by Adam Nemett
“As a teenager growing up in Oklahoma I considered myself a ‘storm chaser,’” Mott said. “The air of a tornado takes on solidity. Especially close to the ground. The bottom tip is so dense, spinning so fast, it might as well be made of iron.”
Mott held the bell of an orange plastic cone and traced a downward spiral along its insides to illustrate his point. The camera cut to a close-up. David could tell that Mott bit his fingernails.
“Modern physicists know,” Mott said, “that four-dimensional space—3-D matter, plus the fourth dimension of time—is also shaped like a funnel, a Picard topology hyperspace, and—”
“Professor, we—”
“The Earth’s energy spins around—see, like this—and down this vortex. The spiral gets tighter and tighter, see? And eventually we reach what’s called the ‘Null Point’ at the bottom.”
“And you’re saying this is the cause of the strange weather we’re having?”
“I have no idea, Tabitha. What I’m saying is that it’s the mechanism of chronostrictesis—of the changing quality of time we’re experiencing. It’s why every second feels shorter than the one before it. Though, a change in the fourth dimension has to affect the third dimension, so—”
“Well, thank you, Doctor, this has been—”
“Now, what happens when we reach the Null Point is really—”
“We’re just about out of time. Coming up next, we’ll have—”
“Indeed we are just about out of time! When you consider the topology of time, the Null Point is the real question, and if you believe the shamans who say we’re approaching the Pacha Cuti, then we’re entering a new stage in—”
“Doctor, we’re going to have to break.”
“Yes! We must break our—”
“No! We need to break for commercial and—”
The report might’ve easily disappeared into the cable ether, but by the time Mott yanked off his lapel mic and sprinted toward the camera babbling about supercells, the newsroom was in full upheaval and the segment’s YouTube immortality was confirmed. By week’s end, all the comedy pundits and late-night hosts did bits on the viral video, and the casual viewer might’ve chalked it up to an admirable troll job of stupid Fox News.
But days later major news outlets ran stories on chronostrictesis and the Null Point. Legit science papers had been published, reinforcing the news. If natural disasters were ratings gold, cosmic doomsday scenarios were platinum.
The symbol of chronostrictesis became known as “Mott’s Funnel,” a vortex icon in the upper left corner of the screen beside an ever-increasing “Time Crisis” graphic. Some tried to downplay the crisis, trading the funnel image for the swirl of a flushing toilet. But it was getting harder and harder to believe nothing was going on.
The temperature was dropping when two new faces—Fu Schroeder and Lee Popkin—arrived at Forbes. Their ancient powder-blue Buick would spirit David to his new home in Pennington, about ten miles away. They got on the road.
The trunk was bungee-cord full, and David sat in the backseat between two columns of duffel bags. Fu drove and Lee sat shotgun, smoking. Lee reminded David of a stork with a wallet chain. He had a small tuft of reddish hair holding out against a massive forehead. Black-rimmed glasses wrapped his ferret-like features; a downturned nose and protruding silver-dollar chin accentuated the pinch of his face. His legs were long taffied stalks ending in black Converse, propped against the dashboard. One skinny-jeaned knee poked out the passenger window and the other nearly nuzzled Fu’s ear.
Fu was taller than Lee and more jacked. Male model handsome. His lips were full and unsmiling, but his eyes kept glancing eagerly at David in the rearview mirror. White wireless earbuds stuck out from a bowl of black hair. David couldn’t tell if his music was on or if Fu was just nodding. He wore a nice scarf—Burberry, maybe—and generally, sartorially, looked like he came from money.
Move-in days were David’s kryptonite. Always disorienting, and he far preferred being the guy who knew where everything was.
Back in August, his first day on campus had been no different. It had rained all morning, and his introduction to new hall mates would be from inside that waterlogged gray wool blazer that once belonged to his grandpa László (also a Tiger, class of ’59). Beneath the blazer, David wore an orange Princeton hoodie, which Mom insisted he put on because otherwise he’d catch a cold. Under this hood sat a matted turban of auburn hair, a beard, and oversize Clark Kent glasses with nonprescription lenses. Riding the dorm elevator, David stared despondently at his reflection—a short, melting blur in the gunmetal doors.
