Intersection

Charnell Breitbach, Carole Fishback, Andrew Robertson

 

Hit and Miss
Charnell Breitbach

It’s one of those street corners that seemed to come to a point, and by 9:15 that Monday morning, I’d scanned it so many times that it felt like I was one of its regulars. The sidewalks were sandwiched between a long cast iron fence and a never-ending line of parking meters. Business suits and overcoats moved every which way clutching swinging briefcases in one hand while sipping a five-dollar cup of coffee with the other. In the few times I’d worked the area, the concept of the five-dollar coffee never did make sense to me. The people moved so quickly it seemed they were always running late and would break into a sprint at any given moment, yet they always managed to stop and wait in line to get their precious morning fix of caffeine.

Time seemed to stop as I sat and watched the opposite street corner. I hid behind the newspaper I had purchased at the oversized newspaper stand I was now stalking. The vender, who wore layered flannel in preparation for the chilly day ahead, straightened the stacks of magazines and newspapers between helping customers. Few people stopped to look at the day’s headlines as they passed, but the few that did were not who I was waiting for – my last job before retirement.
This one was the ultimate job since it would set me up for the rest of my life if I invested the money right, but it was the most dangerous – people everywhere. Maybe that was a good thing with all the extra noise – shoes on the pavement, various conversations, cell phones ringing, papers rustling.

He was supposed to be coming through this very spot by ten, but I was ordered to be in my position by nine. I didn’t know his name – just some hotshot businessman that worked downtown that somebody wanted taken care of. It was 9:25 and still no sign of him. Of course, there were a lot of men about his height – just over six feet tall – walking by the corner, but few had the chocolate brown hair and even fewer also had a receding hairline.

As I continued to sit on the fancy wood slatted bench, I alternated looking at my watch and the newsstand. I decided maybe it was time to try that five-dollar cup of coffee, so I thought I’d go to some swanky coffee place afterwards. I glanced at the newsstand as I folded the paper and immediately looked back at my watch – 9:43. There he was. Six feet tall. Brown hair. Receding hairline. Three-piece suit. High gloss shine on his shoes. I’d finish with a perfect record.

I quickly assessed the surroundings. A couple to my right chatted away – they wouldn’t notice the little bit of polished silver in my hand. If I was quick enough, I’d hit the ground with them, and they wouldn’t know the difference. Across the street, few seemed to be paying attention to where they were walking, so why would they notice something across the street? Some blonde woman was standing in the way of my shot. Hordes of other people passed by, but why was she still standing there? What could they possibly be talking about that was taking so long? Shouldn’t she be rushing off somewhere like everyone else?

Finally she turned to leave, and I saw him. He seemed disoriented and disheveled from what I’d pictured, but it wouldn’t matter in a few minutes anyway. I glanced all around me and saw no one looking. I carefully raised my hand out of my pocket and fired while still trying to hide behind the newspaper. Everyone around me looked in horror as they tried to locate the loud burst. Some crawled onto the ground – myself included. I couldn’t see the corner anymore; too many dumbfounded people had wandered in front of my view.

The couple who’d been sitting on the next bench came over and offered to help me off the ground. I politely accepted and thanked them while trying to see where he had been standing, but I only found the blonde woman he’d been talking to. She was looking around like everyone else. They’d all heard the shot, but where had he gone? I’d hit him. I frantically searched the pavement looking for his body. In its place lay a partially emptied coffee cup in a pool of five-dollar coffee, and all I could think was what a waste of five bucks.

 

Mistaken Identity
Carole Fishback

What a waste of $650. As I left Dr. Elliott’s office I felt particularly irritated by our therapy session. After three years, he just didn’t seem to take my panic attacks too seriously. “Have a nice morning, Sarah...we’ll see you next Monday,” said the soft-spoken receptionist as I stepped outside into another typical day of chaos, heading for work downtown. The city, its crowds and impersonal tone had become a safe haven of sorts since my move from L.A. some four months ago. I actually felt safer.

It wasn’t to last however. After a few blocks of shouldering my way through the scurrying morning commuters, I felt everything go cold inside when I saw Ken’s face about twenty feet ahead of me. He might as well have been a hologram. The slumped shoulders and his sandy brown hair all seemed too real. I MUST be losing my mind. Just couldn’t be. I felt the familiar panic begin to rise in my chest. The last time I’d seen him, I’d narrowly missed the Norelco razor my lovely boyfriend had sent sailing past my head in one his infamous fits of rage. That was in L.A. That was four months ago. But, at the moment, that seemed like yesterday.

With a sinking feeling, I began to surmise that this might be one of the “fugue” episodes a few co-workers thought that I was experiencing...withdrawing and disconnecting. They’d talked me into therapy, but among the mumbo jumbo my good doctor came up with, one thought was that such episodes were a side effect of panic, events that could be tied to Ken. Personally, I just wasn’t buying it. Perfect. Now here’s Ken in my neck of the woods to test everyone’s theories, not to mention my own sanity! How did he find me?

