INITIUM NOVUM: Part 1 (9 page)

Gordo Jr. drives off, however an instinct
forces him to take another long, hard look at Milton. He’s seen the
man before, in pictures maybe, but cannot recall exactly where. The
car reaches a red light and stops. The brake causes the little
luchador bobble-head on the dash board to bounce back and forth.
And back and forth. And back and forth…

CHAPTER 8:

The best cheesecake in New York City comes
from Veniero’s on Eleventh Street; most New Yorkers will readily
admit this, as long as they’re from downtown Manhattan that it.
This is where Heather suggests, through a text message, that Ruth
meet her. Ruth’s response is a single word, “Eh,” followed by
another single word text, “Fine,” and finally an acronym,
“lol.”

The newsstand where Heather had been when she
met William not too long ago is turned over to the new owner in the
few minutes following her text to her sister. The previous owner, a
friend of Heather’s, had recently sold the place and could not be
there to hand over the title deed and keys to the small business.
She had volunteered for the task, literally, an eternity
ago.

Heather takes the uptown bound 6 train and
gets off on Astor place, right next to the spinning cube fancied by
dirty drifters and happy hipsters alike. From Astor Place station,
Veniero’s is only a few blocks away. She takes her time walking
there, knowing that it will most likely be some time before her
older sister arrives from her uptown home.

The bakery is packed. Yet, despite the
congestion, the atmosphere inside the store is relaxed like it
usually is. This is ironic considering the amount of sugar and
caffeine being consumed by patrons at every given
moment.

When Ruth arrives, the two sisters embrace,
squeezing each other tightly for some time. A tear forms at the
corner of Ruth’s eye which Heather wipes away when they come apart
from their hug.

“Don’t be such a softy,” she tells her older
sister, secretly reminding herself to take the same advice as she
feels her own eyes water.

“I haven’t seen you in too long,” Ruth
says.

“Way too long,” Heather replies, choking on
her words. “But don’t make me cry.”

“Don’t make me cry,” Ruth replies whiningly,
more tears forming at her eyes as she fans her face with her hand,
as the effeminate do when they are being moved to tears.

The sisters walk inside of the bakery. Finding
an empty seat near the back, they set their items down before they
order.

“Want to be a bunch of fat asses and spilt a
small cheese cake?” Heather suggests.

The proposal arouses a smile on Ruth’s
face.

“Are you crazy? A small cheese cake still
serves about eight people,” Ruth replies.

“So what? We can offset the calories by not
eating anything else today,” Heather suggests.

“Or tomorrow. And possibly the day after,”
Ruth adds, not sure if her estimate is an exaggeration or
not.

“Well, I don’t want to count calories. Who
cares if we gain a pound? Like, whatever.”

“If we eat that entire cheesecake, it’d be
more like five pounds,” Ruth states, again unsure about how right
she is.

After ordering their cheesecake, the two
sisters catch up, gossiping about the many individuals they both
know. The pastry arrives at their table, along with two lattes.
Meanwhile the two are so enthralled by their snippy social
commentary on the lives of others that they barely notice the large
man sitting on the table opposite to them.

Milton, with his wet shirt still clinging to
his fat body, takes a deep breath and holds it as he eases his
gigantic posterior into the small seat. After successfully
squeezing his ass first, then torso, in between the seat’s
armrests, he finally exhales and opens his menu, sighing longingly
as his eyes skim over his options. Less than a few seconds later he
waves a waitress over and orders.

Heather is oblivious to the big man’s presence
until a waitress crosses into her peripheral sight. Believing that
the cake which the server carried toward them was for them, she
ogles both the cheesecake and the girl bringing it over. It isn’t
until the waitress places the cake in front of Milton that Heather
realizes it is not for her. As she’s turning her attention back to
her sister, her eyes catch a glimpse of Milton’s obese frame.
Instantly, she’s struck by a déjà vu unlike any other she has ever
experienced before. She’s almost certain that she has never seen
the man before, but somehow she knows him. She knows that their
lives are intertwined, but she cannot figure out the link they are
bound by.

