This book is based on real events. Only the people, places, and events are fictionalized. The stupidity is 100% real.
Just one of Carlos’ two guest rooms was larger than Cynthia’s entire apartment. The bathroom was larger than her bedroom, the bed larger than her kitchen.
It took Cynthia a grand total of three minutes to unpack her bag and place her clothes inside a dresser and toothbrush on the bathroom sink. Without a phone or computer tethering her to the wider world, she felt completely unmoored, with no idea how to spend her time. She bounced on the plush mattress top for a full minute. Then she stared at her hands for another two. Cynthia told herself she would take a nap but knew she had far too much residual adrenaline pumping through her body to fall asleep. Eventually, the sheer loneliness, boredom, and desire for companionship that drew her hominid ancestors in the Miocene to band together overpowered her 21st century anxiety of leaving the room to speak with an attractive semi-stranger in his high-rise penthouse.
Cynthia entered the kitchen to Carlos tossing $1,500 worth of carcinogenic smoothies down the trash chute.
“I don’t imagine you have a Hot Pocket around here, do you?” she asked with a grin.
Carlos pursed his lips.
“Afraid not.”
He shut the chute.
“That was literally all the food I had in the world.”
“We can debate whether or not SoyMan could really be considered food.”
Carlos chuckled and sat on a stool by his kitchen island.
“Fair enough. Care to join me?”
He gestured at an adjacent stool.
“Sure, why not?” answered Cynthia, and sat down.
“So, what are you going to do about food now?” she asked.
Carlos sighed.
“I can’t exactly go to the grocery store. Last time I did that, I was almost crushed to death by a mob of Venezuelan stay-at-home moms.”
Cynthia shot him an incredulous look.
“Most men would kill to have random women fling themselves at them.”
This, of course, was exactly what Cynthia had done—a realization that only sank in as she finished the sentence.
Carlos sighed.
“Yeah, probably. But that kind of notoriety means I can barely leave my apartment. I feel like a prisoner here.”
“It’s a very nice prison,” ventured Cynthia.
“It gives me a headache,” he replied morosely.
“Well, take an Advil and open Instacart because I haven’t had a bite since last night and I refuse to starve to death in this gorgeous jail cell.”
The two spent the next half hour quibbling over what groceries to order. Carlos insisted on lean protein and organic produce. Cynthia wanted processed food and candy. They compromised by getting both. When it arrived, Carlos busied himself with preparing a kale salad and baked salmon as Cynthia ruined her appetite with a bag of M&Ms.
“So, what got you into this predicament in the first place?” asked Carlos, his back turned to Cynthia as he fiddled with the convection oven.
“What do you mean?” she answered through a mouthful of chocolate.
“Why’d you choose to investigate the Bulge?”
Cynthia exhaled.
“What’s your hourly rate? Because this might be about to turn into a therapy session.”
Carlos snickered as he opened the oven and plated the salmon.
“Do you have insurance?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Come on,” she chided him. “You know damn well I don’t.”
“Oh yeah, very true. I had to pay for your non-ankle injury.”
“I still feel bad about that…” she started timidly.
“Don’t,” he said with a smile. “It meant that I got to meet you.”
She smiled back.
“So, let’s get back to therapy,” he continued. “I’ll give you a discount.”
Carlos placed one dish in front of Cynthia and sat down with the other. She picked at the salmon with a fork.
“Oh, my,” her voice was pensive, deeper than usual, her face creased in thought. “Well, I guess there are three main reasons I’m investigating the Bulge. The first is based on pure curiosity.”
Her face lit up.
“It’s like this thing is a massive puzzle and putting the weird, crazy pieces together is just thrilling. I love it.”
“Alright,” said Carlos between mouthfuls of salad. “Interesting way to get your kicks but I get it. I felt the same way when conducting research, trying to find the answer to an as-yet unanswered question. What’s reason number two?”
“Reason number two is that something smells off.”
“Is it the fish?” he enquired with exaggerated concern.
“No, no,” she waved him off. “The Bulging was and is a massive disruption to thousands of people’s lives. Billions of dollars are being spent on trying to take advantage of a disaster. A very few people will get much richer, and the vast majority will get fucked, just like with anything else, I guess. I feel this compulsion to expose that corruption, show the world, and hopefully get some justice for everyone left holding the bag.”
