It is all very specific, all very calculated. I must be at the train station by 6:30 am to get a decent parking space. Seven minutes is the most grace I can get. I’ve timed it. The train comes at 6:50 am sharp and I get on, always in the quiet car. These days I’ve decided to sit in the backward-facing seats just for practice. There could be a crowded morning and my equilibrium was thrown off that one time. That won’t happen again.
When I arrive at Penn Station, I take the E, close to the end of the train, but not the last car. It is always far too crowded. When I get off at Lexington, I hoof it to the 6 train. Comfortable shoes are a must. Were it not for the durable leather and stable cushion, I would not close the distance to make the next transfer. The ride is very brief, so sitting at this point in the journey would make me inattentive. Missing my stop would mean an appreciable delay and that would not do.
It’s all very well structured. I’m happy with how it’s been laid out. I get to the timeclock at 7:58. Always 7:58. Never late.
One morning, against my better judgment, as I must be on time, I checked my phone after some insistent buzzing. Please call me. It’s about Mom, a text from my sister read.
I stopped just outside Hunter College and ducked around the corner.
“Lisa, what’s wrong?”
“Mark, it’s Mom. She’s dead.”
There was a deafening and utterly crippling echo to her words which wrung out all my strength. The phone slipped out of my hand. I was dizzy and overtaken. Mom… gone?
My umbrella was long gone, tumbling down the sidewalk behind me. I stood there, in the rain, unable to process, unable to move. Water dripped down the back of my starched shirt, down my slacks; droplets rested on my eyelashes. I looked upward, almost searching for her among threatening storm clouds. Only the unforgiving and rapidly swirling sky met my eyes.
Suddenly I heard a small crash, like glass breaking. My phone. It lay on the pavement like a forgotten toy, scratched and irreparably cracked. I looked beyond it and across the street as people shoved their way past me. There was no pause to the almost perpetual beat of commuter feet. Inside each, a world their own, disconnected from my developing breakdown. I was a still rock with a steady flow on either side.
My arm rose almost without my permission and my sleeve drew back to reveal flashing numbers on my watch. 7:50 am. I stepped out onto the corner and looked down the street at a mere five-minute walk to my office door. Looks like I won’t be late.