Mind Gap

by Marina Cohen

  “Just passing through, eh? One of the lucky ones. Better hang on to that transfer. You never know when it might come in handy.”

  Jake wondered if these people had escaped from an insane asylum. The homeless dude on the platform should have gotten on the train instead. He would have fitted right in.

  “I think I made a mistake,” said Jake.

  “Maybe,” said Short-Shorts. “Then again, maybe not …” He grinned as if he’d said something really funny again.

  “I don’t want any trouble,” said Jake. “I’m just going to get off at the next stop.” He turned to face the doors. This stop was taking forever. The old pot lights kept flickering. The subway car rattled as it curved through the tunnel. Was it Jake’s imagination or was it getting warmer?

  “Get off at the next stop?” Short-Shorts shook his head. “You’re pretty funny, you know that?”

  Jake could see the guy’s refection in the dark glass of the subway car doors. His face was distorted, his grin maniacal.

  Come on, subway. Next stop should be coming right up …

  Jake felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “I said, you’re one of the lucky ones.”

  “Get lost, man,” Jake said, spinning around. He shoved the guy, sending him careening into a group of passengers. They caught him and burst out laughing.

  Short-Shorts steadied himself and began moving toward Jake again. Jake braced himself.

  Just then the subway ploughed into the station and slowed. Jake didn’t want to turn his back until the last second. Finally, the train came to a complete stop, and he heard the doors open. Jake turned to exit, but when his eyes settled on the black writing on the walls of the station, the air caught in his lungs.

  He stepped off the train and back onto the very same platform he’d left from.

  As the doors behind him closed, a voice like sandpaper scraped at his ears: “You can get off, Jake … but you can’t leave …”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Jake felt as if he’d just stepped out of a nightmare. His head was a cyclone of thoughts. He moved back until he felt himself up against the cold tile wall. Jake took a deep breath and let the air escape slowly as he watched the last car disappear into the tunnel.

  The platform was empty, but it was St. George Station, all right. Jake stood motionless for a moment, letting the storm in his mind settle. He examined his surroundings. Something was different — something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Then it hit him. The plasma screens were gone. They were replaced with digital clocks that read exactly midnight. How was that possible? How could a subway leave a station and re-enter the exact same one at the exact same time? And who had taken the monitors? And how had that guy on the train known his name?

  Jake ran a trembling hand through his hair. “I just need to get home and get some sleep,” he muttered. The sound of his own voice was comforting.

  As he walked toward the escalator, he dug into his pocket for his iPod. He froze. It wasn’t there. Neither was his phone. Or his keys. Or his wallet. He searched frantically, checking each of his pockets and the floor, but it was no use — they were gone! They must have fallen out on the train during his scuffle with Short-Shorts. Either that or someone had stolen them. Even his transfer slip was gone.

  Jake smacked his hand against the grimy wall and swore. “This night is getting better by the minute.”

  Resigning himself to the fact that his stuff was lost, he took the escalator to the lower level and headed toward the eastbound platform. Since he hadn’t actually exited the transit system, he didn’t have to pay another fare. This was a minor relief since all he had left were the stray nickels and dimes he hadn’t gambled away — and even those had mysteriously dwindled in number. Jake hit the button on the transfer dispenser and shoved the new slip into his pocket without even glancing at it.

  The train came quickly. A regular train — nothing old or odd about it. He boarded and sat back, thankful he was heading home.

  Jake yawned deeply. He stared off into space, wondering why he had let Cole convince him to go to the party in the first place. To stay awake, Jake read the ads. There was an ad for some store’s upcoming sale, but the clothing seemed out of style. There was a Microsoft ad for Windows that looked ancient. How long has that been hanging around? Jake thought. Then he saw the subway map. It showed the north-south route and the east-west route, but the new line was missing.

  Suddenly, something else occurred to Jake. Back at St. George Station the ad for the teeth whitener was gone. He remembered staring at the smiling faces before he’d boarded the old train, but it hadn’t been there when he’d gotten off. Where were the flat-screen monitors and where were the smiling people?

