At Eric’s Rotisserie, Bing sat outside by himself, nursing white zinfandel beneath the large sunshade that jutted from the center of his table, while blustery wind roamed across campus—swirling dead leaves and bits of trash around the chairs and tables, flapping the awnings on the massive umbrellas. The weather kept the patio abandoned, and Bing preferred it that way—no chatty couples nearby, no loudmouth students talking about sports, or, even worse, popular music. On this chilly afternoon, he didn’t care that he was alone. He didn’t care that he’d left his coat in his office. And, for a moment, he almost didn’t mind that his head wasn’t quite screwed on tightly today. In The Cosmology of Bing Mitch Cullin offers a tale of intersecting lives during one school year in Houston: the college student and his artist roommate, the reclusive poet, the astronomer studying a supernova at a remote West Texas observatory, the young Japanese woman hopelessly in love with her gay friend—and at the center of this group is Bing Owen, a college professor who drowns his heartbreak, paranoia, and secret desires with alcohol. It’s a darkly humorous novel about longing, buried feelings and muted relationships, forgotten poetry and thrown pies—in which the mysteries of love, the interconnectedness of individuals, and the inexplicable nature of attraction occupy the same microcosm as exploding stars, ghost lights, and specters from the past.
