by Mic Roland
“Hey, Hi again,” Martin gave a small wave to catch her eye. “What’s up?”
“Oh, Hi.” Her face brightened a little.
“You know,” Martin said. “It’s kinda strange seeing you outside of the bank. Are you off work now?”
“Yeah. Mr. Skinner closed the branch a little bit ago and told us all to go home for the day. I usually take the Orange Line,” She pointed behind her at the T stop doors. “But not now. I got as far down to the turnstiles, but it was pitch black beyond that. The T’s not running. Some people coming up from the platforms said there are still some trains stuck back in the tunnels. They could hear voices, but couldn’t see anything.”
“Makes sense that the T isn’t running,” Martin said. “Being electric and all.”
“I guess so, but now I’m looking for other ways home. I was going to try and take a cab,” she continued. “But look at this traffic! Even if I could find an empty cab, which I haven’t, it couldn’t get anywhere.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
“Walk, I guess. Where I live in Somerville takes about an hour to walk. I walked to work several times in the summer. What about you? On your way home too?” She pointed to his bag.
“Yes. I’m on my way up to North Station to see if I can catch a train. Sounds like we’re both walking north. Okay if I walk with you, at least as far as North Station?”
“Sure.” A small smile erased the last of her worried expression.
They merged into the northbound flow of pedestrians headed down Congress.
“Man,” said Martin. “There is a ton of people out here. I’ve never seen the sidewalks so full. Is this what rush hour is like every day? Maybe I just leave before it gets like this.”
“This is the worst I’ve seen it.”
“With all these heads bobbing up and down,” Martin said. “I feel like I’m floating downstream in some white-water river of heads.”
Susan tapped Martin’s arm to direct his attention to the left. “Bet that’s why there’s so many people here. Look. They’ve got the sidewalk closed in front of City Hall. Everyone’s got to be on this side of the street.”
Behind the lines of white sawhorses and yellow tape stood nervous city cops in regular uniforms. A few men wore helmets, face shields and full black tactical gear, their hands on grips of black ARs hanging from monopoints. It reminded Martin of the nervous cops on 9/11, but this time, much more heavily armed.
The scene around City Hall looked peculiar and set Martin’s mind to musing. The massive concrete building always did look like a post-modern fortress with its tall concrete walls and slit windows. Now it had a cleared perimeter protected by a ring of armed guards. City bureaucrats inside could rest easy, knowing they were safe. Safe from what?
It seemed odd that in the face of a possible crisis, local government’s first response was rush into their bunkers to protect themselves. Did they fear that Boston would quickly devolve into riots and looting like LA, Fergusson or Baltimore?
Years ago, city employees used to be called “civil servants”. With this outage, the peoples’ civil servants were more intent on hiding behind concrete than being servants. Were local officials afraid that terrorists had staged the blackout as cover for kidnapping a city councilman, the Registrar of Deeds, or the Parking Clerk?
“Weird about the blackout, huh?” Susan interrupted Martin’s musing.
“What? Yeah. It sounds like a big one this time.”
“Oh? Have you heard some news about it? We were too busy closing out our drawers and stuff, so we didn’t hear much.”
“My boss, Brian, heard on his radio that it’s not just Boston or even just the northeast. This time, it’s Chicago, LA and other cities too, maybe even London.”
“Really? Weird. What’s London got to do with us?”
“That’s the odd part. When we had our last big blackout, it turned out to be some petty mechanical failure and a bit of dumb human error, you know, that made the northeast’s grid collapse like a house of cards. We’re kind of used to that happening, right? Ice storms, leftover hurricanes, it doesn’t take much. The cards fall pretty easily. We’re used to that.”
“I guess, but where’s the odd part?”
“The odd part is Chicago going dark too. Other parts of the grid, like Chicago’s, or Atlanta’s were unaffected when we went dark the other times. They weren’t as connected to us. This time, though, it’s not just OUR card house. It sounds like it was all of them. The usual dopey failure in one area shouldn’t make all of the card houses fall at the same time.”
