Maiden Lane

by Christopher Blankley

  “Like what?”

  “Well,” I pause, going off script. I try to think of a real world example. “You ever watch a flock of birds? You know, circling, getting ready to migrate. There’s hundreds of them, thousands, right? All flying in formation.”

  “Sure.”

  “And then suddenly, as you’re watching, they all change direction, all at once. All of them, in an instant, like they all knew that moment was the exact moment they absolutely had to circle left. But there’s no reason to, no force making them circle left. There’s no obstruction in front of them, just clear sky, nothing chasing behind them. They just do it. Turn left. The flock makes up its mind, and it does it. Really, really big numbers are sort of like that: unpredictable and prone to shifts.”

  “And you can predict the shifts? With your Megalytics?”

  “Maybe more than predict,” I allow. “Have you heard of Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle?”

  “Is that the guy with the cat?” Logan asks.

  “No, that’s Schrodinger. Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle is from quantum mechanics, the math of really, really small numbers. It states that you can’t know both the position and velocity of subatomic particles, because the act of observing the particle affects its state. Well, there seems to be an Uncertainty Principle to very, very large numbers, too. That the act of measuring them affects their state. That’s what Megalytics is all about.”

  “And this is useful to tech companies? Useful enough to them that they might try and kidnap you off a subway platform?”

  “Oh yeah. Think about it. With enough aggregated data, you could not only predict the next Harry Potter, Justin Timberlake, or fidget spinner, you might actually be able to gently push the market in a certain direction...”

  “Just by calculating exactly how improbable that really is?” Logan laughs.

  “Exactly!” I’m glad he understands.

  “But,” Logan considers. “You can’t actually do it, right? Big, online retailers have lots of customers. Lots and lots of customers. Tens of millions. But nothing along the lines of the numbers you’re talking about. Right?”

  “Right. And that’s the trick. You can’t just look at a single metric. The scale isn’t large enough for Megalytics to take affect. You have to look at the aggregate. Sometimes the aggregate of the aggregate.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Well, it’s like you’re driving to the airport, right?”

  “I am aware of that,” Logan nods.

  “Now, it’s hard to predict the path that you’ll take.”

  “No it isn’t,” Logan dismisses. “This is the way to the airport.”

  I shake my head. “But imagine if I were unaware of your final destination, just watching a car cross a map. Each intersection would represent a quadruple split in the chances that you’d end up at some specific spot on the map. Maybe you’ll go straight, maybe you’ll turn right. Maybe you turn left, or just maybe you’ll turn around entirely. Go through a dozen or so intersections, and the number of possible end points starts to get pretty big.”

  “But not big enough, am I right?” Logan is enjoying himself.

  “Exactly. You could drive across the country, go through every intersection in every state, and Megalytics could no more predict your final destination that a random pin stuck in a Triple A map.”

  “So? It doesn’t work?” Logan concedes. “Not in real life, then?”

  “No, it does, you’re just not thinking big enough.” I point ahead, at the traffic light we’re approaching. “Here’s an intersection. Are you going to turn left or right?”

  “Well, neither. The airport is that way.” Logan points straight ahead.

  “Right, but if you did, WHY would you turn left or right? Traffic, right? If there was a traffic jam up ahead, you might turn left to get around it.”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, the guy in the car in front of you is also making a decision to turn left or right, or straight ahead, based on exactly the same criteria as you, based on his read of the traffic in front of him. As he approaches the intersection, he’s taking into account traffic patterns as he sees them, his destination of choice and his understanding of the best, quickest route to get there.”

  “Okay?”

  “And the guy in front of him made a similar decision when he approached this intersection, based on his read of the traffic conditions, affected by the decision of the guy in front of him, also taking into account his destination of choice and-”

  “Okay, okay I get it,” Logan holds up a hand for me to stop.

  “All the way up the line to the first guy to drive through this intersection, maybe in a horse and buggy, two centuries ago, who made a decision on which way to turn, left or right, taking into account his desired destination and his read of the best route to get there.” I’m still talking long after Logan has stopped listening to me.

  “I get it! I get it! When you take into account every driver who’s ever traveled through this intersection, the numbers start getting really big, really quick.”

  I nod. “And that’s Megalytics. You just have to build a computer big enough, fast enough, to keep track of all that data. Computers are good at that.”

  “And someone has built this?”

  “No, not yet. That’s what all the dot-coms want me to do.”

  “Lord!” Logan exhales. “Why are you wasting your time in retail, mate? Why don’t you come to Wall Street and help me pick stocks with that computer?”

  “Yeah, that’s the thing,” my point made, I turn my attention back to watching Brooklyn pass by the car window. “It doesn’t work with money.”

  “What doesn’t?”

  “Megalytics. Cars on maps, flocks of birds, young adult novels, the mating habits of sub-Sahara gorillas...Megalytics can predict all that. But money – stocks, bonds, dollar bills in wallets...Megalytics doesn’t work on that.”

  “What? Why’s that?”

  I shake my head. “I wish I knew.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Despite my best efforts and the fastest computers, none of my models have ever managed to pick a blue chip stock.”

