Emit

by Jack Beal

  The flood of tourists washes over the sidewalk, the city and me. Caught within its eager tide, I’m carried down a glowing stream that seems to have been made for giants. As I’m carted beneath the gleaming billboard-adorned monuments, the oohing and aahing swells. When the current ebbs, I manage to break free. Around me, the Theater District beams out like a grand charade. I take a bold step into its hypnotizing lights, longing to be a player upon its stage. But my freedom proves short-lived as a new wave of bodies hauls me back in to the flood. The buildings blur helplessly together as I totter like a piece of driftwood lost upon a sea of men.

  And that’s when I see her, like a lighthouse in the distance. Decked out in a sparkly silver mini dress and a pair of matching heels, she’s shining from head to toe. As we meet eyes, she begins waving wildly, only to dart straight into the lanes of oncoming traffic. My heart is still racing long after she’s cut through the crowd and we’re standing face to face.

  “Are you crazy, lady! You could have gotten yourself killed!” I cry in disbelief.

  “How many times have I told you to call me Fanny?” She questions through a brightly rouged pout. Her eyelashes are long as butterfly wings and flutter animatedly in the breeze. “I just couldn’t believe I actually spotted you! I didn’t want you going and slipping away again!”

  I swallow hard. I’m assuming she’s making a huge mistake. After all, I’ve never seen this woman before in my life. But then again, what if she does know me? What if she’ll be able to shed some light on what’s been going on? I take a chance. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it, er, Fanny?”

  “Over six years,” she shivers. “It’s hard to believe it’s been that long. But you know as well as I do.”

  Something strikes inside of me like a match. I remember being up in Willy’s treehouse, asking how long I’d been gone. Six years, he’d answered. The next day, I asked again. Another six.

  This can’t be a coincidence.

  “Then you were there, too?” I stammer.

  “Of course, I was there. You know that, Mr. Flynn. We were together.”

  I wipe away the tears that have welled up in my eyes. “Sorry, it’s just I’ve been so lost ever since.”

  “It’s okay. It’s normal. You know, I feel lost at times, too. It’s to be expected.”

  “But when you don’t know where you’re going, how do you find your way?”

  Fanny takes a deep breath and gazes at the buildings soaring into the clouds. “When I feel lost, I stop trying to force the answers. I stop looking. Instead, I just…see.”

  “Have you come far from where you were when you woke up?”

  “From when I woke up?” Fanny asks.

  “When you got off, I mean. Did you get off at Kingman, too? Do you think we need to go back to where it all started?”

  Fanny shrugs her shoulders as if my response was to be expected. She lets out a long, depleted sigh. “Here,” pulling out a little white card, she slides it into my jacket’s ticket pocket. “You don’t have to do this alone. If you change your mind, I know Leila would love to see you.” Without another word, she turns her back and slips away.

  As Fanny disappears onto Sixth Avenue, the questions pile around me in sloppy stacks. Why did I wake up in a subway? Why New York? Who was that lady? What does any of this have to do with my mission?

  Stop trying to force the answers. Stop looking. Fanny’s words rotate around my mind like a dozen shattered fragments. Just…see.

  I gaze upward. But instead of focusing on the twinkling buildings hovering overhead like satellites, I allow my eyes to wander past them. The buildings which once seemed so immense are small and squatting compared to what lies beyond. Bending backward, they form steely arcs of light, like manmade nets of twinkling stars. Beneath their radiance, I can finally see the way. A shadow is projected onto the ground, like the arrow to a compass.

  The shadow is mine. It leads me far from the blinding lights of Times Square and down the trash-strewn backstreets of Manhattan. I quit Midtown, stumble around Hell’s Kitchen, stroll through Central Park, and slope back down the Upper East Side before turning onto Fifth Avenue.

  When I see it, I understand I’ve found what I’ve been looking for. The ultimate illusion within an illusion. A tall, double-spired neo-gothic cathedral stands dwarfed amongst the towering skyscrapers. Dwarfed, but not eclipsed. The sun’s golden rays lean in to acknowledge it, reflecting nobly off the pale stone. It’s breathtakingly beautiful. And yet, this place carries an air of unexplainable sadness.

