A Naked Singularity: A Novel

by Sergio De La Pava

  “He was selling vans that had been decorated to look like oversized frankfurters?”

  “No he was selling hot dogs out of the van, its weiner-like appearance serving as a kind of automotive advertisement.”

  “Got it.”

  “Anyway he got arrested for selling them without a license.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Exactly.”

  “INS?”

  “Yup, there anything I can do?”

  “He entered illegally?”

  “Apparently.”

  “I don’t know much about this area of the law, but my guess is there’s not much you can do, they just remand them and initiate deportation proceedings right?”

  “Yeah but the question is can you fight it in anyway?”

  “I doubt it because the bottom line is he has no arguable right to be here.”

  “I know but c’mon there has to be something.”

  “Most just come back, I believe, although re-entry does constitute a federal crime.”

  “And he’ll certainly never be granted legal entry.”

  “Correct.”

  “So now what?”

  “Well unless you’re going to break him out of the facility where he’s being held.”

  “Great idea, there’s no other choice. You in?”

  “In what?”

  “I can’t do it alone for Chrissakes there’s bound to be some security. How about a deal? You help me break my cousin out and I’ll promise to help you spring any relatives of yours who may be incarcerated in the future.”

  “You’ll promise or you’ll actually help?”

  “Now you’re thinking Toom, maybe you are smart after all.”

  “I’ll check on this INS thing for you but I’m fairly certain there’s nothing one can do.”

  “How about more than one?”

  “I’ll check. As for Kingg there’s a bit of a problem.”

  “What is it?”

  “Twenty days.”

  “How many?”

  “Twenty.”

  “Good Lord.”

  “How far along on your point are you?”

  “I can get it done Toom. It’s just going to be brutal. How about you?”

  “I’ll be fine. But one of us has to go down there very soon, this weekend at the latest.”

  “Not one of us, me, right? It’s my point.”

  “I suppose.”

  “You’re right too, it has to be this weekend in case something comes up.”

  “There’s a flight out of Newark Friday morning, I checked. We can set up attorney visits for both Saturday and Sunday and you can catch an early Monday morning flight back. I talked to Pat Haggerty, she’s in charge of finance and she says they’ll pay for it all.”

  “Anything else?”

  “That’s pretty much everything.”

  “I commend you for your thoroughness. Why can’t we both go?”

  “I have a wedding this weekend.”

  “Congratulations but you don’t invite me?”

  “I’m not getting married, I’m a guest.”

  “Good point.”

  “So you’ll go?”

  “Well I won’t really know anybody except you, but sure I’ll go.”

  “Not to the wedding, to Alabama.”

  “Oh, sure, always wanted to see the resplendent beaches of Alabama.”

  “You’re going to Atmore, no beaches.”

  “You always screw me Toomie. Man I’ve got a lot to do before I get on that plane, expect a lot of late night calls.”

  “That’s fine. I believe I’m in the mood for some coffee, would you like to join me?”

  “No, I’m never again leaving this office.”

  “Well I’m going to get some, would you like me to bring you back some form of beverage?”

  “Yes.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “I’m easy, just get me one of those I think it’s called a fatslap-push-push-in-the-bush-consigliere-capillary-freezy-supremicious or something, extra non-decaf please. Now when the guy pours the espresso into the foamy milk please make sure that he pierces the smallest possible area of the upper foam. The result should be akin to a brown pin prick on a sea of white. Moreover, when he pours the espresso in he should do so at such a deliberate rate that the espresso and the milk, which incidentally should be foamed to no more than a seventy-five percent congealment status, will not mix but rather will form two distinct levels featuring two different colors, with a great deal of wavy quantum action taking place at the border where they conjoin. Once that’s done I shall like a fair amount of cinnamon sprinkled atop of the now pierced milk. Now when I say a fair amount of cinnamon I do not mean that the entire surface area should be covered. Rather the appearance of the cinnamon should be not unlike that of a distant nebula, such appearance with which I’m sure you’re familiar. Remember, a cinnamon nebula is the goal. A cinnebula if you will. As for sugar, enough should be added to combat the inherent bitterness of espresso coffee but not so much added that it overpowers all the other competing flavors the beverage brings to the table. Also do not stir the beverage, as such a stirring would undoubtedly compromise the dual-level system I just mentioned. Instead add the sugar at a rate where each individual sugar granule will have its component molecules sufficiently bombarded by surrounding molecules, traveling at a high rate of speed due to the extreme heat of the beverage, as to occasion the dissolving of the granule before it reaches the bottom of the cup. Lastly, please take care to walk the drink over with minimal bipedal concussion so as to not disrupt the dual-level system. Thanks man.”

  “I’m just going downstairs to the gentleman with the newsstand so do you want from the orange-lidded dispenser or the brown?”

  “Brown.”

  Sweet silence.

  “Hey remember me?”

  “Sure, Derrin.”

  “Darius.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, what’s up?”

  “Sorry about your case, I heard what happened. That’s bullshit man.”