“A bit of a superhero complex,” quipped Carlos. “You watched “All the President’s Men” and want to be the next Woodward or Bernstein. Typical journalist. No surprise there. Which finally brings us to reason number three.”
“Are you ready for the real therapizing?”
He pointed a fork at her.
“I’m ready.”
“Well, honestly, I know this might seem a bit egotistical, but I want a Pulitzer and thought this was probably my best chance to get one.”
Carlos gave her a knowing look.
“No, I don’t think it’s egocentric. It’s good to shoot high. I did it my whole career, up until the last few years…”
He gave a sad half-smile and turned back to his salad.
“But that begs another question,” he continued. “Why a Pulitzer? Why put yourself through so much for an award?”
Cynthia’s shoulders dropped.
“Oh, I don’t know… I grew up with immigrant parents who were obsessed with making sure I constantly hit these societal markers of success. I had to get into a great school, then it was all about being accepted into the gifted program, then I had to get good grades and join the right extracurriculars—debate club, track and field, student council, that kind of thing. And then, finally, I earned a spot in a prestigious college and a job at an important company. I think that, having lived such uncertain lives, they hoped, if I met these milestones, I wouldn’t have to struggle as much as they did, that I’d be happy.”
She turned to Carlos. He looked pensive.
“I think I internalized all that, the promises I heard growing up, that, if I gave it my all and followed a prearranged path, I’d make it. You know, the American Dream. So, I did all those things in the hope that, if I just got one more accolade, one more prize, one more gold star, I’d finally earn that promised stability and not have to struggle so much, always on the brink of financial and professional disaster. I wanted to be able to tell my parents that their hard work—and mine—paid off, that I made it, and they didn’t have to worry about me anymore. That obviously hasn’t happened yet… I don’t know if it’ll ever happen because the world feels much more volatile than when they were my age, and that kills me inside…”
She paused and willed herself not to cry.
“Ugh!” she exclaimed. “Anyway, if I were sitting on an actual therapist’s couch right now, I’d probably admit that chasing this Pulitzer is just a continuation of that search for validation and security. I just want to stop fighting so hard with nothing to show for it…”
A single tear ran down Cynthia’s face before she could wipe it away.
“Is it OK… if I hug you?” asked Carlos.
“Ha! Yes!”
Carlos wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her into his chest.
“Oh, this is nice,” she admitted between sniffles. “You’re a good hugger.”
Carlos chuckled. They held each other for a while until Cynthia disengaged and went back to playing with the salmon.
“Where’s your family from?” he asked.
“Panama, but I was born in Miami. What about yours?”
“The Philippines. That’s where I was born. My parents brought me here when I was four.”
“You guys are our Hispanic Asian cousins!” exclaimed Cynthia.
“Haha! Yep! Though hopefully distant cousins,” he added with a sly glance. “We had the same colonizers.”
“Which one?” she asked, replicating his look.
“Both!” he cried.
The two shared a laugh.
“Do you keep in touch with your parents?” asked Cynthia.
Now it was Carlos’ turn to become contemplative.
“Not for a while,” he answered.
“I’m sorry to hear that…”
“It’s OK,” he interrupted. “I mean, it’s not OK, but I want you to know it’s OK to ask the question. Like you said, my parents were also obsessed with me getting good grades and doing everything else a dutiful Asian kid should do. I was lucky that I really loved to study, especially science. I met and then exceeded their expectations. They were so happy, so proud of me—until they weren’t.”
“What happened?”
“Come on, you know,” he chastised her. “I feel like everyone knows. Millions of people I never met know. And when it happened, my parents were so mortified, so dumbfounded by the sheer scale of shame I brought on the family that they simply couldn’t deal with it. They cut off all contact with me, like I never existed, like I was never born.”
Carlos looked away as his eyes watered. His voice quavered.
“It was like their approval, their love, their pride was all conditional. As long as I was the perfect son they expected me to be, they’d always be there. But, when I failed, when I needed them the most, they literally abandoned me.”
Cynthia put a hand on his shoulder.
“You know, it’s OK to cry if you need to,” she offered.
“I know, I know,” he answered, wiping his eyes. “But something, something, toxic masculinity, something, something, show no weakness.”
She side-eyed him and smiled.
“OK, Mr. Hard-Ass…” she said.
“Look who’s talking, Ms. Hard-Ass!” he retorted. “You didn’t want to emote either!”
“Let’s just chalk it up to generational baggage or something.”