  “So you invented a totally new type of mathematics,” Logan glances at me. “But you can’t make any money with it?”

  “Not directly, no.”

  “And this is what you’ve been doing with yourself for the last three years, while I’ve been out here making pretty solid cheddar?”

  “Pretty much.” I shrug.

  “You never were the smart one, were you Roderic?” Logan laughs.

  I laugh too. “No, you’re right about that.”

  Chapter 5

  Logan drops me off at Departures. I have less than fifteen minutes to catch my plane. After a quick agreement that it will not be another three years before we talk again, I sprint off across JFK, toward the ticket counters. When I arrive, breathless and sweating, I push my way to the front of the line.

  “I have a first-class reservation for the 9:20 to LAX-” I begin, yelling rapidly at the woman behind the counter. She looks up from her computer and gives me a smile.

  I’m not ready for the blindside. I’m of the delusion that getting out of Manhattan meant that the whole thing was finally over. But it’s not. I stagger back, stumbling into the old couple I’d cut off. I trip over their rolling bags and crash to the airport floor.

  It’s her. The girl from the elevator. Eve. Behind the ticket counter, dressed in a flight attendant uniform. But it’s her, as sure as I’m breathing in and out. She’s somehow beaten me to the airport.

  My mind screams in panic. What the hell is going on? She’s here, standing in front of me and smiling. Is she going to ask me that question? Again? Maybe I should beat her to the punch? What the hell lies at the end of Maiden Lane?

  “Hey, idiot. Watch out!” the older man yells down at me. I look up at him, a stupid look of incomprehension on my face. The look of anger on his face is so..
.comforting. Real. Normal. He’s angry that I almost knocked over his wife. Damn right he is. He should be. I’m a jerk. I should be treated like a jerk. Who am I to think I can cut to the front of the line?

  These people are from the real world where people have manners. Not some bizarro world where the same girl keeps popping up over and over. Their presence means that the real world still exists. Somewhere. I haven’t been sucked into some computer, virtual-reality, matrix-construct sort-of-thing. I’m not in bed having a bad dream. That old guy is angry at me. Thank the Lord!

  I stand up and apologize profusely to the older couple. I do such a good job they actually start apologizing back to me. They must sense my sincerity, my utter relief. They even let me, officially, cut in line and talk to the girl behind the counter. She’s watching the whole thing with that same smirk on her face.

  “Good evening,” I begin. “I have a reservation on the 9:20 to LAX, and I’m afraid that I might miss my flight.”

  Smooth. Calm. Like I don’t recognize the girl. If I could have pulled off the whole cool-guy act without tripping over all the suitcases beforehand, it might have worked.

  “Not a problem, sir,” the girl says, tapping at her computer. “Good news.” She looks up, happily. “It looks like that flight has been canceled.”

  “How is that good news?” I ask.

  “At least you’re not late.” She smiles.

  “Then, when is the next flight to LAX?” I ask calmly. She’s not going to get a rise out of me.

  “There’s a flight at 10:30. But I’m afraid that’s been canceled too.”

  “Canceled? Why?”

  “Bad weather.”

  “In LA?”

  She looks at her computer, then back up at me. “Snow.”

  “In June?”

  She nods.

  “Okay, so are there any other flights to-” I turn to look at the Departure board. As I watch, all the flights to Los Angeles, Orange County, San Francisco, even Las Vegas, begin to show canceled. A great collected groan rises from the Departure lounge.

  I smile. I smile a pained, almost frantic smile. “What are you doing?” I ask in a half-whisper.

  She leans forward, trying to hear. “I’m sorry sir, what was that?”

  “What. Are. You. Doing?” I say again, louder.

  “I’m trying to get you on a flight to LAX.” She smiles. “Is that not your final destination today?”

  “You can’t keep me here in New York.”

  “I’m trying to help the best I can, sir.”

  “I don’t want to stay in New York.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to-”

  “Just!” I scream. Everyone turns to look. “Just,” I repeat, quieter. “Just ask.”

  “I’m sorry, sir?” She feigns ignorance.

  “Just ask it. I know you’re going to ask it. You know you’re going to ask it. Just quit the pretense. Just ask your question and get it over with.”

  “What question would that be, sir?” she’s still smiling. She’s enjoying torturing me.

  “You want me to say it, don’t you?”

  “Well, of course sir. I can’t answer a question unless you ask it.”

  I shake my head in disgust. “Whatliesattheendofmaidenlane?” I say.

  “I’m sorry sir? Again? I couldn’t quite make that out. What was the question?” she holds a hand to her ear.

  I sigh. “What lies at the end of Maiden Lane?” I say, defeated.

  She shakes her head. “Hmm, I still don’t totally understand...”

  Fine. Fine. I take in a deep breath. Might as well make it count. I turn to the whole Departure Lounge and declare in a deep baritone: “What lies at the end of Maiden Lane?”

  I turn back to the girl. She’s dropped the pretense. Her eyes are burning with that fire. “And?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. “Have you figured it out?”

  I put my hands on the desk, leaning forward so no one else can here this part. “The Twin Towers. Okay? Is that what you want me to say? The Twin Towers used to sit at the end of Maiden Lane. But they’re not there now. They’re gone, so your question is meaningless. What you should have asked is: What once lay at the end of Maiden Lane. Past tense, Bub.”