When the doors parted, he strode past room 327, 325, 323, names, names, names, names and hometowns emblazoned on different pastel shades of construction paper taped over doorjambs, alongside Japanese calligraphy and magazine cutouts of pagodas. The hall theme was apparently “Asia.” Freshman Zen.
David remembered thinking this was a strange choice. American attitude toward the East had dropped since China began cashing in its U.S. bonds, sending the dollar into free fall. On a dry-erase board in the hall, some eager kid had already written, “Vacate Afghanistan!! Invade China!!” in fiery lettering. David wondered if he’d be expected to understand global politics in college; if he’d have to take sides, become an activist, at least socially. This wasn’t his power swing. He didn’t know enough about Afghanistan. He knew we’d discovered vast mineral deposits there, especially lithium, which China wanted. He knew we’d left Iraq but were still kind of in Iraq. He knew we were never technically in Iran but were always kind of in Iran. And now Jordan and Bolivia and Chile. He knew we’d been in Afghanistan since the 1980s, when something happened there involving the Russians, and this thing had been adapted into a movie starring Tom Hanks. And David knew, generally, that he was against war—any war, most wars—and that he was, in all likelihood, against the ones in the Middle East. He’d resolved to do some googling, and until then, if anyone asked, he would agree that, hell yes, we should most definitely vacate Afghanistan.
Now, here was another disorienting ride to parts unknown, with two strangers in the front seat. As they’d pulled away from Forbes, David asked, “Are we headed straight to Mathias’s house?”
“It’s not a house,” Lee answered, sounding annoyed. “It’s The Egg.”
Lee talked in an intentionally oblique way, constantly flicking his cigarette, prohibiting even a hint of ash to collect at its cherry. Fu, meanwhile, barely moved, save two fingers drumming an intricate beat on the steering wheel. When his phone rang, Fu picked it up without speaking. David heard a mumble on the other end, and Fu hung up without a word. He then deftly thumbed a text.
“Why does Blue always call you when you’re the one who barely talks?” Lee asked. “And why do you always drive when you’re the one who’s Asian?”
“Why do I let you keep all of your teeth when they’d be so easy to knock out?” asked Fu. He flashed a text message for Lee to read from his phone.
“No, tell him we’re not picking up this freshman and going to PQM. If he wants batteries he can send Owen. They’re calling for like three inches.”
“I only heard freezing rain,” David offered.
“Well, I guess they upgraded it then, huh?” said Lee to the backseat. “You’re lucky, Blue’s actually in town for a change. No way we would’ve brought in someone new if he was traveling.”
“Like a study-abroad thing?” David asked.
“No, like a trust-fund-out-his-ass thing,” said Lee. “Like cash-just-falling-from-his-anus thing. The Egg—all of it—is paid by Blue.”
They looked like pterodactyl elbows, Lee’s knees. Or maybe bendy straws. Lee turned around deliberately, his eyes droopy.
“You know his mom was a Bond girl?” Lee asked, taking a slow drag. “Timothy Dalton era. The old guy from Hot Fuzz.” Clearly a favorite piece of lore that Lee relished in telling. David couldn’t picture Mathias springing from the loins of a 1980s sexpot. He had a wiry rock-star th
ing going, but his wasn’t movie-star beauty. Sure, he had a well-defined bone structure—sharp angles under smooth skin—but piece by piece his features were unremarkable.
His mouth, however. His mouth was a nucleus of envy.
When the surge would happen midway through March and girls started living at The Egg, they’d scour the house for Mathias’s used drinking glasses, coveting the quarter-moon of his bottom lip on the rim like detectives protecting a prized fingerprint. They’d press their own mouths to the same spot of the glass, less for the pseudo-sexual thrill than for the rush of being in the same exact spot as Mathias. David, too, would sheepishly place his winter boots in the footprints Mathias had left during a walking meditation through the backyard’s fresh snow, hoping the energy that had passed between Mathias and the earth might still be lingering there and might accidentally pass into David’s own soles.