Heather watches on as the man lifts an
unnecessarily huge piece of cake onto his fork and then shovels it
into his mouth. She tries her best to place his face in her
memories, but it is to no avail. A slight nudge from Ruth snaps her
out of her current focal point.

“Didn’t know you were a chubby chaser,” Ruth
says in a whisper, alluding to Heather’s unflinching gaze,
mistaking it for attraction.

“What?” Heather responds, truly at a lost as
to what her sister had just insinuated.

“Stop staring at him,” Ruth
advises.

“Holy shit,” Heather says, finally looking
away. “I didn’t even realize that I’d been staring at
him.”

“Yeah,” Ruth begins with a smile. “Whatever
floats your boat.”

Catching on to what her sister had been
getting at, Heather smiles, breaking the solemnity of the moment,
and plays along.

“Floats my boat? Look at him, he is the boat.
I’d float on him.” The two girls laugh. This causes Milton to peer
over at them. There is no way that he could have heard them, and
yet he knows the girls’ giggles are at his expense.

Milton used to be self-conscious about his
weight, but that was long ago, before the issue had gotten out of
hand. Back before he was a “fat shit,” as his wife so often calls
him, he had cared about what he ate and how much of it he was
eating. Not anymore. Now he just doesn’t care about his steeply
declining health at all. His self-esteem is the result of the
reality he now lives. People refer to him as a “fat shit” because
he is one, or at least he feels he is. Truth is, Milton had
attracted this lifestyle. Though his thoughts and behaviors, Milton
invited, into his life, his present state of morbid obesity. All
the negativities which bred more negativity had, at one point, been
attracted to Milton’s existence through Milton’s own personal
energy. If he had adopted a healthier outlook about his weight and
his food choices back before he had ballooned to more than three
hundred pounds, Milton’s self-defeating attitude might not exist
today. Now, that same negativity is strong and consumes him
entirely, much like the cheesecake he plans on devouring
presently.

“You know, I have two pictures of us from our
dance days. In frames. I’ve been meaning to hang them up since
forever now,” Heather tells her sister.

The waitress brings over the girl’s order. As
they eat, they continue their small talk. After a while, Ruth
notices that Heather continues to peak over at the large male
sitting at the next table over.

“Alright, seriously, you’re being rude now,”
Ruth scolds.

“I’m listening to everything you’re saying,
sis. I’m not being rude, I swear.”

“Not to me,” Ruth begins to elaborate. “To
him. It’s obscenely rude to stare at someone like that, like you’ve
been doing.”

“You’re right,” Heather says, agreeing with
her older and, at the moment, wiser sister.

After asking for the check, Ruth retrieves her
phone from her bag so that she can use the calculator feature to
figure out what the appropriate tip is. Since she rarely uses her
phone for any actual real life tasks, she has trouble finding the
calculator application on the device.

“Shit, these phones are such a pain
sometimes,” Ruth complains loudly.

Hearing this, Milton gently lowers his fork,
wipes his mouth, and then offers his assistance, without ever
leaving his seat.

“Hey, check the utility folder on the start
menu,” he instructs Ruth, who stares blankly at him before
realizing that he was talking to her and no one else.

“Oh, you’re talking to me. I’m sorry. My mind
is gone today,” she says, attempting to excuse her own
unintentional rudeness.

“No worries,” Milton replies, politely
dismissing her apology. “Check the utility folder.”

Ruth follows his instructions. In a matter of
seconds, she finds the application.

“Thank you so much. How did you know where to
find it?” She questions as Heather eyes dart to and from Milton’s
frame and unto her sister’s.

“That’s the latest model of the iCelly on the
Sentinel Operating System. I sell them up at the mobile store on
Union Square. Sold out last month during a blow-out sale. Still
waiting on the next shipment.”