  “No,” she shakes her head slowly. “I’ve got my tenses correct and the question still remains: what lies at the end of Maiden Lane, Roderic Gant? When you know that, you can go back to California.”

  I slam a fist down hard on the counter. The girl leaps back, startled. She wasn’t expecting that.

  I look back, embarrassed. The old couple are staring at me, waiting for their turn in line. Ouch! That hurt my hand.

  I try a new tact: pleading. “I just want to go home. I don’t care about Maiden Lane, or whatever Truther nonsense this is. I don’t know how you messed with that board, but let me talk to a real ticket agent? Okay? Let me go back home.”

  The girl looks distracted. Disinterested. “You want to get out of here?” she asks. I don’t believe she heard a word I said.

  I’m about to say ‘Yes’, but then I realize what she means. “What? No! I want to go home!” I clarify.

  “I’m afraid,” she’s undoing her air hostess neckerchief, taking it off, “it’s going to be getting out of here with me, or leaving with them.” She nods behind me.

  I turn, still holding my pained hand. Across the Departure Lounge I can see them: the three men in suits. They’re talking to a TSA agent, showing ID’s.

  “Oh no!” I panic.

  “Make up your mind,” the girl says. I turn back, and she’s taking her earrings out, setting them on the ticket counter. “And do it quick. Once they get over here, there’ll be nothing I can do.”

  “Who the hell are they?” I ask. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Eve,” she says, and points to the name tag on her uniform. Sure enough, it reads ‘Eve.’ She takes off the jacket and tosses it aside.

  Oh hell! Rock and a hard place. I never really understood that expression until I was between them.

  I look back. The TSA guy is pointing in my direction. The agents turn and glare from behind their dark glasses at the ticket counter. They must see me.

  I consider my options: I could run. But I’m confident no matter where I ran, the girl would just show up in the next restaurant, or toll booth, or cinema I passed. She’s a bad penny like that. The agents look very unfriendly. They’d be angry about how I ditched them on the subway platform. They’d already gotten physical. What option do I have but to go with the girl? At least that way I would be able to keep an eye on her – she couldn’t pop up randomly and make my life a living hell if I was with her. Going with the girl wasn’t getting me to California, but nothing seemed to be doing that.

  It was the girl or nothing.

  “Okay, let’s go,” I say.

  “Great.” She smiles. Really smiles. Nothing sardonic or amused. She seems genuinely happy that I decided to trust her. That fills me with the tiniest bit of hope. “Follow me,” she says and starts for a door behind the ticket counter.

  Chapter 6

  The sign reads Authorized Personnel Only. I’m pretty sure we don’t qualify. But Eve’s keycard gets us right through. She’s still shedding clothes, as we sprint between the baggage conveyors. I don’t have time to think about where we’re going. Suddenly, a door swings open, and we’re out in the night air.

  We run down a flight of stairs and then sprint across blacktop. I pull ahead of Eve, determined to make my escape. I’m not really watching where I’m going, or where I’ve been, my eyes darting left and right, looking for agents.

  “Say, do you mind driving?” Eve says behind me. “It kills my feet to shift in these heels.”

  I stop and turn around. She’s shed the last of her airline uniform. Now she’s wearing a full length evening gown, complete with jewels and a clutch purse. How’d she do that? Make the quick change? She couldn’t have had that outfit on under her uniform. Could she?

  She tussles her
hair and comes up looking like a model. I gasp.

  “What did you say?” I manage.

  “Do you mind driving?” she repeats, fishing a set of car keys out of her small handbag. She holds them out to me.

  “Drive? Drive what?” I take the keys.

  “Turn around.”

  I do. I gasp again.

  I swear that wasn’t there a second ago.

  It’s...well, it’s some sort of McLaren. A P1, maybe. Certainly some sort of super car, all low to the ground, with scissor-wing doors and an engine in the back. I can’t believe my eyes. It’s just sitting there, out amongst the baggage carts and jet planes.

  “This is your car?” I ask in disbelief.

  “Of course,” Eve says, opening the passenger door. I swear it hisses like some spaceship airlock. “You’ve got to have a fast car to stay one step ahead of you, Roderic Gant.”

  “But...wait...” I stammer.

  “Get in!” she insists.

  I comply, opening the great, rotating door. The inside is tiny, more a cockpit than a driver’s seat. I put the keys in the ignition and close my door.

  There’s a million buttons and flashing controls in front of me. Which one starts the car?

  Noting my confusion, Eve reaches forward and pushes a button. The engine roars to life. And I mean roar. Grr, baby.

  “Drive!” Eve says. “Before they figure out where we went.”

  I don’t need telling twice. Foot on the pedal, stick in gear, I pop the clutch and leave twenty yards of rubber on the runway.

  “Oh my sweet Jesus!” I scream as the car rockets down the runway. I momentarily worry that a plane might be about to land, but my concerns are quickly forgotten as I shift through the racing transmission. Second, third, fourth. Before I’m forced to hit the brakes at the end of the runway, the speedometer is reading 170.