(xxvii)


He lies upon his back, on a bare mattress, hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling of a sparsely furnished room. It is a small room, perhaps ten feet by fifteen. The walls are concrete block, painted over a sickly green. There is a desk, and a chair, and a closet. In one corner there are stacked three or four cardboard boxes, which contain those few of his worldly possessions the mother of his children has decided he will need.

A naked light bulb stands out in the center of the ceiling. His eyes are focussed on it. His is not a naturally philosophic mind, but he has had a lot of time to think lately, and he has come to recognize the importance of the distinction between the sign itself, and what it signifies; what Frege called the life of the sign. The life of the sign, he has decided, is his to make and choose, and, he thinks, if he stares at this bulb long enough, “Sylvania 75” will come to mean something to him. He is not sure what. But he knows that it will be important.

It will not come easily, of course. But he is a patient man. He lies upon his back, hands clasped behind his head, staring at the bulb. It is a Saturday night. He has time upon his hands.


The evening is not silent. Conversations pass along the halls; the toilets flush; traffic moves down College Avenue, and the fraternity across the street has just discovered Led Zeppelin. But these noises seem distant, removed from the focus at the center of the ceiling, constellations turning in the sphere of a distant and irrelevant Empyrean. Any cometary disturbance within his personal atmosphere must take a moment to be recognized. A knock upon the door, for instance.


“Come in,” he says after a moment. He does not move.

“Gonzago.”

He sits abruptly upright. “Leonardo,” he says. He stares blankly at the figure in the doorway for a moment, and then rubs his eyes. “Come in. Sit down.” He gestures at the chair.

Leonardo enters; is seated, hands still tucked into the pockets of his coat. He looks at Gonzago, and then he looks around the room. He studies every item with meticulous attention. This takes perhaps thirty seconds. He looks again at Gonzago, then. “Interesting,” he says.

“Well?” Gonzago asks. There is enthusiasm in his voice, energy in his gestures. Both come to him naturally, but here they ring false.

“It’s functional, I suppose.”

“Come on. What more could I require?”

Leonardo considers this. “Perhaps,” he says carefully, “an exercise wheel and a water dish.”

“I’ll look into it.”

“So what’s happening?” Leonardo asks.

Brightly: “Just lying here thinking.”

“That’s all?”

“Sure.”

“Ah,” says Leonardo. He thinks.

“So what are you doing?” Gonzago asks.

“Cruising,” Leonardo says absently. “Just cruising.” He stands up. “Let’s go out.”

“I don’t know,” Gonzago says. “I have a lot to do.”

“Tomorrow. Let’s go.”

“I don’t know. I’m broke.”

“I’ll buy,” Leonardo says. His manner, in another, might be stern.

Gonzago rubs his eyes again. “I don’t know,” he says again.

Leonardo takes the black leather jacket hanging on the back of the chair, and hands it to Gonzago. “Come on,” he says. It is almost a command.

Gonzago stands, though it is not easy, and puts the jacket on. “What do you want to do?” he asks, as they walk out through the door.

“Get stupid,” Leonardo says, “and talk some football.”