Chapter 1.
“From time to time one needs to just get away for a while.”
Making deliveries in this part of the city was always risky, even during the day. But at night the chances of being mugged or robbed, or worse, went up exponentially.
That’s why on this night the delivery man drove past his destination twice, looking for any signs that danger might be lurking close by. His co-worker had warned him about what to look out for in this neighborhood. He told stories about things that had happened. Rapes, robberies, murders were all too common these days.
Since the crash a decade ago, the economy had never recovered. The millions who had been living from paycheck to paycheck before the crash, were now all too frequently living without any form of income at all. Many thousands, if not millions, died struggling for survival.
When the stock market finally crashed, it took countless businesses down with it. Other than the few individuals who had seen it coming and had been prepared, the only “successful” survivors were the giant corporations, together with the government bureaucracies with whom they colluded.
Over night the percent of unemployed jumped to 30 percent. Within a month, as industries came to a halt and inventories dried up, that percentage had more than doubled.
At first the masses had protested, demanding that the government rescue them. But when government agencies themselves began to collapse for lack of funding, the population was left to it’s own devices.
As desperation set in, crime sky-rocketed. Police forces focused their shrunken resources on protecting what remained of the infrastructure: government buildings, corporate headquarters, high-end residential areas, and a few “commerce zones.”
Within these zones, businesses were relatively safe from the crime that rampaged just outside the “protected” areas. In the mornings, those who lived “outside” made their way through the detritus to their assigned check points along the perimeter. There they were searched and their identities verified.
Once cleared and released, they made their way to their places of employment. There they spent their days in subdued desperation, constantly in competition with one another, ever striving to out-shine the other, hopefully ensuring against being “let go,” cast out of the commerce zones, back into the chaos that was “outside.”
Only a few months earlier the delivery driver had owned a small fast food franchise near the perimeter. The building it occupied had repeatedly been vandalized, owing to its proximity to “outside.” The corporate overlords, fearful that continued vandalism would cut into their profit margin, had pressured him to increase security (of course without providing funding for the added expense).
There was no way he could afford to hire someone to guard the store at night, so he, his wife and their three children had been forced to move into the storeroom in the back of the building. That seemed to satisfy his overlords, if only temporarily. Not long afterwards, as the crime rate continued growing in the area, the corporate fathers decided to cut their losses and close down the franchise. Because the value of real estate in the area was near zero, they virtually abandoned the building. He was told his family could remain there, but he would no longer be in their employ.
Though he begged and pleaded, they refused to yield. Finally in desperation, he accepted the only offer they made, delivering part time for one of their other stores.
Satisfying himself that it was safe, the young man stopped his car in front of the building, then punched in the number on his phone. After three rings a voice answered.
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Jimmy from the Deli, sir. I have your order.” The young man spoke rapidly as he scanned the area again.
“Where’s Mike?” The voice was insistent, demanding. He could hear a noise in the background, maybe a TV or radio.
“He called in . . . said he was sick or something. I don’t know for sure. The boss didn’t say.”
There was a pause, then a muffled thump, as though the phone had been dropped onto something soft, like a pillow or a padded seat cushion.
The young man sat tensely, waiting, listening, one hand gripping the steering wheel, the other pressing the phone against his ear. He hated coming to this part of town. The crime rate here was higher than anywhere else in the city. Since the firearms ban last summer, the only people who possessed guns were the bad guys and the cops. “Where’s a cop when you need one?” had become literally true. In this part of the city rarely did you see a cop during daylight hours. Never did you see one at night.
When the boss called and asked him to work this night shift, he had almost quit on the spot. The boss had assured him it would only be for tonight; then he’d be back on days. Reluctantly he relented, fearing that to refuse might cost him his job.
His mouth was dry. He should have brought his soda, he thought as he glanced quickly to each side, making sure both doors were still locked.
“All right.” The voice startled him. “I can see you down there. Come to the door and I’ll buzz you in.”
The young man dropped his phone, forgetting to turn it off. With one hand he opened the car door. With the other he scooped up the cardboard box from the passenger seat. He scooted out and stood quickly, reaching to push the door closed behind him. Then remembering, he stopped. He had left the keys in the ignition. Shifting the box to his other hand he bent over to reach for the keys, bumping his head on the door jamb.