  “Happens.”

  “Anyway, everything turn out okay with DeLeon?”

  “Not unless you know where he is.”

  “What do you mean? Isn’t he still in?”

  “No I got him out so he could be a CI but then he disappeared.”

  “Disappeared how?”

  “How do you disappear? I guess you stop returning the DA’s phone calls, miss a couple of meetings, then are not home when they come looking for you.”

  “So he’s going to get—”

  “Screwed he’s going to get, if they ever find him.”

  “I heard, just a rumor, that you tried to punch Troie Liszt in the face.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And what happened?”

  “He ducked just in time and you made a hole in his wall.”

  “Amazing.”

  “Is it true?”

  “Somewhat.”

  “What happened?”

  “Actually he came after me, throwing punches with the worst of intentions after learning I was unwittingly sleeping with his wife.”

  “Wife? I didn’t even know Liszt was married.”

  “You’re surprised? Imagine mine.”

  “But the hole.”

  “Sure, that was made by me trying to get away from him. Notice how the shape of the hole conforms perfectly with the shape of my head.”

  “Really?”

  “I have to go to court now.”

  “Okay I’ll get going.”

  “Thanks. Listen tell anyone you want about what Liszt did, but leave out the part about his wife, that’s touchy stuff.”

  “Sure.”

  He left.

  “Here you go.”

  Coffee.

  “Thanks, Toom.”

  “I heard the strangest thing coming up here.” />
  “What’s that?”

  “Did you swing a bat at Liszt’s head, miss him, and make a hole in his wall?”

  “That’s generally true but it’s being taken out of context.”

  “What possible context could justify trying to hit Liszt in the head with a bat?”

  “Well what you’re not being told is that, at the time I swung that bat, Liszt was coming at me with a beer bottle he had just broken over his desk.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t look at me. Something about the Yankees’ third starter being better than the ace of the Mets’ staff, I don’t know. You’ll agree I had to defend myself right?”

  “Be serious Casi, what happened?”

  “No, this is horrible!”

  “What?”

  “You don’t bring me a little snack to go with this coffee?”

  “Sorry, should we get together tonight to discuss Kingg?”

  “We should and shall.”

  “Six?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you then.”

  “Yes.”

  And he left.

  And I stayed and nothing happened.

  Until Dane came back and just sat there. Minutes passed.

  “You going to say anything?” I finally asked.

  “I heard you pulled a knife on Liszt. That’s good. It’s good for you to practice violence, which will be a necessary component of our heist.”

  “I never pulled, as you say, a knife on Liszt.”

  “Gun?”

  “No for Christ, what are you possibly talking about?”

  “That’s disappointing.”

  “Besides, whether violence is or is not a necessary component of this fictional heist we’ve talked about is personally irrelevant because, as I’ve already indicated to you today, I am not going to be a participant.”

  “I’ll tell you Casi, this constant vacillation is entirely unbecoming and frankly beneath you. You have to decide, this instant, who and what you are. Are you saint, sinner, or something in between, because nothing’s worse than in between. To disappear into the lumpy, undefined center when the lure is so clearly found at the edges. No one aspires to mediocrity. Mediocrity withers and dies with nary a notice; its practitioners rendered mute by their race to the middle. Sinner or Saint, that is your question. Although, to be fair, the question is so easily and intuitively answerable that it should hold little of your interest. Here’s what I mean. What do you see, what do you feel, when you look inside yourself? Is burgeoning Sainthood in there as best you can tell? Do you sense a placid patience, a humble acceptance of your inherent unworthiness? Do you feel a serene resignation that your base wants will go unquenched? And a gratitude that it is so? Do you somehow just know that your life was meant to unfold solely in the service of God and others, to the neglect, even detriment, of your own well-being? If these saintly elements don’t reveal themselves to you in response to your inward gaze don’t despair, at least not yet. This doesn’t necessarily mean your relegation to a brief life of anonymous toil. Because I’ll bet when you peer inside you see something else. I bet you see an impatient anger that threatens to engulf your very being. Anger that the stupid can rise, covering the talented in their wake, with only negligible dissenting cries. Anger that the sons and daughters of Dionysus are allowed to continually gorge on the blood and flesh of the cowering weak. Anger that some can drape their hearts in black robes as they toss another human away like a cumbersome bag of bones, can lock your cousin, your own blood, in a cage like a laboratory chimp. Anger that all this occurs against the unforgiving backdrop of never relenting time, the passage of which slowly robs you of your power to wield a remedy, shrinking you before every watchful eye. You feel that incipient rage right? Good because the first step is not some bullshit, new-agey acceptance that the anger exists. The first step is to bypass that altogether, pinch your nose, shut your eyes, and jump into a pool of that simmering fury. The frigid jolt on your skin will shake you alive and impel you towards action. It’s this very action I now offer you and what do I get in return? Indecision.”

  “These observations might carry a scintilla of weight if you were proposing we rob an armored car, a bank, or a police evidence room. Instead you propose we rip off people who are themselves outlaws, maybe even subscribing to the same ethos you now extol.”

