But what would a judge make of my involvement in Mark’s death? Would he take into account his resurrection? I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was a hostage. I have nothing to fear. I hope.
I grab the man’s newspaper, tearing it from his hands, being sure to make a scene as I crumple it into a ball and throw it into the aisle.
“Okay, playtime is over,” I say loudly. I have nothing to hide. “No more games. Who the hell are you and why are you following me?”
Within seconds, several passengers have their cell phones out, pointing them at me and capturing everything on video. Ah, you’ve got to love the modern age. There are people filming the people filming me. Brilliant.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man says.
“See this,” I say, gesturing to half a dozen complete strangers with their phones out. “This is my insurance policy. They’ve got you on video. Anything happens to me and the police are coming after you. Get it?”
The train rolls into Grand Central and I get up, saying, “Stop following me. That goes for you too crazy lady with the kid. Just don’t. Stay on the goddamn train or else.”
Or else? Really, that’s the best you can come up with? What kind of threat is that? Yeah, well I’m not exactly pulling out witty one liners like Arnold in The Terminator—or else will have to do.
The doors open and I step onto the platform.
As the train pulls out of the station, I wave at both the old man and the young mom. She’s talking on a phone. The scowl on her face is priceless. Several of the other commuters are still filming, catching a shot of me on the platform, which is fine by me.
I jog up the stairs feeling quite pleased with myself.
There’s a Starbucks just outside the station, so I duck inside and stand in line. I’m not actually thirsty. I want to keep my eye on the station exit and pick out anyone else that might be following. A second cup of coffee on an empty stomach is probably not the smartest idea I’ve ever had, and it’s bound to make me more jittery, and probably even more paranoid, but I want to be sure there’s no one else stalking me.
Within a minute, I’m standing at the counter, about to place an order, when a teenaged boy with bad acne hands me a cup with my name written on it, saying, “Joe Connors? Latte, right?”
“Ah, yeah. Thanks,” I say, slowly moving out of the line, unsure what’s going on. The clock on the wall reads 10:42. I’m over two hours late for work. My boss is an asshole at the best of times, so I head into Bloomfells, ducking in through the loading dock, hoping I haven’t been missed.
“Connors!” my boss yells as I step out onto the floor. All heads within the department store turn, customers and staff alike, and I cringe, wishing I could disappear. Sheepishly, I walk over to him, trying to think of a plausible lie.
“Where the hell have you been?” he asks with his hands on his hips.
“To the Moon and back,” I offer, not that telling the truth is going to help, but I’m hoping a bit of humor will.
“Three days! You don’t show up for work for three days, and you have the gall to sneak back in here and pretend nothing’s wrong? What? You can’t even pick up a goddamn phone and call in sick?”
Three days? I’m as shocked as he is.
“You’re fired. Get out of my store.”
I’m speechless. Stunned.
“Are you deaf?” he yells. “Go.”
“But Julian—”
“Out!”
Hamid over in computers cringes. Our eyes meet and I get the sense he’s born the brunt of Julian’s wrath over the past few days. He shakes his head, signaling for me not to take things further. He’s right. Julian’s like a bull charging at a red flag. I back away, trying to be dignified when I feel horribly embarrassed. The whole world stares.
“I’ll—I’ll get my stuff later.”
Julian doesn’t say anything. He just glares, and I wonder if my locker has already been emptied into the trash. I want to call him an asshole. I want to make a scene and yell at him, to vent, to lash out in anger, but two hotheads are only going to make matters worse. There’s nothing to be gained. To scream and carry on like a petulant child would only justify his position. My lips quiver. I’ve never been reduced to crying in public, but my pride has been hurt, and I struggle to keep tears from rolling down my cheeks.
“Sorry, man,” Hamid says softly as I walk past. I acknowledge him with a wave of my hand, unable to say anything. “I’ll be in touch. We’ll catch a Knicks game or something.”
“Yeah, sure,” I manage, choking up, but not at anything he said. I’ll probably never see Hamid again. Best of intentions aside, all we have in common is work. At most, we’ll bump into each other in the subway in a few months time, remember our awkward pledge of enduring friendship, and then disappear back into the bustling crowd again.
I feel crushed. I raise my disposable coffee cup as though I’m offering him a toast. Truth is, I can’t get out of this shitty store fast enough.
“Take care, dude,” he calls out after me.
Walking outside, I want to explode. I want to punch someone. I want to crush the fragile paper cup in my hand, but the coffee would go everywhere. Ah, Joe, you’re ever the pragmatist.
Life ignores me.
People brush past on the sidewalk.
Cars drive by, splashing the icy sludge into the gutter.
A dog sniffs my feet as his owner walks briskly along the pavement, dragging his curious miniature poodle on with him.
“Well,” I say to myself, trying to feel better with a little humor. “That couldn’t have gone any better.”
Sigh.
The name written on my cup has been scrawled on a sleeve of recycled paper acting as insulation. As the drink has cooled, I slip it off, wondering who ordered the drink for me. Written on the inside is a note: Call in sick. Don’t let Julian c u.
Good advice. A little late, but good.
I’m wondering if it was Hamid or someone else, when a familiar voice says, “How’s your day going?”
Sharon walks up from behind me, sliding her hand inside the crook of my arm and taking hold of my jacket. We walk away from Bloomfells. Dark clouds blot out the sun. As bizarre as my day has been, there’s something comforting and reassuring about being with Sharon. Against all reason, I feel relaxed around her. She sets the turbulent seas within my heart strangely at ease.
“Did you get my message?” she asks, and I hold up the sleeve before tossing it in a nearby trashcan.
“Oh,” she says, realizing I got it a bit late. “Don’t worry. He’s a dick.”
“He is,” I say, feeling a bit more cheery with Sharon hanging off my arm. Suddenly, the cold doesn’t feel quite so bitter.
“Did he fire you?”
“Yep,” I say. “He sure did.”
“Sorry.”
“Ah,” I say, sipping at the latte. “I hated that job anyway.”
“Don’t worry,” she says. “Probably for the best.”
“Sure. Who needs to pay rent anyway?”
“Yeah,” she replies, squeezing my arm and taking my comment way too literally.
“What about you?” I ask, looking at her dressed in tight jeans and a fluffy, down-filled jacket. “No more sexy police cosplay?”
She laughs, but doesn’t reply with anything more than an uninformative, “Nah.”
A couple of cops stand on the street corner, more interested in talking with each other than stopping crime, or wannabe terrorists, or whatever. Can’t say I blame them.
“I need your help.”
Oh, there it is.
“Help?” I ask, feeling I have a right to qualify her intent before agreeing to anything. “This doesn’t involve tinfoil or duct tape, does it?”