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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781453293430 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | The Permanent Press |
| Publication date: | 04/14/2015 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 207 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
The Cosmology of Bing
A Novel
By Mitch Cullin
The Permanent Press
Copyright © 2001 Mitch CullinAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4532-9343-0
CHAPTER 1
Damn notes, Bing thought. Should've kept them in a pocket.
And where had they left off? What was said? He couldn't recall having even lectured. The syllabuses were passed out, surely. Introductions were made, of course. But today—where to begin? He had no idea.
"Well, let me see. Perhaps I should ask you. I suspect some fledgling astronomers in the room have a few thoughts on how to proceed."
This was the Thursday class, supposedly the same students as from the Tuesday class, yet Bing found himself standing in front of quiet strangers—sixty-eight blank faces staring at him, slouched bodies occupying seats in the Thompson Planetarium, not a single person worth remembering. But the first weeks always seemed awkward, a required adjustment period while minds were being made up (some students would drop the course, latecomers would appear). And sometimes a month passed before a class formed its own distinct personality—morose, cheerful, maybe chatty—and from that collective one or two promising individuals usually emerged.
"Professor Owen, can I ask a question?"
A young woman's voice, very deep and loud. But she hadn't raised her hand. So Bing peered forward, looking for her, and said, "You just did. Ask another if you wish."
No one smiled or laughed. A tough crowd.
"Stand up please. I don't know where you are."
She cleared her throat and then stood, a solitary soul in the back row.
"There you are," he said.
Yes, there she was. Bleached hair as white as milk, cropped close to her scalp. Black tank top. Fingers fidgeting with the loops of her blue jeans.
"This might be off the subject, but I was wondering if you believed in alien life, as in extraterrestrial beings visiting us. Because I do. I mean, if you consider that we all come from the same source then it doesn't seem so impossible that equally intelligent beings or even smarter-than-us beings might actually be here from another galaxy. Because when I was fourteen my brother and me actually saw what was obviously an alien craft one night at my grandparents' house in Virginia. There's no other explanation, really. So I'm not surprised at all."
Sit down, he thought. Go away. Die.
Blank faces turned to see her. Then, as if on cue, the very same faces returned to Bing, who was rubbing his chin. Chewing absently on the cap of his pen, a boy sitting in the front row smirked and shook his head. Bing liked that kid.
"There was a question somewhere in there, I think."
"Yes."
"Seems you want to know if I believe extraterrestrials visit the earth?"
She nodded.
"Something like that, yeah."
"But you already know they do. I'll just take your word for it."
He glanced at the boy in the front row, giving him a wink.
"Well, I guess I was wondering if you feel our government has been lying to us about—"
He knew her. He had known her for years and years. Sometimes she was male, sometimes black, sometimes Latino or Asian, more often than not she was female and white and young. And she had to be heard. He had never taught a class in which she didn't exist. And when her peers grew tired of her rambling—her inane questions and comments—she would still fail to sense the complete meaninglessness of her own words and thoughts. White-girl disease, he called it. How she talked talked talked, blathering with authority. He hated her with every inch of his flesh.
"Hitler's mother," Bing said, interrupting her.
That got their attention.
One hundred and thirty-six eyes gazed at him beneath the starless planetarium sky, indifference now tinged with curiosity. This was Origins of the Universe? No Big Bang. No expansion of space. Wasn't Professor Owen supposed to inflate a balloon—a balloon that represents galaxy clusters—explaining that the space between the clusters increases, but the size of the clusters doesn't?
"Hitler's mother had a saying. She'd go, 'If you believe it, it is so.' Unfortunately, her son took that to heart. Anyway—and what I suppose I'm trying to say is—if you believe it, dear, it is so. Frankly, this whole extraterrestrial thing leaves me limp."
And that was that.
"Okay."
She shrugged, sinking into her seat.
But what he wanted to tell her was that the universe was rich with tangible mysteries. Honestly, no aliens need apply. And in our galaxy—where vast storms rotated counterclockwise on Neptune, and ice volcanoes shot frigid geysers on Triton, and the sun's magnetic activity inexplicably waned and intensified again every eleven years—there was profound violence and beauty. That's what I should tell you, he thought, but I won't. I'm bored and restless and I don't want to be here any more than the rest of you do. So I'm sorry. My notes are in my office; that's where I'll be going. I thought we could manage without them. I guess not. Some days are better than others, I suppose.
What now?
He consulted his watch.
Over ten minutes late in arriving. Then about ten minutes of engaging zombie children, a brief discussion concerning aliens in Virginia and government cover-ups. Approximately fifty minutes remaining.
Class dismissed.
"Do your reading or readings. Do whatever the syllabus says to do. Be ready on Tuesday, all right? Have a great weekend. Do yourself a favor—have a super weekend!"
