Rewriting Singularity

Dinner was late that year.

On the table. Cold. I waited. Waited. Waited.

Tic-tock-tic-tock said the clock. Then chimed. And chimed. And chimed again.

Pete the canary sang along.

I waited. He wasn't coming. Stupid! I should have expected this.

I got out my laptop and wrote to pass the time.

Give him a chance,

I thought.

Maybe he can explain.

I opened Word. Stretched my fingers over the keyboard. What should I write? I scratched my nose. Um, maybe he can't explain. Maybe there's no possible explanation for his vile and traitorous behavior.

Like always, what's on tippity-top of my mind transfers directly to my fingertips-- thus the five-question breakup test came to me like I was channeling Dr. Ruth. I zipped off the following questions with no hesitation:

Q:

Does he always come before you?

A:

A man who always comes first in bed will

always

come first out of bed. Lose him.

Q:

Does he make you feel good?

A:

Not just at giving pleasure. Does he make you feel good about yourself

inside

? Does he

compliment

you?

Listen

to you?

Drink

in your every word like it's the nectar of the gods? Lose him if he doesn't.

Q:

Does he whisper your name in his sleep?

A:

If he doesn't, well, there's always time, but if he's moaning someone else's name,

lose him

.

Q:

Is he sorry?

A:

And we don't mean: is he a sorry bastard? If that's the case, dump him. If he's man enough to say he's sorry, he's man enough

unless

it's for cheating, beating or lying-- if that's the case, dump him.

Q:

Is he clean?

A:

If your nose knows he's approaching before your eyes-- lose him. Mind isn't as important as body. For many a dirty mind is preferred.

Finished. Good but needed work--

Reflecting over it, I kinda thought two of the words should become a mantra for my life: lose him. Amazing how writing a few cold, hard questions crystallized my condition.

The clock still ticked. Dinner was still cold. It was a relief, really-- that he didn't show. I sighed, resigned. With Pete singing on his little swing, I left the spread on the table. Left it all. Put my wallet in my back pocket. Grabbed my coat. My hat. My laptop.

Shut the door. Bang. Walked down 23rd Street.

Sing, Pete, sing.

Tramped through slushy snow that crunch, crunch, crunched under my Reeboks-- not ideal apparel for six inches of white stuff, but bus stations don't have snow on the floor, and I didn't think past the ticket booth when I left the apartment. My mind at that moment was fixed on the Greyhound station on West 95th, not the five blocks I'd have to along through to get there.

No turning around for boots, no turning back. At two blocks, my feet turned from painful to numb.

But at least I only had my laptop and back pocket to worry about, and I didn't have to be as wary as I usually had to be in the station.

I bought my ticket, sat on the bench with trash at my feet, sucking in all those healthy exhaust fumes, and fucked with my own brain for a good thirty-five minutes while I waited. First on my list was Pete. Pete was

his

canary even if I took care of him. Pete'd be fine-- after all, anyone can pour bird seed millet and change his bowl of water-- even Austin. I hoped he had enough sense to give Pete grit. And what about Pete's vitamin and mineral supplements? Austin might forget those, too. Two drops when he changes the water. I almost got up and went back to the apartment so I could write instructions on "How to take care of your canary," but I decided to phone it in after I got to where I was going.

And where

was

that?

Destination unknown?

I'd taken the first bus out, and I didn't care where. Now what did that ticket say? I pulled it out of my pocket. Yeah. That's right:

Green Bay, Wisconsin.

My teeth chattered. In retrospect I should have packed. Something. Anything. At least dry socks.

But I just wanted out. Gone. Vamoose.

After a while, crocodile. See you later, alligator. Or maybe Wally Gator. Randy Gator. Escalator. Going up?!

Anyway, I couldn't call before I got

there

-- as in

Green Bay

-- or I might change my mind-- believe his lies. Turn around. Go back. To Chicago. To Pete. To Austin. To cold turkey. To cold gravy. With mashed potatoes. And dressing. Yeah, those were cold, too.

Like my feet. My wet feet. I felt them again, and they burned like a bitch. Maybe I had frostbite. Maybe I'd lose my toes.

I'm sorry but we couldn't save them,

Doctor House said, eyes burrowing into me.

Do you want to keep em in a jar?

I stepped up into the bus, walked to the back-- God, my feet ached-- at least the bus was warm. Watched the world whisk by as I sat by the window. Just me and my laptop--

strolling down the avenue.

