Just Passing By
He was late for function. He shakes the pole as the train rumbles over runway-thin man in his forties, pale, clean shaven. It is wedged between other commuters. A subway beggar pleads to nobody in specific, "Please, something that might help."
He looks ahead to a young lady sitting in front of the automobile, dressed in black, holding a flower pot. An envelope has been stuck between the rods. Another train narrow ledge, just outside the glass, blurring the windows and faces. The driver is the subsequent stop.
On the platform of the thin man sees the envelope, down on the wet brick is being kicked and tossed down toward the creek. He raises his hand and known as the lady. It does not seem to hear it, does not continue along its path. It continues the envelope, tear prior to it reaches the gutter. As the train leaves yet an additional explosion occurred in the opposite direction.
The beggar stated, "Ladies and gentlemen, please."
He angles his shoulders, as part of the crowd as he ascends the sidewalk. He sees the black lady, about to cross the street. He is so determined catch up with her, giving her an envelope, it follows correct in front of a bus from NYC, is sucked by a stranger.
"Jesus, man! Be cautious! "
He sees once more following the bus passes. Then the crowd swallows her.
According to a revolving door glass in the lobby of Macmillan's New York record, knocking the elevator, but it lacks. He looks at his watch, noticed a man standing in front of large the fireplace, her face turned. The man wears a black coat and a towel at his feet. The briefcase can hardly contain it holds; Documents stick out in all directions. The man also looks at his watch.
The elevator chimes as his role to open doors steps and lean man, awkward in a lady who spills hot coffee on him. He sees the figure by the fire spinning, as nurses in the burn. The elevator doors close. One lady told an additional: "Yeah, we lost. Is not it terrible? All that effort just in the wrong direction! "
It jumps all, but as the elevator doors opened its roll, and revisions quickly the men's ward. He rolls up his sleeves, pouring cold water on the burn. He lingered a moment on the sink: The face in the mirror is thin, white, sickly. He rushes to his workplace.
A large roll back in his chair as he passes. "You, O'Malley?
O'Malley enters in a small room filled with potted plants and stacks of paper. The plants do not seem to be extremely great. He has not had the chance to sit down when a colleague brings an additional stack of papers. "I'll just place them on the floor," she stated.
"Mmm," stated O'Malley. It puts the envelope on his desk.
His cries chair as he moved in. His fingers hover above the keyboard. He gets up and goes to get the pitcher of water, intending feed the plants, but only a few drops fall. He leans close to the glass. With his rehabilitation, he sees the city stretching to the horizon, a little hazy, boxes in boxes.
He looks at the envelope. He picks it up and return it, reads, 'Wilshire Clinic.
He holds the letter and its content in both hands as petticab jiggles along, inch by inch through traffic. The plastic windows are dappled with water as he looks out: smoke, pedestrians and buses belching, the Manhattanites with their umbrellas and dogs on police officers and beggars.
He sprints on the steps of the Wilshire and locate room 234, as the author of the letter stated, then stopped on the threshold. There is a bed surrounded by a white plastic curtain. Beyond the window is small enough, the shutter is open. Flowers and cards crowd the doorway. A breeze Fresh blows, ruffling petals, rattling the paper. The plastic curtain flaps.
It is his openness and Peeks inside.
A man was there, pale, sickly yellow cheeks collapsed, fallen hair. His eyes misty watching the ceiling Hallows deep. It has multiple IVs, the insertion points are in purple, swollen, and it is connected to a pc network, covered with plastic appliances, bags of saline. Feschner a book is placed on the belly, like a tent.
"Who's there?" Says the man, does not turn his head. Her breath comes and goes in ragged gasps.
"Nobody. I passed by there. I am a friend ... Christine. "
"You are a friend ... Christine?
"Yes. I wanted it to give you some thing."
"Christine?
"Yes. I have here."
Ragged gasps, coming and going.
"How is she?
"She's fine. She plans to come. When she can. "
"That's great. That's great. What is it?"
"A letter.
A train whistle someplace outside the window, rattles plastic curtain. "I can not read."
"I can read it for you. "
"Okay."
"Do you thoughts if I come in?
"Please."
He backs curtain, searching for a chair, and locates a stool. He shakes the curtains, pulling the stool grids on the floor, and head man. The man rolls his eyes to appear, raising his hand, which is responsible for infusions, placing it on the cold, bold, chrome handrail.
"Dearest Laurence," O'Malley begins, holding the letter.
"You are truly a friend of Christine? "
O'Malley raises his hand on the man.
"Dearest Laurence, it begins once more.
It puts control for $ 7680 to the receptionist and left the clinic, but instead of hailing a cab rides along the side of the constructing to the subway terminal. It's getting cold. He walks with his head bowed, his hands stuffed in his pockets. Rainwater flowing along the gutters and courses in the streams. Some sewer rats scurry past.
The wind picks up totally free newspapers and swirls in the air. He looks toward the window exactly where the man would sees the curtains breeze. The wind gets up as he looks about, the threat, the gray towers and plumes of steam into the tanks on the roofs and chimneys angle chaotic.
He descends into the terminal. The train doors open, and he roared advice as an additional passed in the opposite direction.
(c) Copyright 2008 by Wayne K. Spitzer
About the Author
Wayne Spitzer is an author, filmmaker, and teacher of writing from the Pacific Northwest. His genre function consists of an SF/horror novel, Flashback (Books in Motion/Classic Ventures, 1993), the movies Shadows in the Garden (Indie-Flix, 2007) and Monstersdotcom (Brimstone LLC, 2003), and numerous low-budget tv programs and ad spots. His non-genre function has appeared in Columbia: The Magazine of Northwest History, subTerrain, Micro-film: The Magazine of Personal Cinema in Action, and Generation X National Journal. Wayne teaches creative writing at Airway Heights Corrections Center and Corbin Art Center in Spokane, Washington.
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