A Naked Singularity: A Novel

by Sergio De La Pava

  “Okay I’m less than three years older than you.”

  “How’s work?”

  “Who cares?”

  “Look at this, see that?”

  “No.”

  “Look!”

  “Can’t, place it right in front of my face.”

  “Here, watch the road though.”

  “What is it?”

  “You like it?”

  “It is what?”

  “Why do you choose to answer a question with a question?”

  “When?”

  “Huh?”

  “Who?”

  “How?”

  “Where?”

  “Why?”

  “What?”

  “Whatever. Seriously, Casi, you like?”

  “It’s very pleasing but also disturbing in a way.”

  “I knew it.”

  “Now can I know what it is?”

  “It’s an announcement. Eight weeks from tomorrow. My first show. Well, me along with other artists actually.”

  “Get out, superb.”

  “Yes superb, very.”

  “Why didn’t you say?”

  “In Aikido, did you know that the idea is often to use your opponent’s own weight and momentum against them? Did you know that?”

  “I did, you know I know that stuff.”

  “Right.”

  “Have you told anyone?”

  “No, most people don’t give a shit about Aikido.”

  “I meant about the show.”

  “Who would I tell?”

  “There’s no shortage.”

  “How does that own-weight-used-against-you deal work anyway? I’m going to tell everyone when we get there. Hey what made you want to do this anyway? I was shocked.”

  “Is there a thread somewhere to the Aikido comment?”

  “You just got the urge to pick up and go over?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “You sure it was a chimp?”

  “I am, but I thought it was irrelevant?”

  “I was wrong, it’s highly relevant. It would’ve been far worse were it a monkey. I mention Aikido because I hope to use a similar technique to get you to talk about what’s going on in your life. That’s why I held my success story till now. Although you are, of course, the first of similar blood to know.”

  “That’s funny. But why the subterfuge? Just ask me what’s going on, as any sane human would.”

  “I know from experience that such a revolutionary method fails against you in these instances.”

  “What do you want to know? Why we’re going to mom’s?”

  “I want to know how you managed to sleep seventeen hours straight? You might be the smartest person ever to sleep that long at once. Normally only the simple can achieve that kind of slumber. When I lie in bed at night, sleep is the last thing I can possibly hope to create.”

  “Still?”

  “Yeah,” quiet consideration, “you must have dreamt some freaky things too,” more consideration, “why’d you need all those hours?”

  “What kind of instance is this?”

  “Kind of instance?”

  “Yeah, that necessitates an Aikido technique to get me to talk?”

  “Oh right, I think you’re in a state. You get in these states and you’re in one now. I can see it in your eyes. And now you tell me about the seventeen hours and I’m thinking that those hours must have been preceded by a lot of mental pacing back and forth. So something has certainly happened and that’s why you look different I bet. Is it the monkey?”

  “Chimp.”

  “Was it a Reese’s monkey? Is that the problem?”

  “It’s rhesus.”

  “It was? I knew it.”

  “No I mean it’s rhesus not Reese’s.”

  “Yeah recess, that’s what I said.”

  “It’s not that either. It’s not Reese’s or recess, it’s rhesus.”

  “So you admit it was a monkey and not a chimp, which incidentally makes all the difference in the world?”

  “It was, without question, a chimpanzee. I just thought it was important that someone who shares my surname know that Reese’s doesn’t make a monkey, they only make peanut butter cups and pieces far as I know.”

  “Maybe. This is cool isn’t it, the two of us here talking.”

  “Cool? I guess.”

  “No I mean principally the fact that we’re two, that number.”

  “Two?”

  “Yeah I like the number Two because if you have two of something then there’s no middle, each is equivalent to the other.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Because of the day I mean. What a great coincidence is all I’m saying. You’ve looked at a calendar today right? It’s twos everywhere and now there’s two of us in this car. We two fit the day.”

  “Or maybe we’re the two zeros.”

  “How many zeros?”

  “Ha ha.”

  “Well here we are, you going to tell ma about the monkey?”

  “No.”

  “You going to tell Marcela?”

  “No.”

  “Are you going to tell—”

  “Look I’m not going to tell anyone about the fucking money, I mean monkey, I mean chimp! I’m never going to discuss, or otherwise mention, that primate again, to you or anyone else.”

  “Hey guys!” walking towards our car, incredibly unencumbered and hugging her shoulders, was Marcela.

  “Yay,” said Alana.

  “Hey kid, alone?” I wondered from inside a hug.

  “That’s funny, inside with mom.” She stared from a smile. “This is so great, you guys here. Casi, you look different. What did you do?”

  “See?” exulting.

  “What?” Marcela said. She looked at me, then Alana, then back at me.

  “Nothing, let’s go inside it’s freezing,” I countered. Inside.

  “Mom turn the heat on, what the heck? I can see my breath.”

  —¿Ay, quiere un sweater?

  “No, quiero heat.”

  “Sí mami, it’s cold,” offered Marcela.

  “Remember when we were little, we weren’t allowed to touch the thermostat?” said Alana.