And Bing watched them all rise from their seats en masse, gathering books and backpacks. The pen-chewing boy shuffled by without as much as a nod. No one said a word, at least not to him; they filed out through the side doors, making a hasty escape—quiet as church mice, just the sounds of big jeans swooshing, sneakers clomping, the doors opening and shutting.
Then he was alone.
How long had it taken? Thirty seconds? Maybe fifteen? He hadn't noticed White Girl Disease leaving, but, thank God, she was nowhere to be seen.
You keep haunting me, he thought. You're a ghost. Good riddance.
And just then, how peaceful the planetarium felt; this was the only decent place in Houston for watching the stars. At night the city glowed, eclipsing the heavens. But in here—with the flip of a switch, the twisting of a few knobs—the city disappeared, the Milky Way shone clear and perfect; one could almost imagine sitting in the countryside after nightfall, an unclouded sky above, the constellations revealing themselves.
As a college student, Bing worked at a similar place, though it was smaller and in disrepair. He ran the Star Show for high school field trips, putting on elaborate displays while selections from Holst's The Planets played through a single loudspeaker. The ceiling leaked, the dome interior was streaked with water damage. But when the lights dimmed and the stars faded in, the ruin became invisible.
"This is where you find your spot in the galaxy," he would explain to his audience. "My role is to guide you along."
At eighteen, he wasn't much older than most of the field trippers. Still, he sensed that he was further along, that he'd digested vast amounts of knowledge in a short period of time. He ate textbooks.
"I'm probably a genius," he told his mother.
"You're a genius of something," she'd reply, "except I don't know what."
It was 1958, and he studied under Professor Graham Wilmot, a teacher whose lectures made Bing fall in love with the universe.
"That's why you're here," Wilmot told his students, "to find your place in the universe. My function is to help you."
And he did; it was Wilmot who offered Bing the job of running the Star Show, and it was Wilmot who wrote him a flattering recommendation when it came time to apply for graduate school. But the Star Show—listening to Holst, running the projector, speaking to a group of high schoolers as if he were a professor—that was the best. He couldn't thank Wilmot enough.
And some evenings, after swimming practice, he unlocked the planetarium, snuck inside, and performed a Star Show for his own enjoyment. And more than once, when the occasion presented itself, he brought someone along with him in the middle of the night, a man he'd met at a bar near campus. A stranger. Romantic, not sleazy, he reasoned. A discreet encounter, a mutual exchange. The chance of discovery was slim. Forget that he never knew the man's name, or that he felt miserable for days afterwards. How many ended up going with him? As a freshman, six. As a sophomore, nine. None as a junior—that's when he began dating his future wife. Never again, he promised himself. I'm a new man, I'm changed.
That was forty years ago.
CHAPTER 2The course notes—or, in the very least, the syllabus. One or the other would be helpful.
"Dammit, where are you?"
Bing leaned forward in his seat and began rummaging through the papers on his desk, exploring a mess of unread memos, forgotten letters, a year's worth of university bulletins that he was supposed to give students.
Not there.
He lifted books. He checked inside his briefcase, twice.
Nothing.
Think.
He propped his elbows among the papers, cupping his face in his hands.
Let's see, let's see. That's right, yes. Must be at home. Somewhere on his desk at home. Of course.
"Hey, did you get Tong's e-mail?"
Who's that?
His hands parted as if fastened to hinges. Peekaboo.
There was Casey, filling the office doorway with his girth, his Metallica concert shirt, his bushy topknot of hair (an obscene tuft that sprouted from his crown like a pom-pom); he grinned within his woolly beard. "Dr. Spacey Casey," Bing sometimes called him, but only after several rounds at their favorite pub, The Stag's Horn.
"Haven't checked my e-mail today," Bing said. "I'll do it later."
"Well, I suggest you do it sooner rather than later. He's got big news."
"I know that. He woke me with the news, so I know. I knew before the rest of you bastards did. Tong and me are like this—"
Bing crossed his fingers—left hand, right hand—holding them up for Casey to see.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever—pretty interesting, no?"
"Yes," Bing said, "it's amazing."
It was worth envy; on an extended sabbatical in southwestern Texas, atop a mountain peak, Professor Tong had left his night watch at the McDonald Observatory and walked outside. He was hoping to confirm with his eyes what had already been revealed by a freshly developed photograph—a photograph taken through the telescope two hours previously. And while searching the sky, he spotted the luminous object, an anomaly which hadn't existed earlier that evening, glowing amid a satellite galaxy of the Milky Way. Making sure astronomers worldwide would know, Tong reported the sighting to the International Astronomical Union. Then he called Bing the following morning, waking him with the words, "A supernova. Ostensibly it is, but I'm positive. Without a doubt in my mind, a fifth-magnitude object. I saw it. Didn't even need the telescope. It was there, plain as day."