  Questions flooded his mind again. No matter which way he looked at it, nothing made any sense. Was his memory playing tricks on him? Was he going crazy? Or had Short-Shorts slipped him something?

  He shook his head. Impossible. He hadn’t had anything to eat or drink. He checked his exposed skin. He’d once read you could be drugged using a Band-Aid-type patch, but there was nothing there — nothing that might explain all the weird stuff that was happening. Jake slumped back into his seat. He was exhausted. That must be it. What he really needed was sleep. Everything would be clearer in the morning.

  Aside from a shift change in the attendant, Victoria Park Station looked pretty much the same as when he’d last seen it. Jake’s bus was already waiting. He climbed onboard, flashed the new transfer slip to the driver, and shoved it back into his pocket. He sat down, leaned his head against the window, and watched the houses and buildings fly by. Jake knew a way to get into his building without his keys, but how would he get into his apartment without waking his mother?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Jake searched for lit windows and counted balconies. Someone was awake on the ninth floor of his building. He’d used this trick once before when he forgot his keys. Jake entered the foyer and buzzed the lit apartment.

  “Yeah?” asked a voice.

  Jake covered his mouth with his hand and mumbled something incomprehensible. The buzzer went off. Pulling open the door, Jake slipped inside.

  He was so relieved to finally be home that even the old building looked somehow fresher. Cleaner. “Now,” he said, stepping into the elevator, “if I can just survive the fireworks …”

  Jake stood outside his apartment door, bracing himself for the worst his mother could unleash. He knocked quietly at first so as not to wake Drew, but when no one answered, he tried again with a bit more force. Ten seconds passed. Twenty. Still no one came.

  That’s weird, he thought. His mother was such a light sleeper he was sure she’d come flying. A sinking feeling returned to the pit of Jake’s stomach. He clenched his fist, and this time he pounded on the wood as hard as he could. Shuffling and swearing came from inside the apartment and then heavy footsteps approached.

  “Who is it?” demanded a crusty voice on the other side of the door. “Whaddya want?”

  Jake’s pulse quickened. Whoever that was, it wasn’t his mother. He stepped back and checked the apartment number. It was his. He took a deep breath. Maybe he hadn’t heard correctly. Maybe his mother had a cold or something. He cleared his throat. “It’s me. Jake.”

  “Jake?” asked the voice. “Jake who? I don’t know any Jake.”

  Was this some kind of warped joke? Could Drew be behind this?

  “If that’s you, Drew, you’d better let me in right now or I’m gonna —”

  The deadbolt clicked and the door opened a crack. A sliver of unshaven face with a bloodshot eye peered through. The eye sized Jake up and down.

  “Get lost, kid, or I’m gonna call the cops,” the guy snarled. Then the door slammed shut, and Jake heard the man cursing as his footsteps retreated. “Stupid teenagers … drunk …
waking people up …”

  It was as if someone had sucker-punched Jake, knocking the wind right out of him. It took a few seconds for his brain to convince his lungs to start breathing again.

  Had his mother found out he’d snuck out? Was this her way of teaching him a lesson? For a second Jake thought about pounding on the door again and demanding to be let in, but something held him back. That guy — whoever he was — had been pretty convincing.

  Jake was exhausted and confused. If his mother really wanted to punish him, he’d go along with it. He’d wait until morning and then try her again. He wandered to the end of the hallway, plunked himself down, leaned his head against the wall, and closed his eyes.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Get up, kid. Let’s go.”

  Jake felt a strong hand on his shoulder. He rubbed his eyes and opened them.

  “Come on. You can’t sleep here. Move it.”

  Jake looked up at a man’s face — a familiar face — and he breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Hey, Mr. Borrelli,” he muttered. “Am I glad to see you.”

  The man took a step back and narrowed his eyes. “How do you know my name?”