The human river slowed down to a quagmire near the Haymarket T Stop. A sizable crowd of frustrated would-be subway riders blocked the sidewalk and spilled out into the street. Angry drivers honked at them, although no one was going anywhere.
Traffic on Sudbury Street, as it crossed Congress, was impassible. The cars were literally bumper to bumper. The slow river of pedestrians had met an automotive dam. Yet more cars were lined up on the parking garage’s exit ramps, waiting for a gap in traffic which never appeared. It seemed like all of them were trying to out-honk each other.
Susan threw up her arms. “This is crazy! There isn’t even room to walk between the cars now! Why are they doing this? It’s not like being twelve inches closer is getting them home any faster.”
Martin glanced at the many scowling drivers. “Maybe they’re jealous of us pedestrians. If they can’t get anywhere, maybe they figure nobody should. Kind of the dark side of equality.”
“Well that’s just silly. I mean, c’mon…”
Martin interrupted. “Look over there. See that W.B. Mason truck? Come on. I’ve got an idea.” They pushed through the crowd and headed to the back of the truck.
“Just like I thought,” he said. “Lift gate. Little ladders, handles and a deck. We have a bridge!” He helped her climb up and across the deck. The driver immediately behind the truck honked long and loud. He edged the long snout of his silver Infiniti beneath the truck. It was a futile gesture. Martin and Susan were walking across the lift gate deck above his car.
The driver silently shouted inside his chrome and glass box. He gestured vulgarities to add visuals to his disapproval. When several other pedestrians followed Martin up onto the lift gate, the angry Infiniti driver got out and pulled a man off the ladder. Mr. Infiniti was intent to stop such flagrant cheating. A disorganized brawl developed.
“Man, I’m glad people are handling this outage like mature adults,” Martin said. They sidestepped between a few more cars and quickly left the brawl behind.
Passage under the Government Center parking garage was slow going. Thick crowds swarmed towards the various stairwell doors. Martin considered the irony of them all struggling to get to their cars, only to be unable to get them out of the garage. Driving home was probably their only plan, so they were acting on it.
“Last time we had a big blackout,” said Susan. “The power was out for two days at my apartment. Do you think the power will be back on soon? Tomorrow, maybe? I sure hope so.”
“I don’t know. This sounds like a bigger problem than last time. Something special about tomorrow?”
Susan’s brow furrowed. “I was supposed to take my test tomorrow.”
“Test?”
“Yes. I’ve been a teller for six months now. It’s okay, but the pay is low. Then Katy had her baby, which created an opening for Associate. I’ve been studying for a couple months, but cramming hard ever since Katy left.”
“Whoa. Studying for a couple months? Is this Associates test like the bar exam?”
“No. The test itself is pretty minor. It just covers the bank’s various products and services. No big deal.”
“Then where does a couple months of studying come in?
Susan shrugged. “It’s kinda complicated.”
Martin glanced up the crowded street. “Looks like we’ve got time.”
“I suppose. Well, it’s like this. In order to take the
test, Mr. Skinner, my manager, has to schedule you for it.”
“Oh, Mr. Skinner.” Martin rolled his eyes. “I have to confess, he didn’t make a very good first impression.”
“He can be a bit gruff at times, but he’s not that bad deep down. He keeps a picture of his cat on his desk. How mean-spirited can a man truly be if he has a picture of his cat on his desk?”
“Anyhow, Mr. Skinner won’t schedule tests unless he thinks an employee is serious about banking principles, economics, etc. He used to be an economics professor or something, back in the day. He’s always grilling us on the economic news. Us tellers call it our daily pop quiz. It’s usually some random questions about Keynesian Economics, or Fed policy, or Marginal Utility and Value theory. Stuff like that.”