  As I go to climb its sprawling steps, something stops me. The organ’s somber notes pour out like music lost in yesteryears, paralyzing me mid-step. Tears rush down my cheeks, but I force myself on.

  At the top of the staircase sits a pair of great, bronze doors. When I push them open, the cathedral lets out a long, tired sigh.

  Inside, it’s a world of contradictions. A place where hope can be born from discouragement. Where joy prevails over sorrow, but salvation only comes to those willing to suffer. The stories of times long since passed are frozen on its stone walls. And yet, its nave gleams with the flames of desires proclaimed for the future.

  I stand at the center, waiting for it all to make sense. Waiting for a mighty, booming voice to tell me the answer to all my questions. But it never does.

  The descent from Saint Patrick’s into the streets of Manhattan is something of a paradox. From old, there is new. From darkness, light. From silence, sound.

  Through the incessant honking of yellow cabs, cacophonous notes of street music, and first response sirens blaring in the distance, it’s no wonder I don’t hear the muffled cries. It isn’t until the zit-riddled teen knocks into me with his skateboard and we both go tumbling to the asphalt that I even notice him at all.

  “Hey! Why don’t you watch where you’re walking, asshole? Go back to the geriatric home, you old geezer!” He sneers down his pustule-ridden nose.

  The slur comes as a shock. It’s the first time anybody’s insulted me for my age before. Back in 1947, you’d never raise your voice at a big person, let alone call him names. I’m about to say as much when something diverts my attention.

  More huff than puff, the scowling teen bounces to his feet and snatches his things: a washed-out skateboard lying wheels-up on the curb, an oversized baseball cap with the labels still stuck on, and what appears to be a shiny metallic slate. It’s smaller than I remember, but then again, I’m also bigger. My eyes widen. The tablet!

  But as he skates off in the direction of Lower Manhattan, the kid’s gazelle spin isn’t the only thing turning. All the loose strings of unanswered questions knot together and fall into place. Of course! This is my reason for waking up in New York! If I hadn’t, I would have never met the woman and been led to the cathedral! And if I’d never been to the cathedral, I’d have never stumbled into that ill-mannered teen. Without him, I’d never have rediscovered the tablet!

  “You have been chosen!” As the voice rings out over the thrum of the city, a feather drifts down, coming to rest amongst the heaps of trash littering the ground. All the signs point to the fact that I’m on the right track. And still, I can’t help but feel like something is amiss. It isn’t Siri’s soft voice echoing off of the skyscrapers. It’s that of a man. “Our very own Robbie Flynn has been chosen!”

  Wintry scenes of Santa Clauses popping out of chimneys and ice-skating polar bears cocoon the City of Dreams like a fairytale. Now home to giant stacks of Christmas balls, never-melting snowflakes and chiseled ice displays at every corner, New York is more congested than usual. But the most splendid sight in these mean-streets-turned-enchanted-wonderland is what happens at Rockefeller Center. That’s where they light up a fir tree so tall its’ star c
ould get lost among those dwelling in the heavens.

  The sky has already traded itself in for a sleepier hue of blue, but that doesn’t change a thing. After all, this is the City that Never Sleeps. As jam-packed throngs of spectators force their way between moving cars, I gaze out into the streets spilling with people. I let out a long sigh. Finding my tablet is going to be harder than uncovering a shadow in the shade.

  I ogle the clusters of tourists, trail the troops of fitness-gurus, and comb the passing cabs. But the skateboarding zit-bag is nowhere to be seen. When I begin peering into the storefront of one lavish boutique after the other, I have to settle on cutting my losses. What am I expecting, anyway? To intercept pimple brain on his way to buy the crown diamond?

  The winter wind howls ferociously, bringing with it the scent of simmering hot dogs. The throbbing in my stomach pushes me to a chrome truck parked on the sidewalk. “Two hot dogs with sauerkraut, a pretzel, and a soda.”