“Shit!” The man in the room heard from the phone now lying on the car floor. From his window high above he saw the man below slam the car door shut and hurry toward the building, his warm breath turning to vapor trailing behind him in the cold night air.
The building facade looked old, in disrepair. Most of the windows on the ground level were boarded up. The few which were still intact were covered in graffiti. Most of the businesses which had once occupied the rooms beyond had escaped to the suburbs long ago. The few which remained would most probably be gone soon too.
With his free hand the young man pulled his coat collar closed, shivering in the damp, cold air. He looked up, noticing light coming from only one window several stories up. The rest of the windows were dark. His toe caught the edge of the curb as he hurried forward. Stumbling to regain balance, he caught himself just before slamming into the steel mesh which protected the heavy metal-framed door.
He pulled at the cold metal handle, almost dropping the cardboard box. The door wouldn’t open. He glanced around him frantically, thinking he’d just forget it all and run back to his car and get the hell out of there. Then a buzz, and the door came ajar. He yanked it open, then pulled it shut behind him. He heard a reassuring click as the door locked. He was now trapped between the outer door and the inner. He couldn’t get further into the building, and he couldn’t get out either. He was isolated in the dimly lit vestibule, safe from the darkness outside, but fearful of the darkness within.
“Put the box in the dumb waiter.” A loud voice bounced off the walls. A small door behind him creaked, startling him as it opened. He spun to face it, the contents within the box rattling as he turned. He pushed the box into the dark cavity, pushed the door closed and took a step back, clammy hands clasped in front of him. A faint whir came from behind the door, then faded to silence. Standing there feeling miserably exposed in the faint light, he realized he had to pee . . . bad.
“Everything seems to be here. Your tip is coming down.” The intercom rattled loudly.
Shifting from one foot to another, the young man waited anxiously. He heard the whirring again, growing steadily louder. The small door creaked open again to reveal a few crumpled bills where the box had been. He snatched them up and stuffed them into his pocket as the outer door buzzer sounded. Without so much as a ‘thank you,’ he ran out, jumped into his car and sped off down the dark street.
“You’re welcome.” Aaron Brock muttered to the window as he watched the car’s tail lights shrinking into the darkness. Holding the cardboa
rd box in both hands, he turned and shuffled slowly across the cluttered living room toward the kitchen.
The floor was strewn with discarded food wrappers, unread junk mail, dirty clothes, typical detritus kicked aside to form a narrow path between the rooms. Another similar path veered down the hallway, turning midway down and to the right into another darkened room. The hallway continued for several more feet. The pathway did not.
Using the box as a plough, Aaron pushed the clutter on the table to one side and slid into a chair, easing the dozing cat out of the way.
The fat orange tabby growled his displeasure at being so rudely awakened. Dropping quietly to the floor, he stretched, back arched, erect tail quivering. Then he traced a tight circle around the man’s leg, purring, letting him know all was forgiven . . . if only he would give him just a small morsel.
Aaron reached down and scratched the cat between the ears, then ran his hand down its back. The tabby purred with pleasure, arching its back in encouragement. When the scratching ceased and no food was forthcoming, the cat sat down and stared up at the man, tail slowly twitching back and forth.
Scratching the stubble on his cheek, Aaron rummaged through the contents of the box. From it he withdrew a foil-wrapped corned beef sandwich, still warm from being ‘nuked’ at the deli. Next came a kosher dill in a sandwich bag, followed by a large styrofoam cup filled with burnt-smelling hours-old greasy coffee. The remaining contents were left unnoticed, later to be stashed in the ‘fridge, box and all. Breakfast for tomorrow, or maybe lunch.
Aaron had taken to staying in his apartment almost full time now. There really wasn’t any need to go out. His car had been totalled in the crash and he hadn’t bothered to get another one. The deli would deliver any time, day or night, so why bother to go grocery shopping. The ‘mini-mat’ down the hall did well enough cleaning his clothes. He really didn’t have any reason to go out at all. That suited him just fine.
The old woman who ran the ‘mini-mat’ was pleasant enough, even though they rarely spoke. She knew from experience what he wanted done with his clothes, so there wasn’t much point in attempting to carry on a conversation.
She had been living in this building for thirty years now . . . longer than any of the other remaining tenants. She had seen dozens of couples come and go over the years, especially back in the days before ‘the fall.’