“That’s funny. I got this one a month ago,”
she says holding up the phone. On the back of the case there is an
insignia which Milton instantly notices.

“That’s one of ours, a limited edition iCelly.
Exclusive to our location. Look at the Union Square stamp on the
back.”

“Oh, so that’s what that is. Okay, so then
maybe you’ve met my husband.”

“Maybe. I’ve sold a lot of those.”

Just then Heather realizes that Will is their
connection, but because Will’s is not present, there is no way for
her to have known who Milton is, or what Milton’s purpose is. She
is only allotted Will’s stories for review. Luckily, she’s already
read a Will story where the man in question fits perfectly, and she
has now just put two and two together. Milton’s wet, clinging shirt
was all the evidence she needed. The only difference was that
Heather never met up with Ruth in that reality. In that version,
Will had never asked Heather, albeit somewhat obnoxiously, if she
planned to answer her phone, thusly her subconscious mind never
initiated the action. This time around, she picked up the
phone.

Outside, the rain begins to pour. Milton looks
towards the entrance’s glass window and sucks his teeth.

“Hey, mister, did someone spill coffee on you
this morning?” Heather asks as she points to his damp
shirt.

“How did you know it was coffee?” He
questions.

“Wild guess. Was it hot?” She
probes.

“It was so frickin’ hot,” he responds, echoing
his earlier words.

“Of course it was,” she says, trailing off a
little at the end. “Of course it was.”

CHAPTER 9:

“Hey!” Jessica hollers as Will snatches the
smart phone out of her hand and takes off with it, running down the
corridor of Beth Israel Hospital like a maniac. He runs past the
security guard who makes little effort to turn his head to see
what’s going on, let alone actually seize Will. The guard,
shrugging his responsibilities off as the inquiring eyes of
hospital visitors fall upon him—all silently seeking and expecting
answers to questions concerning matters which are none of their
business—goes about his day, reading his newspaper.

For what it’s worth, he isn’t the worst guard
in the history of hospital security. Actually, since his radio
never goes off, he and all other guards on duty can correctly
assume that there has been no emergency which requires any of their
attentions. His motto: why go above and beyond only to scrap by at
the end of the week? By this logic, he is as wise as they come.
Yet, and as with most technicalities, there is a catch: one can
never improve their situation while lying dormant. Sometimes, in
order to gain small ground one must travel the Earth from end to
end. This is what the guard and similar minds refuse to accept
about improvement.

Once outside of the hospital, Will begins
running south on First Avenue. He’s so focused on getting away from
the location that he disregards the unmarked vehicle double parked
right outside of the hospital’s main entrance. In the passenger
seat, there’s a blonde entirely too focused on what’s going on in
her smart phone. The other occupants of the vehicle seem to be
waiting on her, as she is the epicenter of that particular party at
this particular moment.

Will reaches Fourteenth Street in less than
the time it would have taken him to hail a cab, not that he can
afford one at the moment anyway. His pockets are empty save for a
few bucks, his keys, and Laura Cohen’s bugged business
card.

Pedestrians and motorists alike stop and watch
Will as he runs past them. The sheer oddity of seeing a man in a
two piece suit running at top speed draws the attention and
annoyance of those he runs past. Will doesn’t seem to notice the
multiple sets of eyes landing on him, everything sort of passes
through his peripherals in a blur of shapes and colors. The only
thing that matters to him at the moment is running; not that he
even knows where he’s running to, not that it even
matters.

In his mind, there is no logical explanation
for why the voice would instruct him to steal the phone of a young
lady whose grandmother is in the hospital due to an accident
instigated by the very person running south on First Avenue with a
stolen phone in his hand. Although, he blindly follows the voice,
he does so placing in its instructions a reluctant faith. He
continues to adhere to the voice’s directions simply because the
voice has yet to steer him wrong; although, as his lungs struggle
to meet his body’s demand for oxygen, he begins to have a moment of
doubt. Considering all things, Will feels that only a sociopath
would do what he has just done.