“What’s our plan?”

Eigen’s voice, her demeanor had changed. She was less timid, more focused. She even consumed her food with more vigor.

She caught the waiter as he passed. “This soup is fantastic. What is it called?”

He looked at both of us and said, “It has no name.”

“It must have a name,” she said.

“Really?” The waiter walked away.

“He doesn’t like us,” Eigen said.

“But he’s right,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“Why does it have to have a name?” I asked. “There is no logical necessity for a thing to be named.”

“Then how can we refer to it?”

“Everything that is a thing is named. Everything that is not a thing is not named.”

Eigen stared into space. “I don’t understand.”

“And you shouldn’t,” I said.

“I know what I need to do or rather where I need to be. I need to be there so that I can see nothing.”

“I’m lost.”

The waiter came with the check.

“I want to thank you,” I said.

“For what?”

“For nothing.”

I could see him becoming angry.

“You don’t understand,” I said. “You’ve pointed out what I should have seen all along. Everything is about naming.”

“Here’s your check. The soup was on the house.”

3

I hailed a taxi. Actually, Eigen hailed the taxi, as none would stop when I tried. And we made our way to the train station. There I made a point of walking past as many cameras as possible; I used the ATM again and stood chatting with the clerk as I bought two one-way tickets to Providence. We bought hooded sweatshirts and some sweatpants for Eigen that, strangely, had the word juicy written across the backside. She put them on in the washroom and then we stood in line to board. As the crowd congealed, we pulled up our hoods and walked away in a tangled herd of arriving passengers. Outside, the daylight was waning and the air was considerably colder. We walked straight away south and into Columbus Circle. A street preacher in tattered clothes stood on an actual soapbox and held forth. The wooden crate on which he stood read Tide.

“You there,” he said, pointing at me. “You there. Do you have a recollection of the direction that your introspection has allowed recognition? If you have suffered insinuation into a situation that is not of your propagation, then you must take my invitation to meet our savior the Lord Jesus Christ, hallelujah amen can I get a witness?” When no one responded he said, “Can I get a goddamn witness, motherfucker?!”

A homeless man lying on a nearby park bench raised his arm and said, “Preach, brother.”

“Amen. Where is life taking you, sister?” The preacher looked at Eigen.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“She doesn’t know. How many times have I heard that. The repetition of the elocution of that rendition of proclamation leaves me wanting explanation. It is my contention that the asseveration of your location vis-à-vis your position remains without explanation in spite of my verbalization, my vocalization, my ejaculation of the problemation. Amen hallelujah can I get a witness?”