Sergio De La Pava - A Naked Singularity

“What about that night, the night you were arrested?”

“i did it.”

“Why?”

“for money.”

“There was no money, why’d you do it?”

“i don’t know.”

“Maybe you didn’t really do it but you’ve convinced yourself you did, is that possible?”

“no i did it.”

“Maybe for some reason you think you should say you did it, maybe to protect someone, but you didn’t really do it.”

“no i think i should say i did it because i did do it and it’s wrong to lie my momma say, right it’s wrong to lie?” And many other similar, only slightly varied, and increasingly desperate exchanges between us until I accepted that I would fail miserably at the most critical aim of my visit. And time was running out.

The Guard came in. He told me what I already knew then left.

“why are you mad?”

“I’m not mad at you kid.”

“you look mad.”

“But not at you, just at things. I’m almost always mad, you understand?”

“i think so.”

“You heard kid, I have to go soon.”

“i know.”

“But the last two days have helped I think. I discovered a lot that’s going to help your case.”

“really?”

“Really, we’re going to do everything we can.”

“why?”

“Why?”

“because you have to?”

“No because we want to. We’re your friends, I’m your friend.”

“why?”

“Why? Because I like you Jalen and because I didn’t have any friends before coming here and I needed at least one.”

“oh.”

“Anyway remember that even though you may not see me again that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten about you, or that I’m not working on your case, or that I’m not still your friend okay?”

“i understand.”

“I’ll write you more letters. Everything is going to be all right Jalen.”

“sometimes i get scared or really sad but when you were here i didn’t feel that way as much.”

“When you feel that way think about something nice. You have nice things too. Think about that football game you went to that time or that flower dress your mom wore for your kindergarten graduation or that valentine you got in second grade or think about maybe getting out.”

“maple?”

“Sure, when you feel bad think of Maple.”

After I signed out The Guard handed me a folder.

“This was what I was talking about before,” he said.

“What is it?”

“It’s an A.S.P., an anti-sympathy packet.”

“A what?”

“Right, well I’ve been doing this for many years as you know and, despite the way I earn a living, I am not a monster. I realize that people who actually come in direct contact with our guests will as a result almost always begin to feel a great deal of sympathy for the condemned man. I myself am not immune to this by the way. Anyway I have a lot of contacts in the Alabama criminal justice system so with their help I took to putting together these packets if you will. Basically they consist of graphic evidence, the more graphic the better, of the misdeeds that landed the sympathy-receiving guest here in the first place.”

I opened the folder, saw some colorful photos and reflexively turned away from them.

“See? Never forget that counselor. The ultimate punishment administered here is severe, that’s true, but it’s also only meted out to the ultimate offenders. Look at this picture for example. You see that in the upper right hand corner? Those are teeth. Human teeth blasted off a face like so many Tic Tacs. See how her jawbone hangs from the skin?”

There were other pictures too, showing more open-eyed matter in crimson puddles.

“It’s not just pictures either counselor. Read those reports if you want to know more about the people in the photos, like their names, how they lived, what their relatives thought and felt when they heard the news, what they said in court. People who never did anything to your kid other than exist in his vicinity. I’m not trying to be an asshole son, just maybe reminding you that there is another side to this. I think if you focus on that from time to time when you need to it might help.”

That last night at The Orchard it got quieter with every passing minute. The previous evening’s party was well over now and the whole of SERPENT was in rapid exodus from the hotel. No one seemed to be replacing them either as a sepulchral calm filled the empty gardens.

Whenever I stepped out of my room for even a second, five maids would be waiting by the door with nothing to do, waiting to possibly clean my room. That night I went to sleep very early again and my dream picked up where the one two nights before had left off. I was on the street and hungry. Strangers would give me tasty morsels of food but whenever I went to sink my choppers into them, that I might gulp them down into my vacant waiting belly, they would turn into assorted Battlestar Galactica action figures. What hunger too. And when I woke up I saw why the hunger because the room-service dinner I had ordered the previous night lay uneaten on the tray near my bed. And I liked the things on the tray, the way everything was small and toylike. The tiny ketchup bottle with the typewriter-size 57 and the shrunken cans of drinks that were soft. The food was still there but now congealed and inedible.

Checking out in the lobby, I saw Santangelo as he entered the corner of my eye.

“Have you given any thought to extending your stay with us young man?”

“Hello B.M.”

“Actually I just received the formal paperwork this morning. My legal name change finally came through. I am now Mr. Big Mac Wideload Santangeleeskees.”

“Big Mac Wideload?”

“B.M.W. for short. B.M.W. Santangeleeskees.”

“Okay B.M.W. thanks for everything.”

“Not so fast. Can I convince you to stay longer, at no charge of course.”

“No charge?”

“Yes, we have plenty of vacancies at least until the next convention, which isn’t for several weeks.”

“Thank you B.M.W. but—”

“Just a minute now, I’m prepared to offer you a veritable protective cocoon here at our facility. I will use every resource at my disposal to ensure it. You will be like a pink, plump infant who wants for nothing and of whom nothing is expected. What do you say? Your womb, I mean room, is upstairs waiting for you. I can recharge the key right here. No need for words, I can see the answer forming on your face as we speak. I’ll go ahead and charge it up.”

“No, no B.M.W. I have to go. Right now.”

“If you’re worried about the plane tickets they’re not a problem I can take care of that with a couple of clicks or even one double-click.”

“Thank you but no, I better go.”

“If you insist then, but if you ever again need anything round these parts let me know lickety split. Remember the name, BMW Santangeleeskees.”

On the flight back I avoided all pills, it seemed wrong to take them. I wanted to experience whatever the flight would give me without any decrease in sensation or awareness. So this time when the stewardess came by with the headphones I snagged them violently, hoping for distraction from my mounting sickness. But someone at the airline must have screwed up because when the movie came on I saw with dread that it was the same flick from the earlier flight, the Story of Jackie and Trevor. Except that now, fully awake and armed with audio, I saw that the movie was entitled Terms of Bereavement and it was actually a comedy. But not a good comedy where witty people trip and wear funny outfits either, rather one that relied principally on the smug knowingness of its audience. A comedy in name only, neither divine nor vulgar. A comedy in error, full of irony and self-reference and signifying an empty nil.