  Jake steadied his hand against the wall and stood up. His body ached. He felt as if he’d been asleep for centuries — like that fairy-tale character. What was his name? Rip Van Something. “Good one, Mr. B. You’re too funny.”

  The man stared at Jake for the longest time, not saying a word. Then he grabbed Jake by the shoulder and pushed him toward the elevator. “I don’t know who you are or how you know my name, but you can’t stay here. Go home, kid, or I’ll have to toss you out.”

  Jake planted his feet. He swung around and eyed the superintendent of the building with a mixture of anger and disbelief. There was something different about him. He had less grey hair and looked somehow … younger.

  “It’s me, Mr. Borrelli. It’s Jake in 710. Where’s my mom, and who’s that guy in our apartment?”

  Mr. Borrelli leaned in and sniffed. Satisfied Jake was sober, he let go of his shoulder. “I have no idea who you are or where your mom is, kid. Mr. Banks lives in 710. You don’t wanna mess with him. Come on, let’s go. Or do I have to call the police?”

  Jake fought hard to hold it together. He forced out his words to stop them from shaking. “Please. Just tell my mom I’ve been punished enough. I get it. I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t sneak out again. Just tell her to let me back in, okay? Please?”

  Mr. Borrelli guided Jake to the elevator and ushered him inside. As they descended, Jake continued to plead. “Come on, Mr. B. Just let me talk to my mom. I know she’s mad now, but she’s been mad before and it always blows over …”

  They reached the lobby. Mr. Borrelli pulled Jake toward the front door. Before he pushed him out he must have seen the helplessness in Jake’s eyes, because he stopped. When he spoke again, his voice was kinder. “You okay, kid? You need a few bucks?”

  Jake shrugged. He didn’t know what else to say.

  Mr. Borrelli reached into his pocket and handed Jake a five-dollar bill. “Go home, kid. Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.” He let the door to the building slam shut.

  Jake sucked in a lungful of early-morning air. He wrapped his arms around his chest and walked across the street to the coffee shop where he bought an orange juice and a bagel. He stared out the greasy window and watched the sun spill over the horizon, splashing the streets with gold. In another hour he could go to Cole’s house. The way he saw it, Cole owed him. It was his fault Jake was in this mess. Jake would hang out at Cole’s until his mom cooled off and decided to let him come back home.

  Beside Jake sat a hefty, bearded man gulping a large coffee and inhaling a Danish. He was reading a newspaper, and when he got up, he left it lying on the table. Jake reached over and picked it up. He took a swig of coffee and a bite of his bagel and scanned the headlines: PLANKTON MAY PROTECT PLANET FROM ICY FATE … FURTHER STEPS TO ENHANCE U.S. MARITIME SECURITY … FREEZE ON GENETIC MODIFICATION ENDS IN NEW ZEALAND … BUSH ECONOMIC PLAN SUPPORTED …

  Jake frowned. “Bush? He hasn’t been president for …”

  It hit him as suddenly and as hard as an anvil to his gut. He nearly choked on his bagel as his eyes zipped to the date at the top of the page.

  “What the?” he gasped. But even as the words left him the shop began to spin. The whole world started to spin. The newspaper fluttered to the ground. Jake felt as if he were being flushed down a toilet. As his mind struggled to stay afloat in the whirling gush of thoughts, bits and pieces bubbled to the surface: The building looked newer. Mr. Borrelli looked younger. The ad for an old Microsoft Windows. His iPod and cellphone gone. The old transfer gone, too …

  Jake shook his head. It was an old newspaper the guy was reading. That had to be it. He forced himself into motion. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and, one by one, pulled out the coins: a dime dated 1972, a nickel from 1985, two more dimes dating back to 1996, and a quarter from 2000. Nothing — not a one — older than that. With trembling hands he dug into his pocket again and produced the transfer he had taken from the machine a few short hours ago. He unfolded it. The date was printed in bold black letters. The world around Jake crumbled.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Jake’s legs felt like jelly as he moved toward the counter. A woman was busy arranging a fresh batch of doughnuts with a pair of metal tongs. Everything was happening in slow motion. The sounds around him were muffled, movements blurred. He cleared his throat, and the woman turned to face him.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Uh …” he began, not quite sure how to phrase his question. “Can you tell me what day this is?”

