Joules 12
by Darren Chase
“You still up for wrecking my hole today?” Monty texted.
“Bike over so I can sniff your sweaty ass” was Rex’s immediate reply. Monty remained breathless for the second or two it took for the iPhone’s glowing ellipsis to disappear and reveal Rex’s next missive: “You. In my bed. Twenty minutes.”
Blood rushed to the base of Monty’s dick. Unemployed and receiving Pandemic unemployment assistance, he was grateful to his asshole for bringing purpose to the day. If he left immediately, he’d have just enough time to make it over the Williamsburg Bridge to Brooklyn with the perfect bouquet of pheromones for his trick’s exacting taste. To arrive precisely on time excited him at least as much as the promise of an orgasm. He jumped out of bed.
Monty had stayed up way too late the night before watching a documentary on black holes. He thought he would sleep in, but had nevertheless awakened early and anxious, recalling flashes of the night’s vivid dreams, vignettes that conformed to the film’s editing:
[EXTERIOR: A British country estate, swans, ducks, leafy trees.]
[Cut to INTERIOR where, on a large chalkboard, four famous physicists work out the details of a long mathematical proof.]
All night and early into the morning, Monty had marveled at how, through a complex equation working out to “Joules 12,” the physicists, three men and one woman, had somehow proved that information is not destroyed in a black hole; that, on the contrary, it is transformed and reassembled within the hair-like aura around the edges of a black hole’s event horizon. Monty found it chilling that before this discovery, physicists must have had to embrace the very unscientific understanding that where black holes were concerned, chaos reigned.
“Joules 12” thought Monty, as he pedaled his CitiBike hard up the bridge’s incline on the Manhattan side, “such an arbitrary number to prove order in the universe.” He glanced at his Apple watch. If he gunned it on the decline, he’d make it to Rex’s place with only minutes to spare.
He reached the bridge’s highest point, and for a moment his thoughts became subservient to his physical exertion: He pedaled as fast as possible over the level section at its center to gain speed on the decline. As the bike began to angle downward, he mused, “Did black holes begin the big bang?” and then, allowing his legs to rest during the first moments of descent, “or do they end it?” Again, he began to pedal, increasing his speed, passing several cyclists who were cruising down gently, aided only by the Law of Motion. As he reached the bike path’s exit at the foot of the bridge, he braked, slowing for the turn onto South 5th Street. He was covered in sweat. Perfect. He checked his updated ETA. He would be in his trick’s bed at 9:22, exactly twenty minutes from Rex’s last text. All was right in the universe.
Darren Chase teaches high school in New York City. Also an accomplished opera singer, he has released several albums of classical songs. His translation of Wilhelm Müller’s "Die Winterreise" is used for English-language performances of Schubert’s song cycle all over the world. He studies writing with Bruce Benderson. He can be found @chasedarren.