I looked down at my feet in an attempt to get my bearings, willing that they continue moving at least, anything to maintain a hold on reality, until I reached the safety of my building anyway. When I looked up again, I found myself near Sal’s News, a place I frequented for their South American blend coffee. Maybe THAT’s what I need, I rationalized and felt myself begin to calm at the idea.
The voice just then, next to me, caught me by surprise, “Excuse... me, Miss ... this yours?” My skin automatically grew cold and prickly.

What do I do? He’s looking at me; say something, do something. Ken was towering over me. It WAS him. Or was it? His eyes didn’t burn as she’d remembered – these were, well, a little void of emotion, made more odd as his face broke into an awkward smile. He seemed puzzled, having a difficult time just getting the words out, not something Ken ever had problems with doing before. He was looking at my briefcase as though it were alive or something he didn’t recognize.

“Briefcase.” I finally just blurted out, finishing his sentence. He held a cup of coffee in an odd, stiff manner. He was saying something about a newspaper, “Are you getting paper media?” An odd way to put buying a newspaper, but I ignored this and responded, “I got mine earlier.” I couldn’t help myself and added, “It’s funny how we happen to meet after all you put me through!” This whole encounter just began to seem rather surreal.

C-R-A-C-K!! There was a flurry of crouching, flinching people all around me. A newspaper with a gaping hole was fluttering to the ground across the street near an old couple. Someone screamed. A gunshot?

I turned to ask ...what? Ask? Ask what? Of whom? There was a puddle of steaming coffee at my feet and a paper cup still rocking to and fro next to it. Mine?

Despite the fact everyone around me seemed genuinely frightened for some reason, I found I felt only a rush of near-giddy relief as though I’d been saved from stepping in front of a car or train. Just like when Ken missed me with that stupid razor...

Ken, I mused. Now, THERE’s someone I hadn’t thought of in a long time!

 

One Wrong Turn
Andrew Robertson

It’s been awhile since I’ve been on a research mission this far into a culture. I got out of my taxi and walked down the street. I knew that my mission was to collect data on this culture. But, I didn’t know where I was. The operator kept yelling at me. He must be giving me a local custom.

“Hey, you, pay me my money. Jackass. Get back here! You own me 10 bucks.” I walked away and waved to the operator and returned his one-fingered gesture.

It was morning and the sun reflected on the glass monoliths. Where am I? I watched people and tried to think about what I had to do. People flowed in and out on the concrete path. People on the right and people on the left, I walked with them. I just followed the person in front of me. I stared at the walk sign with the rest of the herd; they walked, so I walked. I knew that something was strange. I didn’t know where I was but my mission was clear. I had to blend into the culture to fully understand it.

I smelled something good. I followed people into the bodega and listened to what they said. These people wanted morning refreshments. I will partake this custom also.

“One mega Organic Columbian White Gold Highland Supreme Roast with extra caffeine.”

“Five dollars. What mass is that?” I asked the female that got her beverage.

“For this place it’s not bad.”
At the counter, I ordered, “1 mega Organic Columbian White Gold Highland Supreme Roast with extra caffeine.”

As I stepped out with the herd, I looked up at the sun and a strange feeling came about me. I could hear more communications than before. I looked at my left, no conversations, then my right, no conversations. Where did the voices come from?

“Works sucks, more of the TPS file.”
“Wow, I look great in this outfit. I should wear it more often.”
“Get, the FUCK out of my way shit head. I got to meet with Jerry for the pickup.”
“I hope Frank doesn’t know I’m dating his brother.”
“I forgot to turn off TV when I left today. Oh, well.”

I was dazed, all these people’s thoughts coming to me or were the people talking? I stopped and listened to the voices in my mind. What strange thoughts; all they think about is themselves or what they do.

To complete my mission, I must to learn about this place and what these people do here. I had been monitoring their media transmissions both: digital and analogue. Clues from their technology indicate a massive data network based on commerce. I needed to know more about what these people do and how they interact. Printed media is popular. This might have the clues I need for my mission.

I looked for the nearest media stand. I needed to learn about their customs and culture. Where am I? This massive urban center is perplexing. As I turned left and walked to a media stand, I scanned the local print media. Things seemed more clear and focused. The streets were full of the thoughts and voices. A female was looking at me from afar. Visual contact must be a way to communicate non-sonically.

“How did he find me?”
“What do I do?”
“He’s looking at me; say something, do something.”

That thought was feminine. Now I could tell the difference between the thoughts of sexes. The strange thoughts and emotional content from her was different.

“Excuse... me, Miss ... this yours?” I wanted to communicate with her.

“Briefcase? Yes, it’s mine.”

“Are you getting paper media?”

“I got mine earlier. It’s funny how we happen to meet after all you put me through!”

How was it that we meet and what did I put her through? Did I do something wrong? As I started to ask her, she looked away. She must have heard something in the background. CRACK!!!

When she was looking away I glanced around and saw the flashing lights of media on many buildings. Soon I was looking up at a picture screen on a large building, it had the planet Earth on it. As I stared at the picture of Earth, I realized that I was now looking at earth from orbit, not in the urban center where I was before.