmed into that wind but I wanted dearly to be home and couldn’t have one without the other.

  Outside I did an almost-comic double take at the fountain near City Hall, the one just off PEOPLE WITH A.I.D.S. PLAZA. It was true. That really was water coursing through the fountain’s veins and emerging limply out of its open spouts. And that really was a battered guy under an uneven afro stepping out of the fountain and drying his bare chest and arms with newspaper. He would know the answer I thought. What happens to him and his pals when their newspaper blankets fail?

  So I got right up to him and gave him a ten. I felt like the guy in the movies who pays the hooker for her time only he doesn’t want sex or anything he just wants to know if she’s seen this girl. Well he was a nice enough guy and all, and he almost sprained my finger snapping up the ten, but he showed little interest in my halting question.

  “God bless you! God bless you my man!” he answered.

  While he was saying this some other guy was running my way. He had been a witness and wanted to know if I could repeat my performance, this time with him as the star. The original guy rotated the bill every which way in hands covered with grey cracks. I simultaneously watched this and fished in my wallet for more. But it was empty. My pockets too. I had given him my last cent. He split without answering. Then the new guy looked at my empty hands and split as well.

  I looked in my bag for a token or a Metrocard. Anything.

  Nothing.

  I couldn’t go to an ATM because I had a negative number there. I did have credit cards aplenty but I had never activated that precious cash advance feature. You couldn’t use plastic to take a cab. Or the subway. Or a car service. This was medieval goddamnit. The only thing I could afford was my legs and I was quickly losing feeling in them. What if I asked one of the many people bouncing about to spot me a couple of bucks? What if I used plastic to buy a lavish dinner with a disproportionately high tip then asked the waiter to spot me? What if I begged the token clerk to let me through? What if I jumped the turnstile like countless former clients? Yes, that was it, I would commit a crime and risk my law license to get out of the cold. Or what if I just shut up, stopped huddling in that icy stone corner, and started walking my indigent ass home?

  chapter 10

  How could God do this to me after all I’ve done for him?

  —Louis XIV

  Then it got dark, so dark so quickly that all I could think was when did it get so dark? That and whatever happened to dusk, wasn’t dusk required anymore? Not to say there was a perfect absence of light, because it was undeniably a lit bridge, but what light did exist was dim and deferred to the dark. No white light, only orangeish apologetic light that never really infringed on the night’s black. And I
moved through this frigid, windy black swiftly at first but then slowly and with resignation. Resignation because there was no protection, not from the sides and surely not from above.

  And the people who moved in the light while it was still white, the ones who snapped pictures and shot video in strict compliance with a script written by and for the species, those people disappeared with the sun. No, only native freaks came out into that kind of black and that night they were everywhere. I tried to keep my eyes from them and glued to the boardwalk floor, where the occasional car sped in and out of my sightline through the windows of the gaps.

  You wouldn’t know it to view the situation from afar but crossing the bridge did not involve traversing flat ground. Going from Manhattan to Brooklyn meant you had to climb at first, the Earth rising to catch your foot more suddenly with each halting step and a seeming magnetic pull at your back. You overcame this pull and ascended in this way until you leveled off. And the only thing to do then, because you couldn’t turn back, was to begin your descent. My descent that night was a cluttered one. The freaks, the ones I had tried to avoid seeing, swirled about me more and more insistently until I had to look up and face them.