“Agreed!”
He paused.
“Hey, how about we stop trauma bonding and do something fun?”
“God, yes!” she shouted to the ceiling. “What do you have in mind?”
“Well, RuPaul always brings me joy.”
Cynthia drew back from him in shock.
“You—you, a straight macho man—watch Drag Race?” she asked incredulously.
“Hell yes, I do!” he replied in mock defensiveness. “You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover—something you’d know if you watched the show.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said with a raised eyebrow. “Why do you watch Drag Race?”
“Because it’s the most entertainment-dense artform ever invented!” he gushed, punctuating his words with hand waves. “Good drag has everything! Fashion, pageantry, choreography, acting, comedy, beauty, artistry, makeup, all with a giant dollop of camp! It’s the greatest satire in the world because it’s inherently subversive. Queens rebel against thousands of years of rigid gender rules by the simple act of existing. Drag takes all of society’s expectations, turns them inside out, and laughs at them. It’s incredible!”
Cynthia gave a look halfway between amusement and concern.
“I had no idea any cis man could be so into drag,” she marveled. “OK, who are your favorite queens?”
“Oh my God, that’s impossible to answer!” he rolled his head in an exaggerated arc. “Willow Pill is an insanely talented weird queen. Angeria Paris VanMicheals is the full package. Anetra is a lip sync and dancing goddess! Bob the Drag Queen, Nina West, and Sapphira Cristál are acting geniuses. Jinkx Monsoon and Chad Michaels demolished Snatch Game. Kim Chi is the ultimate makeup queen. Gottmik is a fashion and design savant. Nina Flowers is a punk icon. And you can’t forget Ms. Vanjie!”
Cynthia nodded her head in qualified approval.
“Alright, Carlos, I believe you,” she admitted. “I’ll watch Drag Race with you.”
“Cool!”
Carlos jumped out of his chair in excitement.
“Let’s do All Stars, though. It’s more congenial because I feel like the queens are already at the top of their games and have less to prove.”
“Whatever you want!” she replied in bemusement as she grabbed her plate and moved next to him on the couch.
When Monica rejoined them an hour later, they were yelling at the TV during a particularly heated Lip Synch for Your Legacy. She walked to the screen and turned it off to their vociferous complaints.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she started sarcastically. “I didn’t realize you two had already figured out what caused the Bulge.”
“You didn’t?” she added in response to their embarrassed expressions. “OK, well, maybe remember that we’re not here to sleep over and play grab-ass. We need to solve this little riddle and fuck over whoever needs fucking before the goons catch back up with Cynthia. This is your wheelhouse, Mr. Science Genius. Any ideas?”
“That’s Dr. Science Genius,” corrected Carlos, taking on airs. “I didn’t get my doctorate in science genius studies for nothing…”
“Yes, yes,” said Monica. “We understand the joke. Cut to the chase.”
Carlos rolled his eyes.
“Well, I have absolutely no evidence pointing one way or the other, but my working hypothesis is that the Bulge might be the surface manifestation of a geologic phenomenon. That’s the only force I can imagine that would be sufficiently strong to push up a whole hill literally overnight.”
Carlos stood up, grabbed a paper towel from the kitchen, and returned to the couch.
“Florida is basically a giant slab of limestone—the sedimentary remains of billions of microscopic organisms accumulated at the bottom of a shallow sea that dried up. This sedimentary bedrock was exposed way back during the Oligocene Era. It’s been geologically inactive for tens of millions of years: no major fault lines, no earthquakes, no tectonic collisions, which is why Florida is so geologically boring, so universally flat. Since we haven’t seen any mountain ranges or magnitude 7 earthquakes pop up across the state, that rules out a new, massive tectonic development.”
He laid the paper towel on top of his hand.
“So, we’re left with another possible explanation: a hot spot. This occurs when a plume of molten rock rises from the earth’s mantle, forcing the crust upward.”
Carlos pressed a finger against the bottom of the paper towel, forming a small hump in the otherwise smooth plain.
“Like blood pressing a boner against the inside of a pair of jeans?” asked Monica with a devious smile.
Both Carlos and Cynthia glared at her.
“What?” she demanded. “I’m just trying to find a helpful metaphor!”
“Yes, actually,” said Carlos, just as annoyed by the apt nature of the analogy as by Monica’s jab. “Very much like an erection. Hot spots can happen literally anywhere on the planet, including otherwise geologically stable areas. For example, one in the middle of the Pacific Plate created the Hawaiian Islands.”