  “The money we’re going to take is generated by the War On Drugs—that hypocritical, mass-produced mindfuck currently lining everybody’s pockets but ours. Besides this is just a first step. We didn’t choose this setup, it fell in our laps. Nonetheless, while planning this heist we’re going to be able to forget everything else through the thrill that comes from exhausting our abilities. When we do it, our bodies will be electrified by our naked displays of will. And when we’ve succeeded, you will not only know that you are one badass fuck, but you will finally and truly be free. The money will liberate you and give you power. Use that power however you wish. At the moment I’m weighing taking my share, going to Washington Heights, and using this tennis machine I have to shoot hundred dollar bills into the midday sky. The human roaches will have to flood the streets and scavenge for green paper, exposing the rotting foundation beneath society’s crumbling facade. How entertaining. Can you picture it, the beauty, the statement? What can you say about art where the medium is human bodies and their inanimate captors? But I do get your point. Armored cars and banks would be better. That can come later, after this first step. Meanwhile what do you plan to do afterwards? Because you said you were in.”

  “And you said you were going to come back at lunchtime, yet here you are well before.”

  “True.”

  “I have work to do.”

  “I’ll be back.”

  “I’m sure.”

  I didn’t say that just to get rid of Dane, although I did want to get rid of him. I wanted to do some work, didn’t want to fritter away the morning in chatter. I wanted to make lists. So I did. Lists like this one:

  1. make list;

  2. experience the reduction of stress that comes from the mere creation of a list;

  3. come to the realization that this reduction in stress is illusory as it fails to be based on any tangible accomplishment;

  4. armed with this realization, accomplish actual, necessary tasks, but first;

  5. so as to avoid scattershot activity, and maximize productivity, think of what needs to be done and make a list.

  I wrote furiously as lists spun off into sublists that were listed in various sensible orders. It worked, all this writing, and served to ebb my recent dark past. I couldn’t stop. I would finish a page only to push it off my desk and onto the waiting floor to begin a new one. My dwindling volition was in those pages. When I was done you couldn’t see carpet for the pages.

  “What’s all this?” asked Conley.

  “Lists.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of everything. For example, that’s a list of all the lists I was going to make. Here’s a list of my favorite all-time lists. There’s a list of all the trials I’ve done. A list of all the hearings. I made a list of everybody I knew who later died. Conversely, I listed everybody who started living within my awareness. I listed every single person I know. I listed all the people I don’t know in ascending order of knowledge and descending order of ignorance. A list of people I wish I knew and those I wish I didn’t. Things I wish had happened and those I wish hadn’t. The former list is divided into those things I could have made happen, and which therefore require self-flagellation, and those beyond my control. Some of the lists are rankings. Everything is ranked. Artists and works of art. Scientists and works of science. Pugilists and works of Pugilism. Theologians and works of Theology. All the ologies, for that matter, are ranked. The aforementioned Theology along with Biology, Geology, Endocrinology, it’s all there. The greatest of all-time are in those pages. And the worst.”

 
“Why?”

  “Because everything is susceptible to discrete, unproblematic listing. Anything can be ranked. Subjectivity has nothing to do with it. If something is ranked higher it simply is higher. Better. Understand?”

  “I do and I agree. In the future, we’ll rank all humans according to the quality of their particular genome. A numerical value will be assessed and tattooed between the individual’s right and left ass cheek. A job interview, for example, would simply consist of looking into someone’s ass.”

  “I thought everyone was going to look and be substantially the same?”

  “I’m describing an intervening step. Anyway I need to talk to you.”

  “I don’t know enough about that stuff.”

  “No this is a work-related conversation.”

  “Really? We ever had one?”

  “Doubt it. Anyway as I’m sure you know.”

  “Don’t be so sure, this is me you’re talking to, and I can’t talk right now either.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Working, what else?”

  “Because it looks like you’re just writing reams of these lists.”

  “That’s the thing about looks, they have the power to deceive and all that. Anyway I’m hard at work and as a supervisor in this place I believe your primary function is to maximize my productivity. In accordance with that, I shall now ask you to quit me to my work. In exchange for my promise to discuss the matter with you later of course.”

  “Very well.”

  “Thanks Con.”

  Only I didn’t do any work after he left or at all before I met up with Dane for lunch.

  We were back at Deleterie’s for like the third time in ten days even sitting at the same table. I decided I would eat like never before. Maybe not go back in the afternoon either.

  It was called a mozzarella caprese salad. Perfect slices of fresh mozzarella, made on the premises, without even a hint of a salty presence, as it should be. The slices were arranged circularly and flanked by similar slices of fresh plum tomatoes, which although unmistakably red, veered towards the orange as I liked. Atop sat razor-thin slices of angelically lean and pink prosciutto ham. Completed by the occasional sprig of romaine lettuce and topped by extra virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar, and all in conjunction with fresh warm semolina bread. The blessed concoction was perfect and it was only the beginning.