Modern Rituals (2 page)

A herd of lunch-goers had trampled all available seating. James opted to sit on the grass with a view of Echo, the giant statue of a girl’s head by Jaume Plensa that occupied the park’s center. These visits to New York further connected James, a fledgling creative force himself, to the art world. It was as if the essence of today’s foremost artistic ideals had embedded itself into Manhattan’s foundation. Echo shone as testimony to this.

 
James wolfed down the last scraps of his meal, wiped his hands clean of a coating of grease and set off to meet his sister at his favorite museum: The Museum of Modern Art. Jessie, James’ sister (a cruel joke courtesy of their parents), had moved to Brooklyn a few weeks ago and needed some company while acclimating. It didn’t take much to give James a reason to visit, so here he was, fresh off a plane from Chicago earlier that morning.
 

A patch of ominous clouds formed overhead, and James picked up his pace to the 23
rd
Street subway station. As he cut around one of the market tents, he ran face-first into one of the many fashionable women strutting Manhattan’s streets. They both fell square onto their tailbones.

“Oh! So sorry, my fault!” James said, recovering from the stumble with as much grace as he could manage.
 

The woman’s cheeks flushed red—embarrassed not only by the fall, but possibly by James himself, which sent James’ stomach aflutter. He stood over six feet tall with a lean, twenty-five-year-old physique and sported a black blazer, blue jeans and an unbuttoned collared shirt. He had brown eyes that women told him were “trustworthy,” and as their eyes met, she smiled. The gentleman inside James offered her his hand and she accepted, blushing.
 

“Are you okay?” he said, helping her up.

“Fine, really. In a hurry?” She said, brushing down her cardigan.

James fawned over her high cheekbones and ivory skin. Her beauty was common fare in New York—another quality James loved.

“Heh, well, was just trying to get ahead of this weather.”

“Ah, so you’re a local then?”
 

“No—visiting my sister.”
 

“Well don’t let me stop you.”

James took this as his cue to leave, gave her a warm smile, nodded goodbye and continued on his way. Ten seconds passed before he heard her voice again.

“Listen, if you find yourself free anytime while you are here, give me a call,” she said and handed him a slip of paper scrawled with her email.

This took James aback. Common as beautiful women might be in New York, gaining their interest was an entirely different matter.

“Yeah, maybe I will,” he smiled, “My name is James—James Bixby.”

“Cynthia Manchester.”

“Nice meeting you Cynthia. Well, take care,” he said and watched a shadow cast over her face as the weather turned.
 

She reciprocated with a nod and a grin, twirled around and walked away from him. If his mood had been chipper before, it was now flying Superman-style. His feet met the stairs of the subway station, surprising him—he hadn’t realized he’d gone anywhere. The sky let loose rain, and he barely missed getting soaked from head to toe.
 

Today was a
good
day.

2

That familiar muggy, smoke and oil stink clawed its way into James’ lungs as he descended to the Forest Hills platform. A torrent of water pummeled the earth outside, drawing in a gaggle of citizens wishing to remain dry. He maneuvered through the crowd, swiped his MetroCard, found a spot near a pillar and leaned against it with folded arms.
 

In these moments of ‘L’ waiting, James lost himself in thought. He had been working on an art installation for a gallery showing in Chicago that dealt with responsive shapes and forms. He and his MIT buddy Joe Johnston partnered on the project: James as the artist, Joe as the engineer. Together they’d fabricated a paper-like material capable of reshaping into predictable forms if provided an electrical current—or in layman’s terms, they’d created animated sculptures. This had garnered a lot of buzz within the art and architecture communities, as well as a couple science circles. It also made this trip ever more important. James needed inspiration—he couldn’t imagine a better place to lift him out of his creative rut.

Another six minutes until the train arrived.
 

“Excuse me—is this the train to Central Park?”
 

James turned around to find an elderly woman staring up at him. Her tiny frame tilted on a wooden cane that shook from tremors.

James placed his finger on his chin and said, “Uh, yeah. You’ll want to take this train to 7
th
. I’m actually taking the same exit. I’d be happy to let you know where to go once we get there.”

The old woman’s demeanor grew, at the minimum, two shades brighter.

“Oh, thank you so much. People here…are sometimes unforgiving.”
 

“No problem. Not from around here are you? Neither am I,” James said.
 

“Well that might explain why you are a much kinder gentleman than most I’ve encountered.”
 

The woman smiled and ambled toward the yellow waiting line on the platform. James disliked her lonesome circumstance and thought that it must be difficult to move about in New York with a cane.

“Here, let me help you,” James said and gave her his arm.

She thanked him as they made their way to the yellow line. When they arrived, she politely shooed James away, saying that she would be just fine for the time being.

He made his way back to the pillar. A small boy and his mother had taken the spot. He walked to the next pillar instead.
 

“Hey mister, do you have a quarter?” the little boy said as he passed.

Lively day.

He rummaged through his pocket and found a quarter then tossed it to the boy.

“Jimmy, what are you doing?” his mother said, her cheekbones flushing a splotchy crimson.
 

“I’m terribly sorry sir, Jimmy has been saving up for a new bike and has started asking strangers for money. I’ve explained to him several times that—”

A woman screamed.
 

Pandemonium broke out as a crowd of onlookers made their way to where the woman pointed.
 

“She just fell onto the tracks!”
 

James rushed to the scene. The old woman lay face-first between the tracks. Her wooden cane acted as a bridge on the rails, protecting her from electrocution. Her utter confusion had stirred her into a frenzy—if she tried to stand, she might come in contact with both rails.
 

