I feel so groggy, yet at the same time I feel as if I've slept for months.
Yawning into the back of my hand, I survey the other people on the platform. Below us, cars speed by and people are strolling Westchester Square, taking shade from the sun under the L.
I snatch my bag from in front of my feet and start walking toward the rail as soon as I see the green 6.
Doors hiss open. Doors hiss shut.
The train rolls. Zerega Avenue. Castle Hill. Parkchester.
I lean back folding back the News. I get the page 53 treatment today. Thanks, copy chief.
There are some mildly interesting stories, but I lose myself in my thoughts.
Doors hiss open. Doors hiss shut.
We aren't picking up many people. Remembering the time I got on the subway at 8 a.m. and didn't even realize it was a Saturday until 125th Street, I checked my watch.
It's Tuesday. Have we invented a national holiday I haven't heard about?
Something is odd about this whole arrangement, physically, and it's got nothing to do with the lack of people. It doesn't quite hit me until I step off onto Grand Central and out of the grand concourse to the street.
It's misty, but crisp. Chaotic, but organized. Green, but many hues.
And, as the fumes of the subway platform give way to a the steam from a hot dog vendor, the thought comes to me: I've got today in digital.
I haven't felt this way since I took a sugar cube of acid my sophomore year of college.
I approach the corner and am about to cross when I double back toward a news stand, my stomach pulling me along as retribution for burning my last two waffles this morning.
As I pull my wallet out to pay for a coffee, I turn my head back to look at the intersection and see its grid superimposed over my field of vision. There's a beautiful girl with dark hair crossing halfway, and some street vendors on the other side, slickly packing up their makeshift storefronts before two cops a half block down bust their operation. There are private school kids in uniforms, ties loosened as they move in a battalion toward the diner across the street, and a leggywoman in a sharp business suit hailing a cab. I can see the logo of the coffee shop behind me in her retina.
But the cab isn't stopping for her. Instead, it's heading straight into the path of beautiful black-haired girl, and she is oblivious.
Ignoring the difference, I dash straight for her.
And it feels like I'm in a dream, the way the ground lurches behind me and I seem able to skip steps on the concrete.
The cab is close, but I'm closer. I shove my full weighinto the girl, knocking her forward. I would mumble an apology, but I'm out of air, and just when I start to think, in a split second, that I've done it (yes, I've done it!) the cab clips my right leg.
I spiral toward the curb and smack up against a parked car, hearing glass crack as my cheek hits the passenger's side window and I slump down onto the street. I can hear the cab's tires screech, and the pop of a fire hydrant before water spouts out in a rush.
I reach out gingerly, pressing my fingers into my thigh and knee. Miraculously, I don't feel a twitch of pain.
People are staring, and a kid who looks about 20 years old offers me his hand to hoist me up.
"Unbelievable," he says, shaking his head. "You're lucky you didn't break the entire right side of your body."
"You're telling me," I say, dusting myself off. The cabbie has got out, and he's walking toward me, a look of wrinkled concern on his face. Bizarre. "It's okay, I'm all right."
I survey they damage and look for the girl I just risked my neck for, but she's nowhere to be found.
What girl?
The ground ripples. The cascade spouting from the fire hydrant reverses itself and telescopes back into its spout, and the hydrant is right side-up again and gleaming. The car window that cracked against my face spiders inward, and in half a second it is clear again.
What was that? What was what?
There are people around me, staring at me, except they've all got a look on their faces that says they can't quite remember why they've been paused in the middle of the street, looking at a stranger. Well, what are they staring at?
I have an urge to dust myself off, but I don't know why and my clothes are spotless when I check them over.
As I turn south to make the four-block walk to my office, I can't help but think what a wierd morning this has been. But I can't remember why.
Yawning into the back of my hand, I survey the other people on the platform. Below us, cars speed by and people are strolling Westchester Square, taking shade from the sun under the L.
I snatch my bag from in front of my feet and start walking toward the rail as soon as I see the green 6.
Doors hiss open. Doors hiss shut.
The train rolls. Zerega Avenue. Castle Hill. Parkchester.
I lean back folding back the News. I get the page 53 treatment today. Thanks, copy chief.
There are some mildly interesting stories, but I lose myself in my thoughts.
Doors hiss open. Doors hiss shut.
We aren't picking up many people. Remembering the time I got on the subway at 8 a.m. and didn't even realize it was a Saturday until 125th Street, I checked my watch.
It's Tuesday. Have we invented a national holiday I haven't heard about?
Something is odd about this whole arrangement, physically, and it's got nothing to do with the lack of people. It doesn't quite hit me until I step off onto Grand Central and out of the grand concourse to the street.
It's misty, but crisp. Chaotic, but organized. Green, but many hues.
And, as the fumes of the subway platform give way to a the steam from a hot dog vendor, the thought comes to me: I've got today in digital.
I haven't felt this way since I took a sugar cube of acid my sophomore year of college.
I approach the corner and am about to cross when I double back toward a news stand, my stomach pulling me along as retribution for burning my last two waffles this morning.
As I pull my wallet out to pay for a coffee, I turn my head back to look at the intersection and see its grid superimposed over my field of vision. There's a beautiful girl with dark hair crossing halfway, and some street vendors on the other side, slickly packing up their makeshift storefronts before two cops a half block down bust their operation. There are private school kids in uniforms, ties loosened as they move in a battalion toward the diner across the street, and a leggywoman in a sharp business suit hailing a cab. I can see the logo of the coffee shop behind me in her retina.
But the cab isn't stopping for her. Instead, it's heading straight into the path of beautiful black-haired girl, and she is oblivious.
Ignoring the difference, I dash straight for her.
And it feels like I'm in a dream, the way the ground lurches behind me and I seem able to skip steps on the concrete.
The cab is close, but I'm closer. I shove my full weighinto the girl, knocking her forward. I would mumble an apology, but I'm out of air, and just when I start to think, in a split second, that I've done it (yes, I've done it!) the cab clips my right leg.
I spiral toward the curb and smack up against a parked car, hearing glass crack as my cheek hits the passenger's side window and I slump down onto the street. I can hear the cab's tires screech, and the pop of a fire hydrant before water spouts out in a rush.
I reach out gingerly, pressing my fingers into my thigh and knee. Miraculously, I don't feel a twitch of pain.
People are staring, and a kid who looks about 20 years old offers me his hand to hoist me up.
"Unbelievable," he says, shaking his head. "You're lucky you didn't break the entire right side of your body."
"You're telling me," I say, dusting myself off. The cabbie has got out, and he's walking toward me, a look of wrinkled concern on his face. Bizarre. "It's okay, I'm all right."
I survey they damage and look for the girl I just risked my neck for, but she's nowhere to be found.
What girl?
The ground ripples. The cascade spouting from the fire hydrant reverses itself and telescopes back into its spout, and the hydrant is right side-up again and gleaming. The car window that cracked against my face spiders inward, and in half a second it is clear again.
What was that? What was what?
There are people around me, staring at me, except they've all got a look on their faces that says they can't quite remember why they've been paused in the middle of the street, looking at a stranger. Well, what are they staring at?
I have an urge to dust myself off, but I don't know why and my clothes are spotless when I check them over.
As I turn south to make the four-block walk to my office, I can't help but think what a wierd morning this has been. But I can't remember why.
dinah:
Thanks for your comment on my set! You're a pretty talented writer, I must say.
rys:
You can be my tape anyday...