  “Yeah well those days are over,” I said. “Out of my way.”

  “Where are Buela and Buelo ma?”

  “Probably huddling near the oven,” I said.

  —¡Ay tan lengui-largo!

  “You do have a long tongue at times,” said Marcela.

  “Open up, let me see,”

  “Ithere vood?”

  “I’m sure, but stop flapping your tongue so I can measure it,” said Alana.

  “My tongue is normal length, now let’s get some food on it.” We went into the dining room. “There’s my little girl. Hi beauty. How about a smoocheroo Mary? Go ahead, plant one right there . . . make it a strong one. Thank you cutie. What do you say?”

  “ . . .”

  “Still not yapping huh?”

  “ . . .”

  “Love you quiet girl.”

  “ . . .”

  —¡Ay que dicha! Thas great—came from the adjacent living room.

  “That is great Alana. Casi, did you hear this?”

  “Yeah, show them the announcements,” I yelled into the living room as Timmy entered the dining room where I sat salivating. “Hello terrible Tim, what do you have to say for yourself?”

  “Why is there so much consistency in near-death experiences Casi?”

  “Oh boy.”

  “Why?”

  “Exactly what consistency we talking about here Timothy?”

  “You know, there are those things everybody says happen. The white light, the tunnel, the rising above the body. There was more but I can’t remember it all right now.”

  “Ah right. The long-gone relatives, the blissful peace, the peaceful bliss. Tell me Timmy, do you save these questions for me or can anybody play?”

  “Right it must be true if so many people s
ay it happened?”

  “No.”

  “How come no?”

  “First of all, how come what must be true?”

  “Right those things they say, must happen?”

  “Hold on Timmy. Let’s take it step by tortured step, can’t believe this. Okay, it is beyond dispute that people have previously been declared dead only to later revive and continue life. It is also beyond dispute, I believe, that the interval between these two events has been as long as several minutes. Do you know why those things are beyond meaningful dispute? Because medical personnel, who can be considered reliable under these circumstances, have attested to those facts. It is also true, and beyond dispute, that some of those same people have subsequently been interviewed and have given accounts of what they experienced during the interval between life and death. What is not so clear, my chubby little friend, is that those accounts have been entirely, or even overly, consistent. It may be you recently read a book, or more likely watched a program on Television, where a group of these people was paraded about and they proceeded to recount basically similar tales that included some or all of the elements we just mentioned. This does not, however, necessarily mean that people who die and then retract their death have similar experiences, or even that their accounts of those experiences are similar. It may be, for example, that one of the people interviewed reported feeling like a crouton in a bowl of split pea soup. You’re not likely to ever hear that person’s account because it’s so damn weird and outside the thematic scope of the program or book, understand? You see before you, the recipient, ever even enters the picture, the collector of the accounts has already parsed them into what she feels is the meaningful from among the meaningless. But let’s start towards your real question. I will grant you that it seems the collectors are able to collect more than their share of white-light, dead-relatives stories. You want to know what that means right? Well if there’s one thing experience has taught us, my little sawed-off partner, is that some of them are full of it—it being shit. Those people include those who are intentionally lying, for whatever bizarre reason, and those who are merely suffering from a wishful confusion. But put those people aside for the moment because, in all likelihood, they do not account for all the witnesses. If someone comes back after being declared dead and says that, during the time they were supposedly dead, they felt themselves rising above their body, then connecting with long-lost relatives and approaching a white light feeling all peaceful, would that mean they truly had this experience? Sure, why not? Unless they’re lying, they did have this experience. But so what right? People have all sorts of odd experiences. You may dream tonight that you’ve been selected to become the new Underdog, why would, or should, anyone care? Similarly why should anyone care what these people experienced while dead? I suppose we now come to your real question. You want to know if the fact these people had these experiences, the specifics of which they allegedly share with many others, means that the experience has relevance and applicability to the population as a whole, since as we discussed the other day it appears we are all going to die. First, note that these experiences at best tell you what it’s like to die for a short while and then return, they arguably tell us nothing about what it’s like to die when the death takes. You might say the experiences are proof that what we call death is in fact not final but more like a passage to this other life and reality, the one with the white light et cetera, and you may be right and you certainly wouldn’t be alone in that belief since it seems to me that at least a clear majority still believe in some kind of afterlife. But bear in mind that, as usual, there is a physiological, non-mystical explanation that is, at the very least, highly plausible. You see it turns out the human brain produces chemicals. It also turns out there’s a drug called Ketamine. Well, behold and lo, seems this drug, when properly administered, will make the recipient feel like they are elevating, will make them feel bliss, will make them see a white light, in short, will make them have most of the experiences we’re talking about here. So I can imagine you’re starting to get the picture. It may be that our brains produce a Ketamine-like chemical as we near death or that a relevant portion of our brain is otherwise somehow stimulated. Get it? Now the possible reasons for this might be interesting but we’ll have to discuss that at some other point because right now I’m starving. The bottom line is this, my plump and inquisitive nephew. You will never get a satisfactory answer, no matter how much effort or reason you expend, to these types of questions. You probably can’t even hope to acquire even mildly strong evidence either way. You will never know, beyond doubt, in advance, what is going to happen to you when you die. Never! And really why should you care? Why do you give a rat’s ass? You’re five years old. Don’t worry about what happens when you die, worry about what happens when you live for crying out loud! Christ, if I was your age I’d be out living it up, hitting on chicks, getting drunk, c’mon. You with me kid?”