“Shouldn’t we see some sort of volcanic activity around the Bulge, like lava, ash, or smoke, if that were the case?” asked Cynthia.
“Maybe,” replied Carlos. “But not necessarily. There are so many different variables that dictate the nature of hot spots. Some erupt immediately. Others take thousands or even millions of years to come alive. However, we should be able to find some telltale chemical markers on the Bulge itself if it were geologically active. You’d expect to be able to see higher levels of sulfur dioxide, hydrogen chloride, and carbon dioxide, among others.”
“How will you be able to detect those markers?” asked Cynthia.
“That’s simple,” answered Carlos. “You just send atmospheric and soil samples to a lab, and they’ll have the results ready in 24 hours.”
“Great!” exclaimed Monica. “I’ll sneak you and Cynthia into the Bulge so you can collect the samples.”
“What!?” they both yelled.
“Tonight,” added Monica.
“Are you out of your mind?” exclaimed Carlos.
“That place has to be crawling with security!” added Cynthia.
“No, and not exactly,” replied Monica. “First of all, like I already said, we need to figure this out before Santos’ and Elzos’ thugs catch up with you. That means we go ASAP. Secondly, the governor made a big show of posting her yahoo militia and try-hard Sunshine Guard inside and outside the electrified fence…”
“Electrified fence!?” cried Cynthia.
“Let me finish,” responded Monica, presenting the palms of her hands as if to say, “everyone chill.”
“Yes, an electrified fence, but it’s all for show. Neither Santos’ wannabe Brown Shirts nor her Army washouts have the slightest idea what they’re guarding or guarding against because their only function is to look intimidating. I’m going to walk you right through the front gate.”
“How on God’s Green Earth are you going to do that?” demanded Carlos.
“For all its importance, this is a construction site with construction site security. Hundreds of workers and tons of heavy equipment stream in and out every hour. Logistically, they just can’t do a deep background check on everyone passing through the gate because it’ll bring progress to a standstill. So, they just have an RFID card reader at the front where you’ll flash your badges and waltz right in.”
“We don’t have badges!” said Cynthia.
“Won’t there be cameras everywhere?” asked Carlos
“Calm down,” replied Cynthia with practiced patience. “This is not my first rodeo. I’ve infiltrated dozens of people into similar supposed high security sites to muck around with oil pipelines, power plants, and open pit mines, and no one’s ever been caught. I’ll print your badges in my van, give you aliases, and hack them into the corporate personnel system. I can rush order a pair of branded Griffin Ventures work shirts, hardhats, clipboards, and safety vests. As for cameras, yes, there will be plenty covering the gate and the fence, but they’re not running FBI level facial recognition software because they, once again, don’t have the funds or processing power. The cameras are purely there to stop wayward anarchists from jumping the fence. Once you’re inside, you should be able to go where you please.”
“OK,” said Carlos, rising from the couch and pacing before Cynthia and Monica. “You seem very practiced at all this, but won’t people find it pretty suspicious that we’re just walking around taking samples? And what if someone recognizes me?”
“Buddy, don’t flatter yourself,” responded Monica. “You’re going to a site full of middle-aged, blue-collar workers, not your local Equinox. It’ll be dark, you’ll be wearing a hat, and I can give you a pair of non-prescription glasses and a fake beard. Finally, there’s one fail proof way to make sure no one bothers you in situations like this as you go about your business.”
“And what’s that?” asked Cynthia.
“Tell them you’re quality control.”
Carlos and Cynthia shared a troubled look.
“What does that mean?” asked Carlos.
“Nobody knows!” answered Monica, throwing her hands in the air with a grin. “And no one wants to find out! Everyone just assumes you’re there to tell on them, so they leave you the hell alone! Also, I’ll be flying my drone overhead to monitor their signals traffic and warn you if anything unsavory heads your way.”
There was a moment of silence while Carlos and Cynthia shot glances at each other and then at Monica.
“Does that answer your many questions?” she asked.
“Ummm, I guess?” hesitated Cynthia.
“Glad to hear it!” replied Cynthia, already walking toward the door. “I have a lot of work to do.”
She grabbed the handle before turning back.
“We’ll meet back here at 10 PM, when I’ll fully brief you. In the meantime, try to get some sleep. It’s going to be a long night.”