Plain as night, Bing thought. Lucky sonofabitch.
"The little guy sounded loopy," he told Casey. "Thought he was drunk at first."
"Hell, I'd be drunk," said Casey. "I'd start drinking at dawn and keep going. I mean, Jesus, you remember the last time a supernova got seen with the naked eye?"
"Not in my lifetime."
"For certain. And you know it ain't happening again while either of us is still breathing. Tong just made the books."
The books, history, being in the right place at the right time—what did it matter?
"I'm happy for him," Bing said.
Casey flexed his shoulders.
"I'd love to say the same."
Bing thought: I'm sure you would, Casey. But all's fair, and you're a part-time lecturer. Men like you don't make the books. Men like Tong and me do.
That was why they were professors, that's why they got sabbaticals and research grants—so they could make the books. So they could write them too. And why exactly wasn't Casey at the faculty luncheon anyway? Bing could've used his company. No one had talked to him. Well, almost no one. The Holy Trinity sure didn't. Not for a second. But if Casey and Tong had been there with him, they could've had their own trinity—then they could've walked out together into the fine afternoon, laughing and talking like great friends. There are some things more important than supernovae, Bing thought, and friendship is one of them. And love. And a good joke. Which reminds me. Did you hear McDouglas is getting liposuction? The operation takes place May, June, July, August, September, October, November and December. That's a good one. I need to tell you that sometime. I think you'd like it. Tong would.
He motioned for Casey to enter. Then he pointed at the chair in front of his desk.
"Come and sit a spell. I've got office hours soon, don't think anyone will show up though."
"Would like to," said Casey, scratching the tip of his nose with a finger, "except my three o'clock class would probably miss me. How about drinks later? The Stag's Horn and happy hour?"
"Can't tonight. Tomorrow's better. Is that good for you?"
"Sure. I'll call you at home."
"Sounds good."
Bing nodded. A resolute nod, like a firm handshake. And after Casey wandered away into the corridor, he went to the door and closed it, locked it, tested the handle making certain.
Just for a moment, he thought. Just while I get a nip.
The nip. Ten High bourbon. A half-pint bottle, half full, in the bottom drawer of his file cabinet. Then a quick swig. One more. Go easy. That's enough, that's good. He returned the bottle, hiding it between manila folders, filing it under the letter T.
The drawer slid shut.
Bing sighed as he stood. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Then he straightened his bow tie, smoothed his hair, checked his zipper.
Ready.
He unlocked the door and pulled it open.
And waiting in the corridor, standing before the doorway, a green backpack hanging from a shoulder, was the pen-chewing boy; with a fist raised, poised for knocking, his presence startled Bing.
"What're you doing?"
"Sorry," the boy said, lowering his fist. "I was about to knock. You're having office hours, right?"
Bing's face revealed nothing.
"These are my office hours, yes."
The boy let the backpack slip; in one deft move the strap went from his shoulder to his hand, where the backpack then dangled at his side.
"There's this article you wrote. It interested me a lot."
Article? What article?
Bing glanced at the boy's slim, tanned neck. Then he glanced at his shoes, then at his blue eyes.
"You're in my class, correct?"
"Yes. I read an article you published in Scientific Foundations."
"Which one?"
"'Vacuum Decay and Cosmic Locality.'"
"You read that? Really?"
Bing couldn't believe it—this child reading and understanding that article.
"Yes."
"You're an undergraduate?"
"Yes."
What an attractive boy he was too: tall and lanky, a born basketball player, with sandy hair parted in the middle, hair that fell into place after a hand ran through it. And how clean he seemed; his skin looked scrubbed and ruddy, his big swooshy jeans were pressed, his black tennis shoes unblemished. Yes, the hoop earring in his left nostril was silly, but, Bing reasoned, he's young. And smart. And handsome—the kind of boy who must be beautiful and toned and smooth without his clothing on. Perhaps a swimmer.
"Come in, please."
Then the door shut behind them, and Bing found himself seated at his desk, the boy sitting across from him. Between them the disarray of papers. And Bing wondered if the boy would like a pen to chew, but decided it might be an inappropriate suggestion, even if mentioned in jest. Anyway, this was business.
Name?
Nick. Nick Sulpy. A sophomore.
Major?
Undecided.
Except he loved reading, especially Whitman and Salinger. So maybe an English degree.
Bing wanted to know more about him. But not yet. Not today.
"And what exactly did you think of my article?"
Bing felt the Ten High in his throat, a residual sensation, warming.
Nick's face brightened. How thin his lips were, how red.
There are some things more important than supernovae, Tong. There are other worlds to explore with the naked eye, you know.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Cosmology of Bing by Mitch Cullin. Copyright © 2001 Mitch Cullin. Excerpted by permission of The Permanent Press.
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