  “Casi, stop scaring my son,” Marcela said, entering with glorious food.

  “I don’t even want to know what you’re telling him now. Go play gordito,” she said and gordito did.

  “Me scare him? You should be telling him to stop scaring me. What kind of parental supervision is this?”

  “I’m serious. You think he doesn’t understand the things you say, but days later he’s quoting you and asking me some bizarre question.”

  “Yeah Casi, play nice,” Alana laughed slightly.

  “He started it,” I said. The food was on the table: round clay-colored bowls, yellow rice with strips of red pepper and dots of green peas, salted tostones of green plantains and various overdone forms of meat. “Oh man this looks good, I haven’t eaten in like two days.”

  —¡Ugh!—gasped my mom.—¿Como asi? You have to eat hijo. That’s not good papi.

  “Harumph.”

  —¿Por qué you didn’t eat Casi?

  “Because, mom, I got nobody to take care of me. I’m all alone. What am I supposed to eat? Pizza? I can’t get good food like this over there, so what’s the point in eating?”

  “Oh please, don’t make me laugh,” said Marcela.

  “Something wrong with your kitchen? Because you can come by and use mine anytime,” said Alana.

  “You see mom? No love.”

  —I’m serious hijo. You have to take better care of yourself. That’s why you look so different.

  “I look the same.”

  “Something happened, he won’t say what,” added the ever helpful Alana.

  “What happened Casi?” said Marcela as my mom looked on all interest.

  “Nothing happened, nothing at all. Did I miss something, who listens to Alana? Are we going to eat or just yammer? What about Mary and Timmy?” I said trying to change the subject.

  “They ate already,” said Marcela.

  —Ay, I’m worry.

  “Mom, what are you talking about? What’s there to worry about? I eat like a pig. The only thing is I was on trial this week, that’s why I wasn’t eating or sleeping or anything.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?” said Alana. “What happened?”

  “I was on trial.”

  “I mean what was the result?”

  —No, I’m worry about Armando—came the reprieve.

  “Yeah, what’s going to happen with that Casi?” said Marcela.

  “Don’t worry about that either mami. I’m already on it. I called over there. He’s not going to be coming through for a little while yet. I’ll head over there in a bit and make sure everything works out fine.”

  “Why was he arrested?” said Marcela.

  “He told mom it was for selling hot dogs without a license, right ma?” I said.

  —Aha.

  “Total bullshit,” I said, “no big deal.”

  “Can they do that Casi?” said Marcela with a look on her face.

  “Yes, they can, but it’s not a big deal. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Yeah ma, don’t worry,” said Alana. “This is
Casi’s bread and butter. This is why we plucked him out of that orphanage and plopped him into that fancy law school.”

  —Ay sí, plees Casi. Que pena con those in Colombia. They send him here and we were supposed to take care of him. Ahora look where he is.

  “He’ll be fine, he’s a big boy. He’ll be chugging aguardiente tonight.”

  —Miren tan buena esta remolacha.

  “Ill . . . beets?”

  “No way.”

  “Nobody wants remolacha ma.”

  “I don’t understand why they would arrest some kid selling hot dogs out of a van,” said Marcela. “He was so happy with his hot dog van too.”

  “He’s probably going to want to hightail it right back to Colombia after this kind of hospitality,” said Alana.

  “Doubt it,” I said.

  “I think he’ll still want to stay,” said Marcela. “At least I hope so.”

  “What do you mean you hope so?” said Alana and Marcela did a thing with her lips that Alana saw but ignored. “I mean I don’t get it,” she continued. “Over there, Armando was a computer programmer. Yet he’s willing to come over here to sell hot dogs out of a hot dog shaped van. And for what? What’s his reward? He’s doing this in a country where they arrest him for doing it. They basically arrested him for working. I guess he’s only supposed to come here to take pictures of the Statue of Liberty and buy his share of miniature souvenirs. These guys come here for what exactly? To line up outside in the freezing cold waiting for somebody to come by in a pickup and give them work for the day so they can do the shit nobody else would do, for money nobody else would take, and in appreciation get used as scapegoats by fat rednecks who keep their trailer’s fridge full of Meister Bräu?”

  “Easy now.”

  —Ah sí, asi es sometime.

  “Pero why ma? Why do they still do it? Can’t we explain to them that it’s not worth it?”

  —They do it because dey think ees worth et.

  “Well they’re wrong.”

  —Alana allá there are no jobs. And aunque you have a job is no mean you’re going to get paid. La hermana de Armando works for the university en Cali and they haven’t paid her in two mons.

  No one spoke and in the silence I tried to remember which one was Armando’s sister. Hearing nothing my mom seemingly felt an elaborative tug.