“Even if you didn’t need to know it for the test? That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Maybe not, but I figured Mr. Skinner just wanted to see who had a head for financial issues. You know, promote worthy employees, not slackers. I wanted to prove that I was that worthy employee. So I read books and listened to the financial news, stuff like that.”
“Ouch. Didn’t that turn your brain to mush?”
Susan laughed. “At first, but it got better. Once you get past all the silly jargon, it starts to make more sense. I tried to be ready for his pop-quiz questions.”
“So, were you ready?”
She partially concealed a beam of pride. “I guess Mr. Skinner thought so. He scheduled me to take the Associates Test tomorrow. I am so excited, and nervous at the same time. I really want to move up. I could use the pay raise.”
Martin frowned. “But wait. If you become an Associate, you won’t be at the window to take my deposits on Mondays. I’ll have to go to…Angry Eyes.”
“Angry Eyes? You mean Laurie? You call Laurie ‘Angry Eyes’?”
“Well, not to her face, only to myself…oh, to Brian too, but that’s all. You have to admit, she has seriously angry looking eyebrows.”
“No she d…well, maybe a little, but still, that’s not very nice.” The corners of her mouth betrayed a suppressed smile. “She can be a little cranky sometimes.”
“Does she have a picture of her cat at her teller window?”
Susan chuckled. “No. Laurie doesn’t like animals.”
“Well, there ya go.” Martin continued. “So I don’t know if I’m liking this news that you’ll be in a cubicle and I’ll have to face Angry Eyes every Monday.”
They walked without words for a block. After a long pause, Susan offered. “But, if you ever had any questions about your account…”
“Well, here we are at North Station,” said Martin. “Crowds are pretty thick here too, I see. Guess this is where we part ways.”
Susan looked down. “Yeah, I guess so.”
Martin felt a bit sad that they would part ways, then felt guilty for it. He had no business enjoying her company.
Looking over her shoulder distracted him from his guilt. The platforms at North Station were crowded like a refugee ship’s deck. He stood on tip toes to see over the cars in the parking lot. “Hold on a minute.” He climbed up on a jersey barrier for a better look. “Where are the trains?”
“What trains?”
“Any trains. There aren’t any. There’s all kinds of people waiting on the platforms, but no trains. All the years I’ve driven past North Station, I don’t think I’ve ever seen all of the tracks empty. There’s always been at least one or two trains.”
He hopped down and sat on the barrier. First, his alternative bus plans fell through. Now it looked like his alternative train plans were falling through too.
“Now that you mention it, neither have I,” said Susan.
“This kinda ruins my plan to catch a train. Gotta have trains for that.”
“Maybe they’re just running late. You could wait for one.”
Martin rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t think so. I’m not keen on waiting.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“I don’t like the idea of waiting. I could be sitting there all day — and for nothing — if no trains come.”
“Okay, if you won’t want to wait for a train, what else were you going to do? There’s no T, no busses. Cabs are useless…”
Martin sat on the jersey barrier in silence while his mind searched for any other alternatives beside the one symbolized by the pack on his back.
Try to buy a bicycle? Where? Bum a ride? he thought. That might work. Do people pick up hitchhikers anymore? He had not hitchhiked since college.
He unzipped a little pocket on his pack and pulled out a small folded map. He had highlighted I-93 in yellow marker, from the Bunker Hill Bridge, to his usual exit in New Hampshire. He imagined hitchhiking up 93 to get to his truck. It was a hybrid of his original plan to walk home, but with much less walking, if he could convince someone to give him a ride. On either side of the bold yellow line were thin lines in red pencil, marking out alternate side roads in case 93 was blocked.
He stood up and adjusted his backpack straps on his shoulders. “Looks like I’m back to my old Plan B. Walk home like you are.”
“Oh. Okay. How far do you have to walk?”
“Um, well, it is a bit of a hike.”
Walking to New Hampshire still sounded outlandish, even to him, and it was his plan. He was certain it would sound absurd to her. He was not eager to sound absurd in front of her.