  “$8.50.”

  I scrounge around for my wallet, but when I open it, the platinum card is gone. Instead, a gold one sits in its place. I scratch my head before handing it to the vendor.

  “No. No take card,” he shouts. “Cash!”

  After rummaging around in the back of my wallet, I find a couple of crinkled papers. The words federal reserve note is written across the top of the page, and yet the thing is a blatant excuse of funny money. Biting my lip, I hold out the wonky bills with their disproportionate faces and excess of colors. “This is all I have,” I mutter, hesitantly.

  The vendor inspects the wad of money carefully. “It’s ok. I make you deal,” he grins, shoving the whole bundle of it in his pocket.

  Steaming bag in hand, I make my way across past the sign reading The Grand Army Plaza. Inside the park, there are some benches where I can sit to eat. But instead, I approach the ring of birch trees encircling a multi-tiered fountain. Its water has frozen solid, leaving the basin surrounded by a prison of icy pillars. I make my way to the stone’s edge, sit down, and pull out one of my dogs. As I sink my teeth in, a croaky voice surprises me.

  “Bet it’s good. Isn’t it?”

  Not sure of how to answer, I let out a quick grunt.

  “Do you know her?” she asks.

  “Know who?”

  “Pomona, of course.”

  When I shrug, she motions to the fountain, which happens to be crowned with the statue of a woman. “No,” I admit.

  “Then let me tell you the story of the goddess Pomona.” When I don’t respond, she scratchily continues. “Pomona was so enamored by her orchards that she didn’t want to take a husband. Suitors came calling day and night, but she rejected them all. In the end, growing tired of their visits, she built a wall around her precious garden, and refused to let anyone else in.”

  Plucking a branch resembling a walking stick up off the ground, I glance back at her.

  She continues. “Until one day when an old woman, like me, arrived at her garden wall. Seeing how weary the stranger was, Pomona took pity on the old woman, letting her enter and eat from her trees.”

  The woman’s attention falls onto the silver oxygen tank hooked onto the back of her wheelchair. After adjusting the long, plastic tubes, she reaches for the mask and begins breathing deliberately.

  “The story can’t end that way, can it?” I fiddle with my stick.

  Removing the mask, she lets out a raspy chuckle that dissipates in the wind. “I thought you’d never ask! No, the story doesn’t end like that.” She clears her throat before continuing. “The old woman isn’t an old woman, at all, but one of the suitors in disguise. When he wrenches off his mask, Pomona is entranced by his beauty. The two of them fall in love, and in the end, they are married.”

  “That’s a horrible story!” I exclaim, watching her replace the mask over her nose and mouth.

  After a few deep breaths, she takes it off again. “Why do you say that?” she asks, scrunching her face up until all I can discern is a long, curved nose emerging from a mass of wrinkles.

  “Because there’s no moral. I’ve always been told stories are supposed to have a moral at the end of them.”

  “And there, you’re right, Mr. Flynn. Stories are supposed to have morals. And you’re in luck, because this story has two!”

  I slowly slide my glasses off my nose. Using the warmth of my breath to fog the lenses, I wipe them clean.

  “The first moral teaches us to be careful where we place our importance. Sometimes, we forget people are more important than objects.”

  As the old woman eyes me judgingly, I’m suddenly wondering if this has something to do with my dinner. I guess I should have asked if she was hungry, but before I can decide what to do about it, she resumes.

  “The second moral is that sometimes, what you want isn’t necessarily what’s best for you. Sometimes it takes a stranger to show you the way.”

  I swallow hard, beginning to doubt this has anything to do with the legend.

  “We’re not all that different, Mr. Flynn,” she starts. But the thunderous grinding of plastic on pavement rips at my attention. Eyes bulging, I watch the puss-faced kid snake past me.

  “Hey!” I scream out. But it’s too late. He’s already disappeared onto the other side of Fifth Avenue.

  “I can’t believe it! That’s the second time…” But my cries shatter into a thousand silent shards. The old woman is gone.