Back then the city had been vibrant, alive with activity. The streets had always been crowded with vehicles, the side walks jammed with people, hurriedly going about their daily lives. A feeling of excitement always seemed to fill the air. That was NYC in it’s glory days. But no more.
As newly-weds, she and her husband had moved into the apartment across the hall from where the young man now lived. Of course back then he didn’t live there. He was probably just three or four years old at the time and was probably still living with his parents somewhere else.
The old woman leaned back in her chair, sighing softly as she pulled the last cigarette from the pack. She fumbled absently in a sweater pocket, finally coming up with a packet of matches. The first match fizzled when she struck it, as did the second. She cursed under her breath as she tried again.
“I ought to quit these damn things.” She thought as she lit up. “My poor Eddie never did, and look what it got him. A slow, ugly death as the cancer ate away at his vocal chords and throat. Maybe I’ll be lucky and get hit by a bus.” she thought. “Except the buses don’t run any more.” Memories of the early days came back to her as she sat there flicking ashes off the smoldering cigarette.
She and her husband had been on a waiting list for nearly a year. The apartments in this area had been in high demand in those days. The business district was only a few blocks away. Everyone wanted to live close to their work instead of commuting back and forth from the ‘burbs.’ With gasoline over thirty dollars a gallon, almost no one could afford to commute anyway. Light rail and bus lines had closed down long before, victims of the crime wave which eventually took over all but the most tenacious businesses. Commuters were regularly mugged, robbed, raped or killed by out-of-control gangs which ruled the streets.
Law enforcement had become a joke. Crime was so rampant that police had to patrol the streets in armored vehicles (squad cars were just too vulnerable to the massive firepower in the hands of the gangs). Gun control laws had only served to strengthen the hoodlums. They roamed the streets at will, the citizenry fleeing before them. Law abiding citizens were left with no means to protect themselves. Those few who still possessed firearms were regularly prosecuted if they used their weapons to defend themselves.
She always smiled when she saw him, even though he rarely acknowledged her. Sometimes he would mutter something unintelligible. But mostly he just handed her the bundle of dirty clothes, then turned and shuffled back down the hall, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his dingy robe.
“You ought to wash that thing pretty soon.” she would sometimes say. All she ever heard from him in response was a muffled grunt.
“It’s too sad,” she thought to herself. He was always such a friendly person, always smiling when she saw him, always chatting pleasantly whenever he came to deliver or pick up his laundry. And he was a good tipper, too. Better than most of the others.
But now, after the accident . . . how long ago had it been? She tried to remember. It must have been back in the winter sometime because she remembered the big wool overcoat and the petite lavender jacket he had asked her to dry clean. She had missed seeing him for several months, and now it was nearing October. She had reminded him about the dry-cleaning and all he had muttered was, “It’s no rush.”
It was such a shame about his wife. To drown, trapped in her own car. “And him coming out without even a scratch.” She thought out-loud. And the way the police and reporters had hounded him. It was no surprise that he had retreated into himself, becoming practically a recluse. It was just a damn shame. And such a waste.
“Oh well,” she signed quietly, as she turned back to her work.
The tabby was finally giving up on getting a hand-out. After circling the man’s legs once more and looking up at him expectantly, he padded quietly out of the kitchen, then turned and trotted down the hall. Stopping at the bathroom entrance, he glanced back toward the kitchen, giving the man one last chance. Finally, resolving that nothing was forthcoming, he walked in and gingerly stepped up into his litter box, sniffing his displeasure.
Staring blankly across the small room, Aaron chewed absently, the mere act itself a tasteless metaphor for his life. The corned beef was pasty and tasteless, offering sustenance, but little else worth savoring.
It wasn’t so much that he was angry or resentful; he was just . . . numb. And tired. When you get constantly bombarded with all the crap the world lays on you, you finally just sort of shut down that segment of you brain which deals with it, and don’t allow yourself to be bothered with it anymore . . . at least for the moment.
There! That’s it. That’s the problem. What does “anymore” mean? Do you just not deal with the issue ever again? Or do you just file it away some place where you can get at it if, and when, you choose? But its far enough away from your “deliberate” attention that it doesn’t offer much distraction and your conscience can rest comfortably, if not sometimes fitfully.