“Guess we’d better get moving.” He tried to sound enthusiastic, mostly to encourage himself. “You said that in the summer you walked home from the bank, which way did you go?”
Susan looked around to get her bearings. “Hmmm. I’d go up that way and take the bridge past the Museum of Science. Then over that long bridge past the college and on up to Rutherford Circle. It’s not the shortest route, but it’s a lot nicer than going over the rail yards.”
“Ah. That’s north…ish.” Martin studied his map. “Works for me. Mind if I walk along with you awhile longer?”
“That’d be okay, I guess.” She suppressed a smile.
Martin liked the idea of continuing in her company, but then felt guilty at the pleasure. He mollified his guilt. It’s just a few more blocks. No big deal.
Traffic in the intersections near the river were jammed too. Pedestrians zig zagged through the cars like nervous lab mice. Martin noticed many of the drivers had the usual traffic-jam body language: rapid arm flailing, leaning forward to shout at their windshields, pounding on their steering wheels. Martin had sat through many three-hour commutes and not seen drivers get testy so quickly.
Maybe when there’s an obvious reason for slow traffic, like snow or rain, people accept the delays better. There’s no good reason now, so tempers are short.
Once Martin and Susan got onto the left side of the long bridge, there was no need to deal with traffic for several blocks.
Susan pointed up at people leaning out over balcony railings of the tall apartment buildings. “Boy, I’m sure glad I’m only on a second floor. Can you imagine what it must be like for those poor people without elevators? Ten, twelve flights of stairs each way? That would really stink.”
“Oh yeah. I wonder how long tall buildings like these keep water pressure.” Martin wondered out loud. “I suppose when it does, at least they’ve got a water source nearby. Not that you’d want to drink Charles River water. Perhaps if they had one of those really good filters. Still, they’d have to carry water up all those stairs.”
“What? Why would they do that?”
“Oh, never mind. I was just thinking out loud.”
She shrugged it off.
“So, I took your deposits every Monday, and I always wanted to ask you what kind of business EdLogix is.”
“It’s kind of hard to describe. We make corporate and educational apps, like for schools, companies, or special events.”
“You’re a programmer?”
Martin chuckled. “Well, I used to code, but the past few years I’ve become mo
re of a researcher. We’ve got a couple wünderkinder now who crank out the code at warp speed. Things change so fast in development. I’m not so cutting-edge anymore.”
“Research?”
“Yeah. I work up the content, the words and pictures. History, famous people, geography, data, stuff like that.”
“Like for games?”
“Nothing quite so fun. Usually boring corporate stuff. Like one we finished this summer: ConTracker™. It was for a shipping company. Most of it was a pretty front end accessing the company’s database for shipping containers, rates, schedules, and routes. All really boring stuff. Brian sold them on jazzing it up a bit by adding a ‘fun’ layer of explorer’s routes. You know, Columbus, Magellan, Cabot, guys like that. Brian’s idea was that maybe people would think it was cool that their shipping container would follow the same route as Cabot, etc. The client liked the idea, so, I researched explorers.”
“Sounds fascinating.”
Martin smiled skeptically. “I like to think so, but most people I talk to about my work develop a deep glaze. Darn near comatose. It’s the sort of stuff only nerdy Education Directors or PhD types think is fascinating.”
Susan smiled. “Huh. I think you just called me nerdy, or a PhD type. I’ll go with the latter.”
They pushed through the students milling around on the sidewalks around the community college. Most of them stared at their phones — more robots waiting in vain for instructions from the mother ship. Some of them were talking into their phones. Maybe they were getting through. Martin tapped his home number and listened to the same circuits-busy recording. He tried to pull up a news site, but only got the spinning wheel and server-not-found messages. “I’ve got some signal, but no lines open yet. Does yours work?”
Susan tried her phone. “No. I get a recording to try again later.”
“Text messages might get through, so if you wanted to let someone know you’re headed home, it might be good to do it soon.”