  Leaving the bag of food just in case, I turn my back on the Pulitzer Fountain and the wisdom it silently conveys. Still carrying my walking stick, I follow the floodlit path out of the park and onto Fifth Avenue. Before me, a transparent block shines like a hologram.

  As I approach the glass cube the color of ice, my jaw gapes open. Inside, an emblem gleams. It’s an apple.

  The hologram slides open long enough for me to enter. Step after shaky step, I descend the spiral staircase suspended in thin air. When I finally reach the bottom, I can’t believe my eyes.

  It’s like I’ve found my way into a top-secret lair. But the tables are huddled so thickly with people that I can’t see what they’re all looking at.

  “Excuse me! Pardon me!” I try, but nobody cedes. My exasperation gets the better of me. As I strike my branch onto the floor, the crowd crumbles away. I guess this is how Moses felt when the Red Sea parted ways.

  Only, when I make it to the other side, the legend skews. At the center of the throng is that skateboarding numskull. And he’s holding my tablet.

  Without a second thought, I grab it from him and scuttle away as fast as my arthritic legs will allow. “Hey stop!” he bellows. “Thief!”

  But he’s a liar! This tablet belongs to me! I need it to fulfill my mission. The one I was chosen for. Me and me, alone.

  The teen and his posse are gaining on me, but my adrenaline gives me wings. I take the winding stairs two by two. Muscles burning, chest pounding, I’m almost at the doorway. But that’s when it all falls apart.

  I’m not sure why I glance behind me. Maybe it’s to make sure I’m still safe. Maybe it’s to rub it in that zit-brain’s face. But when I do, I’m not ready for what I see. Those tables surrounded by people down below…are lined with shining silver bars, identical to the one I’m holding.

  Thump. Something thick and heavy comes between me and my escape. Crack. In one excruciating moment, my body twists and distorts. And then so does everything around me. The sounds and excitement of the city grow remote, as if dropped down a deep well. Inside, it’s dark. I allow my heavy eyes to close.

  The woman’s voice rustles gently, like leaves in a tree. “We’re not sssso different, Missster Flynn.” Her words slither after me, following me into t
he void.

  Deep inside, my eyes snap abruptly open. I never told her my name.

  “The future is no more uncertain than the present.”

  ~Walt Whitman

  NINE

  WHEN MEN AND EMPIRES FALL

  Inside of the void, there is nothing. No pain. No noise. No fear. It’s like being back in the womb: safe, calm, and indistinct. Except for one thing. One of the heartbeats is missing.

  When the time comes to leave this place behind, it’s a lot like being born. First there’s a change in atmosphere. Then a shift in pressure, as if whatever it is that’s been holding you begins emptying itself. Everything around you grows constricted, compressed. Then so do you. It becomes harder to breathe. And then, in the blink of an eye, everything changes forever.

  When you arrive on the other side, the thing that’d probably strike you most is the sound. It’s the kind of noise you’re not ready for. The kind you’ll never be ready for.

  The kind I’m not ready for right now.

  And this time, it’s worse. Louder. Rawer. More vulgar.

  It starts with a thunderous roar, like a rocket blasting off. Then an explosion. It’s like a bomb detonating, sonorous and tinny. The reverberations follow in long, rumbling waves that go on and on.

  Shrill and piercing, the sirens sound. As horns blare, the commotion grows. Make it stop, I beg. But it’s only just begun. Another strike. Another detonation.

  Flames ooze out like lava. Dense, steely coils of smoke fold over the world like a thick mantle, concealing everything in their path. They’re unconcerned. But we are not. I watch in disbelief, in fear, in despair…

  When I open my eyes, it’s all gone. The smoldering fire. The deafening explosions. The heart wrenching cries.

  It’s eerily quiet in the small, bare-walled room. I roll over to scan my surroundings, but there’s not a whole lot to take in. A wooden nightstand missing a leg is propped up against the bed. On it, a cheap, plastic alarm clock with boxy red numbers reads 7:46 a.m. No other furniture, no decorations. Just the clock, the stand and the bed, which is still half-made. I guess I’m here alone.