Raising the styrofoam cup to his lips, he took a habitually careful sip of what he knew, in some part of his mind, would be a cold, bitter-tasting liquid. Disappointed that there was not even the slightest hint of any warmth left, he took in one big gulp and resolutely washed down what was left of the pulpy bite.
Seemingly in a trance, he sat there motionless, except for the nervous twittering of his hands. They fumbled absently with the sandwich bag until the kosher dill fell out onto the table. The pungent smell of the limp, grey-green object assaulted his nostrils, causing him to wince as his jaw muscles tightened reflexively.
The thought of eating more made his stomach turn. Disgustedly he pi
cked up the pickle and laid it beside the half-eaten sandwich, then wrapped them both up in the wrinkled foil. He had no interest in eating. The pleasure he had once derived from it now was replaced by bored disinterest. He now only ate to avoid dying.
Pushing the chair out from the table, wadded foil in hand, he walked the three steps to the trash can and dropped the thing onto the growing pile within. It hadn’t started smelling yet, so he could wait to empty it. Maybe another day or two, if he was lucky.
Turning back toward the living room, he switched the kitchen light off, leaving the cardboard box, the sandwich bag and the puddle of pickle juice there on the cluttered table. By morning the juice would have run under the cardboard box, where it would dry into a sticky, smelly mess, effectively welding the box to the table.
The thought raced through his head that he should go back and clean up the mess now, while it was easy to deal with, rather than put if off until later, when it would require a lot more effort and inconvenience. He didn’t loose a stride as the thought departed, leaving nothing more than a slight bad taste in his mouth.
Plopping heavily into the overstuffed recliner, he continued the seemingly unending struggle with the memories that had been plaguing him for so many months. No matter what he tried, his thoughts returned to that night. The night when his life had been turned upside down.
He remembered being jolted awake, feeling light-headed in the darkness. Absently he thought he heard a scream, but he was still groggy and couldn’t be sure. He felt distant, detached for what seemed an eternity. Then he felt the hard slap of the air bag as the car impacted the water. He heard and felt the splintering thud as the windshield imploded, shredding the air bags. He remembered the chalky irritating smell of the gas exploding into his nostrils. Instinctively he tried to exhale. He remembered fumbling to push the air bag out of his face, then looking to his left. There, still strapped in the driver’s seat, was Sharon, eyes wide in panic, a scream bubbling out of her mouth. The bubbles floated up and back, disbursing and disappearing into her long swirling hair. Her pale face was framed in darkness, highlighted only by the faint blue light from the dashboard. Then the light flickered and went out as water shorted out the electrical system.
He remembered again awakening, this time to a glaring bright light shining in his eyes. Distantly he thought he heard someone yelling.
“He’s awake! BP normal! No injuries that I can see!”
Then the light moved away and soothing darkness began to engulf him once again. As he faded from consciousness, he thought he heard the distant, bubbling scream of a siren.
The next thing he remembered was the hospital emergency room. It all seemed to be a distorted blur; the bright lights; the uncomfortable squeeze of the blood pressure cuff around his arm; the sting as an I.V. needle was jammed into his other arm; people hovering around him, asking him questions.
“What is your name, sir? Do you know what day this is? Can you tell be what happened?”
There was so much noise! It made him feel uneasy. Then everything began to fade as the darkness returned.
He awoke again, this time in a different room. The lights were dim. The room was quiet. It smelled of alcohol and urine. His head was spinning. Something didn’t feel right. He couldn’t seem to think straight. He felt isolated, like he didn’t belong.
Memories popped in and out of his head: A woman’s face, her hair swirling about her head in slow motion; a man’s bloodied face, eyes wide in panic. The man was screaming: “Where is she?! Where’s Nera?!”
“Who’s Nera?” he wondered. As soon as he focused on the image, it disappeared, to be replaced by another, this time of another room.
It smelled clean, antiseptic. A man was there, pacing back and forth, hands clasped behind his back. He was saying something, but no sound came out of his mouth.
Aaron sensed that what the man was saying was important. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make out what was being said. He struggled to let the man know he couldn’t hear him. The man just ignored him, continuing to pace.
Aaron felt near panic. Nothing was making sense.”You need to snap out of it.” he told himself in a quiet, deliberately controlled tone. “You need to get hold of yourself. It’s time!”
The flash of images stopped abruptly. Suddenly he was back in his room. To his left there was another bed. The safety rails on both sides were down. The sheets and blanket were stretched flat and smooth in military fashion. The cord for a call button lay coiled neatly on the pillow. For some reason it reminded him of a serpent, preparing to strike.
