So, on a Friday night, after a week of cybersecurity training for his new role in D.C., Jack walked straight to Union Station and boarded the next train to New York.
He took a seat in the rear car and looked out the window, foggy with years of fingerprint smudges and strangers’ breaths. He couldn’t wait to get to New York. He had only visited the city a few times before, but he knew that it was the only place in the world where there was always a crowd, no matter where you went or what time it was. The only place where his anonymity, an almost-normal life, was all but guaranteed.
Jack spent two days roaming the streets of Manhattan, sleeping on a buddy’s shabby gray futon, drinking and playing pool at a dive bar, trying to decipher the unintelligible announcements on the subway, slipping past unrecognized by anyone around him. But still he thought of Javier.
Every helicopter that rumbled overhead made him think of his friend, the pilot-in-training. Though he slept in the living room with the windows open, hearing every siren and shout and shattering of glass in the trash bags dragged to the curb, Jack’s mind was back in D.C., or their dorm room at the academy. Even New York couldn’t free him. The distractions of the city just weren’t enough to outweigh the guilt that nagged him, reminding Jack that he had yet to make good on his promise to Javier. To be worthy of his forgiveness.
By the end of the weekend, Jack was walking down the street, hands sunk in his pockets, depressed by his failed attempt at diversion. It wasn’t yet eight p.m., but the sidewalk was quiet, just a handful of pedestrians skimming past, a political canvasser shyly asking for signatures, a drummer tapping on overturned buckets.
Jack could see the two teenage boys approaching the activist, a short man with glasses clutching a clipboard. There was something about the way the boys carried their bodies, aggressive and arrogant, consuming more space than they possibly needed, that reminded Jack of his academy tormentors. As the boys swaggered closer to the oblivious canvasser, Jack picked up his pace.
The man actually tried offering the boys his pitch, flashing an innocent smile. “Do you have a minute to support Wes Johnson?” he asked.
One of the boys cocked his head. “You mean that short-stringer?”
“Senator Johnson has proven that he’ll be an advocate for all Americans, which includes those with short strings,” answered the activist.
“Why would I want to waste my vote on someone who’s just gonna kick the bucket? He should get his sad short-stringer ass out of the way. He’s a fuckin’ embarrassment.”
One of the boys grabbed the clipboard out of the activist’s hands and greedily scanned the names. “Who the hell even likes this guy?”
A passing mother, noticing the scene, nervously gripped her child’s hand, leading her away from the tense trio of men, while Jack hovered nearby, waiting.
“Please return that,” the canvasser pleaded.
The boy smiled crookedly, then hurled the clipboard onto the sidewalk, the plastic striking the pavement with a single smack. The drummer nearby stopped playing.
Jack could see the agony on the canvasser’s face, trying to calculate the safest move. If he stooped down to pick up the clipboard, he’d be taking his eyes off the boys and, more crucially, the table with the box of donations.
Jack glanced around. The next closest witness was a young pregnant woman hanging farther back, her right hand clenching her phone, fingers presumably poised to dial 911 should the situation escalate. Where was the crowd when you needed it most? Jack thought. He nodded at the woman, and she tipped her head back in response, the instant kinship of mutual concern.
“Aren’t you going to pick that up?” the boy asked the activist, while his friend inched closer to the table.
Aren’t you going to hit him back? Jack could still hear the taunts from the sidelines at school. Too bad your family isn’t here. Too bad your uncle isn’t here. Too bad you’re just not as strong as they are.
Suddenly Jack’s anger burst.
“Why don’t you just leave the man alone, and we can all get back to our evenings?” Jack said firmly, stepping forward and offering the man a brief window to snatch his clipboard from the sidewalk.
“Why don’t you just mind your own business, asshole!”
“I’m not looking for a fight,” said Jack.
“Then back the fuck off.”
“Not until you let this man return to his job in peace,” said Jack.
The boy snickered. “You’re probably one of them. The both of you. Short-stringers,” he said, his words drenched in malice.