Or down Highway 43. Or I could kick myself down the highway. John Lennon's singing "I should have known better" in my ears. Cheater. That's what he is. Austin the cheater. Or cheet-ah. Kinda looks like one-- all hairy. With spots.

And

sharp teeth. My left nipple knows.

If it was just sex with a man, I might have forgiven him-- but fuck a duck-- it was a

woman

. With really big bazoombas. And he gave her

everything

-- not just his dick! My

partner

in bed and out! He took my idea, my story, my jokes to the

other side

. The

dark side

. To

ABC

! He gave them my sitcom, Singularity! My pilot!

He betrayed me with our agent. With

her

.

No mistaking that message left on the machine from her congratulating him after he left Monday for a conference. I knew who the message was really for--

me

. Rubbing my nose in it-- that she had him

and

my sitcom. Oh, and of course she had to drop the bomb about Thanksgiving-- "Dinner will be ready at noon."

Screw her. Screw them both. I was gonna be a hit without that sitcom.

And I

made

dinner-- hoping I had misunderstood. Hoping he'd come home on the plane, walk in and say it was a jealous woman making trouble. But no.

That show is going to be a hit... I could sue him, but he's my partner or was my partner-- how could I prove it was all mine? And my Thanksgiving with cranberry sauce was an equal masterpiece. What cut into me the most was that he didn't even have the guts to show and face me. He ate with Miss I-got-big-titties. I hoped the turkey was so dry he choked on it.

I had only one recourse.

I have the capability to make the world's first bionic sitcom... better than it was before. Better. Smarter. Funnier.

And it's all in my head. All I need is a quiet space-- say in Green Bay, Wisconsin-- three cases of beer, a dozen double pepperoni pizzas, four dozen chocolate donuts, five jars of instant Maxwell House coffee and three uninterrupted weeks. And no Austin-shot-in-the-heart-Nicholas.

I'll show him. Yeah, I can do singularity.

---------------------

Green Bay isn't green. It's white. At least it was when I got off the bus.

I caught a cab at the station. Cab was idling. I got in. Nice guy-- mustache, gray on the sides, dark glasses and kind smile-- who says cab drivers are all jackasses? He helped find me an out-of-the-way bed and breakfast to hole up in-- and it was just outside of the city. Peaceful, serene. It was a grand old home, refurbished into what it was now. A young lady named Miss Kate ran it with her brother. He didn't say much. Just grunted and grumbled.

"Nice to meet you."

Grunt.

"Name's Jacob, Jacob Grey."

Double grunt.

"Friends call me Jake."

Grumble.

"Snow sure is white."

Double grumble.

"You must excuse my brother," Miss Kate said, hitting him in the arm. "He's not a very good conversationalist."

Her brother frowned. "Where are your bags?" he asked.

She didn't even blink when I told her I didn't have any bags. Mr. Grumbles smirked. The way she shrugged it was like everyone books a room for three weeks with no luggage at the Grande Lodge Bed and Breakfast.

"I have this," I said, holding up my laptop like it was the lost ark of the covenant. "But I can manage it."

"We'll show you the downstairs first," she said.

I followed them both. Actually she was kind of cute. If I was into women, I'd bang her. Had a perky nose, curly dishwater-blond hair. Nice curves. Her brother was cute. Same perky nose, brown eyes and curly dirty-blond hair. But rugged-looking. I'd bang him. Too bad he had no vocal cords. I prefer men who can articulate what they want in bed.

They both showed me the sitting room, bathroom, dining area and pointed toward the kitchen. Mr. Grumbles didn't stay for the whole tour. Too bad. His cute ass made up for his dour demeanor. I got Miss Kate as a guide, and she waltzed around in her pink cashmere sweater and well-worn Levis, proudly pointing out all the nooks and crannies "of this Grande old place." The whole home was furnished with antiques, which I knew absolutely nothing about other than they looked old and beautiful. She told me the history of some of them-- frankly, I was surprised none of them were family heirlooms. Most she bought "at auction" for "a good price." Except for the Victorian china cabinet. She said she "simply had to have it," and paid far too much for it.

Out the dining room and through a long hallway that opened up into an anteroom and-- the staircase.

Magnificent

.

She looked up, and my eyes followed.

"I'll take you to your room."

We climbed.

The banisters were scrolled on the end, and I loved them; I skimmed my finger across the polished and smooth surface-- ah, perfect for the kid in me who would love to slide down the railing.