Above the foot of his bed a TV hung suspended from the ceiling. On the screen he recognized an old black and white episode of the Lone Ranger. The man in the mask and his Indian companion were talking, though Aaron couldn’t make out what they were saying. He looked for the remote so he could turn up the volume. There it was, sitting on a table, next to a box of tissues. He tried to sit up so he could reach them, but couldn’t. A wide strap was stretched across his chest, pinning him to the bed. He couldn’t figure out why the strap was there. His mind was reeling. Nothing was making sense.
“Can someone please help me?” His voice was weak, barely more than a whisper. He tried shifting position, trying to free himself, but he couldn’t move. Another strap was stretched across his legs. He tried raising his arms but both wrists were bound to the side railings with padded leather straps.
To his right there was a curtain, extending from the ceiling down to within a foot or so of the floor. Beyond it he could see the lower part of a closed door. Under it shadows moved back and forth erratically. He could hear voices, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. He was about to try calling out again when one of the shadows stopped just outside the door.
Aaron heard the lock disengage and the door creak open on it’s hinges. The curtain still blocked his view. All he could see were pant cuffs and scuffed brown shoes as they came into the room.
“Mister Brock?” The curtain was pulled back abruptly. A tall lanky man clad in a wrinkled white lab coat smiled down at him. Around his neck was a stethoscope. In one hand he held a clipboard; in the other a pen.
“So, Mister Brock. How’re we feeling today?” the man said, staring down at the clipboard, pen poised to take notes.
“Who are you and why am I being restrained?!” Aaron retorted. The man in the coat wrote something down and then looked up at Aaron.
“My apologies, Mister Brock. My name is Mike. I’ll be your nurse-assistant for this shift. Is there anything I can get for you? Some water perhaps, or something to eat?”
“I’m not interested in food! Get me out of these restraints!”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m not allowed to. . . .”
“I don’t give a damn what you’re not allowed!” Aaron raised his head as far as he could. The man went back to writing.
“It’s obvious that you are not in charge here! Get someone in here who is!”
“I’ll be happy to do that sir, if you’ll just give me a few moments to ask a few questions.”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort! Get someone in here who’s in charge!”
“Just as soon as you answer some questions.” He looked back to his clipboard. “Why do you think you came out of the accident unscathed?”
Aaron realized he wouldn’t get anywhere with this man. Helpless to do anything else, he lowered his head to the pillow and remained silent. After a long wait, the man looked up again.
“I’m sorry Mister Brock. Didn’t you understand the question?”
Aaron said nothing, just stared at the ceiling.
“Listen. Mister Brock, you need to realize something. You were brought in here tonight as the only survivor of a devastating car crash.”
“Only survivor? You mean . . . Sharon is . . . dead?” Aaron blurted. The last few pieces of the puzzle crashed into place. It wasn’t a dream, as he had hoped in his confused and bewildered mind. It was real! His wife was dead . . . and h
e was still alive! How could this be? He hadn’t even received a scratch!
“You know that, sir. That’s why we had to restrain you. You were thrashing about all over the place, screaming that you had to get away. We couldn’t reason with you. You were out of control. We had to sedate you.” The man moved closer to Aaron’s bed.
“Actually, sir, I’m not a nurse assistant. I’m a behavioral psychologist. I was asked to come in and evaluate your mental state. Everyone here hoped that someone non-threatening, like a nurse aide would be less intimidating; That you might be more receptive to someone like that instead of some authority figure.” He moved to the edge of the bed. “May I sit?” Aaron nodded.
“Well, I volunteered to wear that guise. We all saw how you were when they brought you in last night. The police thought you might become suicidal, so they had the E.R. doctor sedate you. You do realize, don’t you, that your walking away unscathed from a crash like that is unheard of.”
“What do you mean, ‘unheard of’?”
“Sir, your car was headed west on the Brooklyn Bridge when it was struck head-on by an on-coming semi. Witnesses say your car flipped once in mid-air and then crashed through the guard rail and plunged over 200 feet into the bay. It just barely missed an outbound container ship. Someone on board saw the car hit the water. He said it sounded like a bomb had just gone off.
Aaron lay there stunned, unable even to speak. His wife was gone.