  The woman’s dreary expression morphed into a puzzled look. “Saturday,” she said. Her gaze lingered on him, somehow sensing there was more.

  Part of Jake didn’t want to continue, but he had to know for sure. “And the date?”

  She tucked a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear and folded her arms. No doubt wondering where this was heading, she raised her chin slightly. “The eighteenth.”

  Jake winced. He knew how ridiculous he was going to sound, but he had to proceed. “The … year?”

  The woman eyed Jake suspiciously as if he were a few cards shy of a full deck. Her voice dropped. Jake watched her lips moving, forming each and every number carefully, but it was as if he’d suddenly lost all hearing.

  Jake closed his eyes. He could feel the blood draining from his face. It was true. It was real. Jake had somehow travelled ten years back in time!

  He took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves, then opened his eyes. He turned to leave, barely making it halfway to the door before his knees buckled and he slumped into a seat near the front window.

  There was no point in going to Cole’s house. Cole wasn’t there. There was no point in going anywhere. No one would be home.

  Jake sat in the coffee shop for the longest time, staring into space, trying to convince himself this wasn’t happening. Cars zipped up and down the street. Even the shiny new ones looked somehow old to Jake. Maybe if he sat long enough he’d wake up from this nightmare. Maybe he could sit there for ten years.

  “You can’t stay here forever,” said the woman as she approached Jake. “If you’re not going to buy anything else, I think you’d better leave.”

  Jake must have spooked her, because she stayed at a cautious distance and kept glancing around at the other customers, perhaps wondering who’d come to her rescue if Jake went berserk. But Jake didn’t have the energy even to argue. He stood up and exited the shop without saying a word. He was sure she kept watching him until he was out of sight.

  As he wandered aimlessly down the chilly street, he tried to put the pieces together in his mind. No matter which way he looked at it, everything came back
to that subway. It had happened there. Somehow that freaky old train had taken him back in time. But how? And why? And more important, how was he going to get back to the future?

  Jake’s mind was hazy. He wasn’t paying attention to where he was going. The traffic light was still red when, without thinking, he stepped onto the road. A car swerved to avoid hitting him, and Jake fell backward, slamming onto the curb. The car screeched to a halt, and the driver sprang out.

  “What are you doing?” the man shouted as he ran toward Jake. “Trying to get yourself killed?” He dragged Jake off the road and onto the sidewalk. “Are you okay? Should I call an ambulance?”

  Jake’s back was sore, but he managed to stand. “I’m fine.”

  The man narrowed his eyes. “You don’t look okay.” He paused, then suggested, “How about I drive you home?”

  Home. Jake smiled bitterly. He had no home. He was homeless. Maybe he would end up like that crazy guy on the subway platform. He shook his head. “I’m okay.”

  The man pulled out a black thing the size of a small brick from his jacket pocket, and it took Jake a few seconds to recognize that it was a cellphone. “Come on. Let me at least call someone for you. Your parents maybe?”

  It was as if a light had switched on in Jake’s mind. The haze evaporated, and he suddenly knew exactly what he had to do. He scrambled to his feet and took off running.

  “Thanks, man!” he called over his shoulder.

  The driver yelled at Jake, “Hey, wait!”

  Jake was furious with himself for not thinking of this right away. He knew exactly where he had to go. The only problem was — he wasn’t sure how to get there.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The woman behind the counter jumped as Jake burst back into the coffee shop. She brandished her metal tongs as he charged toward the counter. He was panting and his eyes were fierce.

  “There isn’t much money in the cashbox!” she yelled. “Just take it! Don’t hurt me!”