My room was on the first of three landings where each flight took crazy 90-degree turns, up, up, and up. The doors in this place were huge. All were either French with old wavy glass or thick, ornate doors with carvings in rich, red hardwood cherry. The door to my room was the heavy cherry with a big brass doorknob-- Miss Kate opened it up with an old-fashioned skeleton key and handed it to me. I hadn't noticed until we opened my door that all the carvings were the same: the scrolled balusters of the open staircase, the doors, wainscoting, even the casings around the windows-- all had the leaf pattern with rosettes.

The bed was just as big as everything else in the house. A mammoth four-poster with pillows of all sizes. And my room had a fireplace-- huge, of course, with the same carving across the mantel. About that time, Mr. Grumbles reappeared with an arm load of firewood stacked so high I could barely see him and his steamed-up glasses. Damn he was strong like a bull, three pigs and a turkey. A boy scout, too; he began building a nice, cozy fire with matches and rolled-up newspapers for kindling. There he was, on his hands and knees, big feet sticking out, wearing thick red and brown wool socks with his ass in the air.

He was building a fire-- in my pants.

Miss Kate opened the door near the dresser on the north wall. Not a closet but...

"...your bathroom," she said. "Usually you'd share this with another guest, but for now you have it all to yourself. Still, be sure to lock the door on the other side just in case."

I peeked inside-- large claw-foot bathtub, fuzzy rug along with a sparkling clean sink and john. I was going to like it here.

The best part of the room was the view out the bow window. After living in New York City and then Chicago, this was culture shock with Mother Nature so near. In the distance, the last golden light from the setting sun glimmered on the Fox River, its icy banks blinding me. I shaded my eyes to see a line of white pines with branches heavy with new snow. I decided that this view would be the perfect place to write-- and that I'd move the desk to face the window.

I stepped over to the fireplace, touching the mantle and bumping Mr. Grumble's feet.

"This is amazing craftsmanship-- the carving is so intricate, beautiful," I said.

And he laughed. Then she laughed.

Laughed.

What was so damned funny about the woodworking I didn't know. I figured it had to be some inside joke.

Miss Kate left us. As her brother stacked the wood neatly, I sat down on the bed and shucked off my wet socks and shoes, then got up and set them near the hearth to dry. Mr. Grumbles stirred the fire. Sparks flew. I sat back down on the bed and massaged my poor toes.

"Need anything else?" he asked, standing up.

"No, I'll be fine. I'll need to pick up some things soon, though."

"Clothes? Toiletries?" he asked. "Boots?" Mr. Grumbles actually smirked as he said it, which made me curious about him. Worn Dockers one size too small hugged his thighs, red plaid flannel shirt just a tad too tight across those broad shoulders, and the wool socks I noticed before-- except for the hole where his big toe poked out. He peered at me through his black reading glasses. A blond Clark Kent. Who was this mystery man and could he jump tall buildings in a single bound?

"You can either get a cab or ride into town with me when I go in."

I blinked back from fantasyland and said, "And that would be when?"

"When I need to go."

Of course.

I scratched my nose. "As far as a date on the calendar, when would that be?"

"I'll talk to my sister."

"So, if I need you, what do I call you?"

"You mean my name?"

"Yeah, I mean, what's your name?"

"Hector," he said. I put out my hand, and he looked at me like I was an alien being. I pulled it back. "But everyone calls me Hec. If you need anything, there's a phone right next to your bed. Dial three."

I nodded. Mr. Grumbles left. I wanted a bath, but I was too beat. First I had to call Austin about Pete. Had to.

I got voice mail and left an extensive message on feeding Pete. I said nothing else. No goodbye. No pissed off rant. Nothing.

I fell into bed and woke up the next morning, wiped the sleep from my eyes. I'd slept almost twelve hours. I climbed out of bed. The view from the window was breathtaking-- the sun bright. Oh, something new-- more snow.

Shit. And I only had tennis shoes. I had to go shopping. Today. The day after Thanksgiving. The number one shopping day of the year. And I hate shopping. I started plotting Austin's demise.

I knew I should have sprung for a rental car, but I'd decided against it. With no way to leave, I'd be forced to stay and write. No sight-seeing, no partying, no little drives to take my mind off

things

. No picking up one-night stands to ease my shattered heart. Well, maybe my heart wasn't

that

shattered. Just my pride. Austin did a number on that. I thought I knew him. I trusted him.