“That’s why you wanna move in, isn’t it?” Lee asked the rearview mirror.
“Because of Mathias’s mom?”
“No, his dad. His money and connections and whatever.”
“Who’s his dad?”
This time both of them turned around. Fu slowed the car, nearly pulled over.
“Um, probably our next secretary of defense,” said Lee.
David nodded as if that answered everything, but before he could get them to elaborate, Fu’s phone vibrated again and he showed it to Lee.
“Now they say six inches,” Lee relayed.
“I didn’t even know there was money,” David admitted. “I just need a place to live.”
Lee sighed. “You need to think of this shit like applying for a grant. Mathias is a foundation.”
“I’ll be honest,” David said. “I’ve never been comfortable around superrich kids.”
“You went to a good high school, right?”
“Public,” David said, like it was a badge of honor.
“Your parents well-off?”
“The Fuffmans are solidly upper middle class,” he said. “But I work a summer job.”
The job, however, was running the snack bar at Bonnie View Country Club. Like David, most of his high school friends preferred to act as if they had less money than they actually had. Trust-fund kids like Mathias, unashamed of their station and willing to act as benefactors—it was not something he’d ever encountered before.
“Well, get comfortable with it,” Lee said. “Gotta have an angle or else he’ll never fund you.”
“Fund me? No, I just met him at the Institute Woods,” David said. “He was building a hot tub in that Stony Brook river and I helped him carry rocks until he drugged me and stole my grandfather’s blazer. So…”
Lee blew a stream of smoke at him. “Mathias was right. You’re more bishop than knight.”
“Clearly,” said David.
“Yeah, see, knights kinda plod along in this L shape, move by move, and you can basically see where they’re headed. But bishops can fuckin’ hide in the back row until they get an opening and then fly diagonally across the board to fuck your shit up. Don’t even see them coming.”
— Ø —
Though the snow picked up as Fu pulled into Pennington, the town still felt sunny and sweet. Fu’s driving stayed solid, but the ice made him slow his speed, giving David ample time to scan the neighborhood. Lots of yuletide cheer and a distinct lack of corporate presence. All the storefronts on Main Street were mom-and-pops: NIFTY THRIFT, THREE DOG HARDWARE, RED, WHITE & BLOOMS. David felt giddy. He’d never lived in a town with an actual Main Street, this gently sloping road lined with sycamores and two-story houses and American flags shooting up from porches.
And just off Main Street, on a cul-de-sac called Woosamonsa Court, was The Egg.
Immediately, it was clear why they called it that. Instead of the typical colonial home—triangle on top of square—The Egg’s facade was a near-perfect parabola. Like one of those Buckminster Fuller geodesic domes, but stretched, so that head-on, the home looked like a grocery egg protruding from its carton, or an Easter egg hiding in the grass, or a boob. It was pale yellow and, yes, eggs are white, but whatever, the name made sense. The place also had an attached garage—a kind of motorcycle sidecar—plus a big backyard fenced in by cypress trees. Only two other houses in the cul-de-sac, one of them empty looking with a sign in the yard that read, IN ESCROW. Lots of privacy.
On top of The Egg, wearing purple sweatpants and a purple hoodie, was Mathias Blue. With a small hand axe he was hacking away at a tree branch that had fallen on the roof, trying to break it into two pieces, making it easier to move.
Despite the snow, he looked much warmer up there than the first time they’d met at the Stony Brook and even more impressively tall, high atop The Egg. Yet there was something elfin about him, pointy ears and an angular chin punctuated with a pyramid of hair. David remembered thinking Mathias was a grad student when they first met and being surprised to learn he was only a sophomore. Mathias had taken at least a year off school to travel, so he was maybe two or even three years older, but they were basically the same age, which made David feel strangely jealous. Hearing the car arrive, Mathias tucked his axe into his sweatshirt pouch and climbed down a ladder.