A heavy-set man at the far end of the station leapt onto the tracks and scuttled toward her.

The sign above the platform flashed a one-minute warning. The man was too slow.
 

James pushed his way to the platform’s edge, planted a hand on the ground and hopped down, avoiding the rails. The man startled, tripping on a wooden board. He slammed to the ground, followed by a blinding flash of light, smoke and the smell of cooked meat.
 

The crowd gasped and screamed.
 

James forced himself to ignore the macabre mass of charred flesh. He bolted to the woman, yelling at her to stop moving.
 

Forty-five seconds until arrival.
 

James managed to kneel beside her without electrocuting himself.

“You are going to be okay—just put your arms around me.”

She did. He hoisted her onto his shoulders and tip-toed over the rails toward the platform. When he arrived, three women helped the old woman onto the concrete bearing and carried her to safety. Someone offered James a hand and as he took it, a terrifying, discomforting noise pierced the echoey tunnel.
 

James twisted his head around in horror.

The large man writhed in agony, mangled arms outstretched—a gurgled scream expelled from his massive, barrel chest.
 

James released the rescuer’s hand.

“Kid, he’s gone! You can’t save him!”
 

Twenty-five seconds until arrival.

James ignored the plea and rushed onto the tracks. He hoped he possessed enough strength to lift the man—rolling him wasn’t an option.
 

James pulled the man’s flakey, charcoal arms around his neck. Screams ricocheted in the subway: from the crowd, from the burned victim, from within James’ head. A piece of flesh dangling from the man’s arm tore free, sticking to James’ blazer—and whether from the adrenaline surging through his veins, or a hidden strength, James hoisted the man onto his shoulders.
 

The squelch of a train’s brakes squealed, grinding James’ ears.

Fifteen seconds until arrival.

James lurched and swayed under the heavy burden. He barely avoided the rails.
 

Ten seconds.

He lifted the man onto the platform with the help of several others. A few more joined in, grabbing James’ blazer.
 

“You’re going to make it kid—pull yourself up!”
 

He ascended. A glimmer of hope shone through his despair—then his pant leg caught on something. The sound of the train bore down upon the station.

Five.
 

Panic knotted his mind. He convulsed his leg upward—lodged. Alarmed faces altered from hope to horror.
 

It wasn’t meant to end like this.
 

James found the face of the old woman. Tears welled in her eyes.
 

All went black.

3

Time obliterated space.

James opened his eyes mid-flight. His legs involuntarily catapulted him skyward. Gravity, a merciless tether, snagged him from the air. He plummeted. His hands slapped a sealed, wooden floor—his knees followed with a nauseating
thud
and he swam in that terrible moment between impact and pain. A numbing fire then scorched his kneecaps.
 

He curled into a ball, winced and sucked a breath through his teeth. The surroundings snuck into his vision.
 

Impossible.

The people. The station. New York.
 

Gone.
 

He rolled onto his back. He lay on the floor of a cavernous room. Huge, canned fluorescent lights hung dark from the scaffolding above. Daylight crept its way in through several skylights set into the high ceiling. He raised his head and scanned the space around him.

Retracted bleacher seats outlined the walls. A stage occupied the opposite side of the hall, roughly a hundred feet from him. Basketball hoops, pulled parallel with the ceiling, hung awkwardly.

Is this a gymnasium?
He thought. Then:
What the fuck?

James’ hands went clammy, his stomach knotted, he felt faint and his breathing grew heavy. An urge to vomit rose in his throat. What he felt, saw, tasted, smelled and heard confirmed this place was real—or a convincing facsimile. Every logic circuit in his brain conflicted. He knew this experience was impossible, yet here he lay.
 

Get ahold of yourself. Worry about how you got here later. Get up. Now!

An atavistic force welled within him. He steadied his wobbly arms and pushed himself onto a pair of shaky, bruised knees. Three breaths eased his dizziness and he chanced standing upright.
 

His shirt squeezed his chest—he pulled it straight and discovered his blazer missing. He now wore a buttoned shirt with a neatly knotted tie and a pair of khakis ending in penny loafers.
 

What happened to my clothes?

He smoothed his shirt as if inspecting a foreign artifact from another world. His hands moved from chest to belly to belt (reversible, ugh) to pants and then pockets.
 

His right pocket protruded. He reached in and removed a small, folded slip of parchment, rough against his fingertips.
 

A terrifying quiet had descended—so quiet that his heart thumped over his breath.

He looked to his hands and unfolded the paper.
 

James stared, puzzled by the vague message—then he became aware of his mental state: his breathing found its familiar rhythm, his heart beat as expected and he no longer swallowed against retching—the speed at which he regained control of his faculties shocked him.
 

Perhaps I’ve decided that this really is just a dream.

A ray of sunshine traveled across James’ face—a mote of dust flittered by, swirling and whooshing in the air on an invisible roller coaster. He estimated the light’s quality as either late afternoon or early morning—likely late afternoon.

“Well, I’d better get a move on and figure out just what the hell is going on here,” he said, testing his voice.
 

He took a step. A panicked woman burst through the gym doors.

4

A particularly beautiful afternoon alighted on Royal Victoria Hospital—one of those afternoons only Belfast could muster with so little effort. Olivia Young worked her regular shift in the Accident and Emergency Ward. With two hours already clocked, she had attended to three heart attacks, two flus and one nasty hip fracture, and now she examined an elderly Irish man complaining of severe fatigue and shortness of breath.