I still can't believe he took

my

pilot and sold it-- as his.

My baby

.

I bathed. God, my feet were actually warm for the first time. I rubbed the skin off me in every spot where Austin touched or bit me. I scrubbed hard and was especially brutal with my left nipple. After I skinned myself alive, I relaxed. I filled the tub up with more hot water, turning the knob with ape-like dexterity using my big toe, which relieved me to no end that it still functioned after the long thaw.

The old tub fit to my back like only an old tub can. I wondered if two people had ever used this tub-- it was big and deep enough. My eyes closed. With my legs stretched out and my body submerged and warm, my muscles loosened. I napped-- not sure how long, but cold water and raisin hands said it was time to get out. I dripped on the blue fluffy bathmat, my skin blotched bright red, my hands and feet wrinkled.

Miss Kate left me pink K-Mart razors in a convenient eight pack next to the sink. Never shaved with a woman's razor before-- cut myself twice. For a safety razor, it wasn't too safe in my hands. I stopped the hemorrhaging with pressure and half a roll of toilet paper.

I got dressed to go down. I opened my door and looked out. I closed the door, turned around and wham! I stepped smack-dab into Mr. Grumbles the human Pop Tart. How'd he do that? Pop up out of nowhere? Toilet paper was still stuck to my face from my battle wounds.

"Breakfast was at 8 a.m. It's 10 o'clock," he grumbled.

I scratched my chin. Oops. Blood was on my hand.

"I'll remember that." I followed him down the stairs, dabbing my chin with my thumb to stop the blood flow.

"I think there's something wrong with the plumbing," I said.

"Why? Is there a leak?"

"No, but it made this loud, clanging noise last night."

"That so-- I didn't hear it."

"Well, I did. It was loud."

Well, not loud enough to keep me awake, but...

"I'll check on it. Could you tell where it was coming from?"

"Hard to tell. Sounded like the bathroom."

He nodded. "There's cereal." Which I believe was code for: follow me to the kitchen for sustenance.

I did.

French doors opened up from the dining room into the kitchen. It was homey, close even. The old kitchen table was one of those from the 50s with shiny aluminum and simple red and white Formica top. The cupboards ran clear to the twelve-foot ceilings. The wall and cupboards were all painted white. He pointed up, and behind the glass cabinet door I saw Cheerios, Wheaties and Grape Nuts. He moved his finger and my eyes followed. Bowls, blue and white Stoneware bowl and plates on the right, glasses and cups on the left.

Then he pointed to the counter to a Bunn coffee maker with its red light beaming at me. I helped myself to a bowl, coffee mug and some cereal.

"Sugar's on the counter and creamer's in the fridge if you want some," he said, leaning against the kitchen counter.

"You bet."

I poured myself a brimming mug of coffee and a bowlful of Cheerios with plenty of whole milk-- something Austin never let me get-- always skim because it was

healthier

.

Hec pulled out the silverware drawer and handed me a spoon.

"Kate says you can come to town with us, but it might be a long time. She likes to shop. She said give her a list and about what you want to spend. She'll buy whatever you need and put it on your tab."

I almost did cartwheels and handsprings. Yippee-Yi-Yo and call me Lucky Larry: I didn't have to go out in the madness and leave this quaint oasis! Hallelujah! Better yet, I could write.

"I'll make a list," I said eagerly. "Thanks, Hec."

I turned around-- he was gone. I shrugged my shoulders and sat down on the vinyl-covered chairs to eat my breakfast and wondered,

How did he do that?

I took a second cup of coffee up with me to my room to write the list. I jotted down what clothes I absolutely needed along with sizes. Boots, of course. I picked my brain for other necessities. I'm no miser, but I didn't know Miss Kate from Austin-- I mean Adam; therefore, I wasn't giving her carte blanche. I decided to go on the cheap, might as well drink that way, too-- nothing like good ghetto-wine. Like Mad Dog 20/20. I added it to my list.

Tap, tap, tap on my door.

"Yes? Come in."

"It's Kate," she said, peeking her head in the room. "We're going to be taking off." I put the last two items on my list: a Norelco razor with shaving cream. I looked up to see a second head pop in. "This is my little sister, Charlie. She'll be watching the place for us while we're gone."

"

Charles in Charge

."

"What?" she said.

"Nothing," I said. "Bad sitcom joke."