Pop Fibonacci Black Hole

More about Pop Fibonacci Black Hole

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Nobody noticed the black hole at first because New York had always contained several things that behaved exactly like black holes: money, fame, traffic, and the desire to become somebody else.

Then Fibonacci arrived.

He came spiraling through the afternoon—1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34—each number opening another door inside the previous door until mathematics developed an appetite.

Marilyn was driving uptown in a red convertible when she saw the Empire State Building bend slightly toward the west.

“That’s new,” she said.

Campbell’s soup cans had grown forty stories tall. Brillo boxes were renting apartments. Butterflies the size of newspapers fluttered between skyscrapers, and crowns appeared over people who had never been kings.

The radio announced that everything was perfectly normal.

This was how Marilyn knew something terrible was happening.

At Forty-Second Street the Fibonacci spiral opened completely. It wasn’t black exactly. It was the color underneath color, where red, blue and gold went after they had finished being looked at.

Andy Warhol stood on the sidewalk photographing it.

“Andy,” Marilyn called, “you probably shouldn’t do that.”

He took another photograph.

The black hole swallowed the photograph.

Then it swallowed the camera.

Andy seemed impressed.

By sunset the spiral had consumed three billboards, seven advertisements, two television celebrities, a Cadillac dealership and the entire concept of fifteen minutes of fame.

Strangely, it rejected the pigeons.

Marilyn pressed the accelerator.

The convertible raced around the spiral, following the golden curve inward. 34 became 21. Twenty-one became 13. Thirteen became 8.

Everything was getting smaller and somehow larger.

She passed herself on the highway.

Then passed herself again.

One Marilyn was twenty-six. Another was eighty. Another had never become famous and was standing barefoot in a kitchen making tomato soup.

“Which one is real?” she shouted.

The black hole answered:

1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8…

And suddenly she understood.

Reality wasn’t disappearing.

It was repeating itself with variations.

The universe had been doing Pop Art billions of years before Pop Art existed: stars copied stars, shells copied galaxies, faces copied ancestors, advertisements copied desire, and desire copied itself endlessly.

At the center of the spiral there was no monster.

There was only a tiny black circle.

Marilyn stopped the car beside it.

A butterfly landed on the steering wheel.

For one impossible second, New York became absolutely silent.

Then the little circle whispered:

“Again.”

The universe exploded outward in Campbell’s red, Brillo blue, Cadillac chrome and impossible gold.

And somewhere far away, Fibonacci started counting from one.