Clearly, Mathias knew stuff about carpentry and other manly things David now felt a dire need to learn. Seeing that axe, it started to sink in that this was the reality of off-campus living: no school-sanctioned maintenance crews to fix things. David was okay at hanging shelves or assembling IKEA furniture, but he wanted to understand electricity and plumbing and other household guts no one ever taught him. The notion had been weighing on him: that there was something inherently more noble about knowing how to fell a tree or skin a fox or rebuild a carburetor compared with the high-minded skills that made one attractive to Ivy League admissions officers.
But still, what was he doing here, moving into this architectural relic with a bunch of crazy people? These guys were part of the scant 2 percent of students who lived off-campus. David had witnessed his roommate Owen’s meltdown firsthand, but what tragedies had befallen the others? He wondered if they’d been kicked out, too. He wondered if they, like him, could no longer conduct themselves in a manner befitting a Princeton Man. At least David wasn’t the only one. He’d read that the fall semester had seen more dropouts and leaves of absence nationwide than the previous three years combined. Kids reclaiming their time before time was officially up.
David hadn’t noticed the quantitative shortening, but the qualitative shift was real. Despite what clocks and scientists said about chronostrictesis, it simply felt as if there were fewer and fewer spare moments. Outside the Princeton bubble, futures markets speculated on the value of the minute. Unions picketed for wage increases, while CEOs threatened pay cuts for “shortened” workdays. A disorganized governmental agency began regulating calendrics and temporality, with some lobbying for a recalculation of the second and others wanting adjustments of the month or year. Plenty wrote it off as soft science. There was no truth, they claimed, to chronostrictesis.
A minute was a minute.
Shimmying down from the roof, Mathias grabbed a milk crate full of booze. He tossed a full bottle of vodka into a nearby garbage can. It smashed delightfully.
It was then that David got a better look at that fairly serious hatchet also sticking out of his sweatshirt. David was going to ask about it, but instead, he said, “Nice pants.”
“Hey, thanks for thinking my pants are nice,” Mathias said back.
“You wear a lot of purple, huh?”
“I’m a purple supremacist. Now, did you come for your grandpa’s blazer or did you come for good?”
David pointed to the Buick, its trunk overflowing with his boxes of books. Fu began unloading them into the house, one balanced atop each shoulder, seemingly a welcome excuse for aerobic drills. Lee stood by, smoking, engrossed in his phone.
“Super,” Mathias said.
David took a longer look at the axe. Black iron axe head and a cherry handle,
straight out of the Middle Ages. He tried to stay cool. Mathias seemed to sense concern and held the blade gingerly for David to see.
“You told me your grandfather made jet engines,” Mathias said. “Mine used to make weapons. Guns and knives and hatchets for Civil War reenactments. I think he was the main guy doing it at one point, so he was a big deal in certain circles. He’s dead now, but he gave me this axe. I’d like to make it into a functional wood splitter, while still retaining its original integrity, like how you co-opted your grandpa’s blazer. Hey, is there actual vino in those wine boxes?”
“Books,” David said. “I hope you’re not dumping alcohol on my account?” When they last spoke, David had mentioned, with no small sense of pride, his recent decision to quit drinking.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” Mathias winked. “Lee’s been tinkering with the chemistry in these bottles and accidentally created poison. You know anything about distillation? Don’t worry, you’ll pick it up quick. It’s a crazy useful trade skill for when shit hits the fan, regardless of whether or not you actually drink the stuff. Here”—he handed David a full bottle of brown liquor and pointed to a car across the cul-de-sac—“go ahead and chuck this at that Nissan Sentra.”
Was he serious? David wondered if he should smash it, to prove that he could, or else decline, to prove that he could. Either way, he wanted Mathias to know whom he was dealing with.
“I’m concerned that you’re hazing me prematurely.” David was trying to say no.
“It’s not hazing. More of a Buddhist koan. You don’t know whether I want you to be the type of guy who will smash the bottle just because I asked or the type of guy who will tell me to go fuck myself. Maybe I’m not looking for either response, just a little creativity. Maybe you hand me an orange peel and yodel. Either way, it kinda comes down to imagination. And maybe balls.”
David barked a single laugh. Mathias reminded him of a prince in disguise, possibly a bit psychic. In response to the liquor bottle koan, David decided to recite a favorite Walden quote: