“You do that.”

I looked out the window at Mitchell. “What’s he listening to now?”

“Why do you care?”

“I’d just like to know.”

Clinton pulled out his phone again. “He wants to know what you’re listening to now. I don’t know why. You come in and ask him. Just tell me.” He hung up and looked at me. “Hank Williams, ‘I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry.’ What does that tell you?”

“Nothing.”

4

It is not necessary that I address the notion of contingency, but I feel I have to. The question that has plagued me is not one of whether the world is fatalistic, I know that to be true, but rather, given that knowledge, how is it possible that some things are, in fact, contingent and, further, is the existence of contingency necessary? How else could we speak of necessary truth unless there was an opposite that allowed us the orientation from which to understand. Would we speak of night if it was always day? Could we? It was not until I was well into this mindless patter that I realized that I was asleep.

“Sleeping?” Trigo asked.

“Apparently,” I said. “So, what do you think about what I was saying?”

“You mean that contingency shit?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the kind of thinking that becomes possible only with the closure of metaphysics. I mean you’ve exhausted all of your basic principles. I’ll tell you what I think. First, forget the nonsense of this dream. It’s no good for you, but it’s all you’ve got. I think you should masturbate instead. It would be more honest. And cleaner.”

“But what about our friend?”

“The one that calls me fat face?”

“Yes.”

“She’s sweet. I like her.”

“What should I do?”

“She’s kind of a ditz. Like you.”

“Well, we’re mathematicians.”

“Excuses, excuses. You tell me. You’re the one that moves around. You have a car now. Drive. Go get Eigen and bring her back.”

A cell phone buzzed on the coffee table. Trigo and I looked at it. I didn’t own a cell phone.

“Part of the dream?” I asked.

Trigo said nothing. I realized that I was awake.

“Hello?” I answered the phone.

“Wala, old boy, it’s me, John. I need you to get in your car and drive to Washington, DC. Keep this phone with you. I’ll give you further instructions when you arrive.”

“Is Eigen with you?”

“Yes, here she is.”

“Eigen?”

“Hi, Wala.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m with John.”

Another mathematician’s response, true but useless.

“Are you in Washington?”

“We’re on a train.”

“Are you okay?”

“Where are you, Wala?”

“Providence.”

“That’s funny,” she said. “I used to live there.”

Sill came back to the phone. “DC. Leave now.” He hung up.

I looked down at Trigo. “Let’s pack a bag, boy. Looks like we have a long drive ahead of us.” The snow was sticking and beginning to form a blanket on the yard. Had I good sense I would have felt some trepidation at the prospect of driving in such bad weather, given that my driving skills were virtually nonexistent, but I possessed no such sense.