I live the city. It thrives and it is mine. I am its worthy avatar, and together? We will
never be
afr—
oh shit
something’s wrong.
INTERRUPTION
The avatar collapses, sagging onto the thick old hardwood of the bridge despite São Paulo’s efforts to catch him. And amid its triumph, the newborn city of New York shudders.
Paulo, crouched beside the unconscious boy who embodies and speaks for and fights for New York, frowns up at the sky as it flickers. First it is the hazy midday blue of northeastern skies in June, then something dimmer, redder, evocative of sunset. As he watches, eyes narrowed, the trees of Central Park flicker as well—as does the water, and the very air. Bright, then shadowed, then bright again; rippling, then nearly still, sudden new rippling; humid with a light breeze, still but with a hint of acrid smoke, back to humid. A moment later, the avatar vanishes from Paulo’s hands. This is a variation on something he’s seen happen before, and for a moment he grows still with fear—but no, the city has not died, thank God. Paulo can feel the presence and aliveness of the entity around him… but that presence is much, much weaker than it should be. Not a stillbirth, but not a sign of health and ease, either. There have been postpartum complications.
Paulo pulls out his phone and makes an international call. After one ring, the person he’s calling picks up, sighing into the phone. “Exactly what I was afraid of.”
“Like London, then,” says Paulo.
“Hard to be sure. But yes, so far, like London.”
“How many, do you think? The greater metropolitan area crosses three states—”
“Don’t make assumptions. Just ‘more,’ as far as you’re concerned. Find one. They’ll track down their own.” A pause. “The city is still vulnerable, you realize. That’s why it took him away, for safekeeping.”
“I know.” Paulo gets to his feet because a jogging couple is about to pass. A biker follows them, even though the path is supposed to be pedestrians-only. Three cars pass on the road nearby, even though that particular section of Central Park is supposed to be pedestrians-and-bikes-only. The city continues to spite itself, despite itself. Paulo finds himself watching for signs of danger in the people around him: warping flesh, those standing too still or watching too intently. Nothing so far.
“The Enemy was routed,” he says into the phone absently. “The battle was… decisive.”
“Watch your back anyway.” The voice pauses for a rough smog-cough. “The city is alive, so it isn’t helpless. It certainly won’t help you, but it knows its own. Make them work fast. Never good to have a city stuck halfway like this.”
“I’ll be careful,” Paulo says, still scanning his surroundings. “I suppose it’s good to know you care.” The reply is a cynical snort, which nevertheless makes Paulo smile. “Any suggestions for where to begin?”
“Manhattan would seem a good start.”
Paulo pinches the bridge of his nose. “That covers a lot of territory.”
“Then you had best get started, hadn’t you?” The connection clicks silent. With an annoyed sigh, Paulo turns to begin his task anew.
CHAPTER ONE
Starting with Manhattan, and the Battle of FDR Drive
He forgets his own name somewhere in the tunnel to Penn Station.
He doesn’t notice, at first. Too busy with all the stuff people usually do when they’re about to reach their train stop: cleaning up the pretzel bags and plastic bottles of breakfast, stuffing his loose laptop power cord into a pocket of his messenger bag, making sure he’s gotten his suitcase down from the rack, then having a momentary panic attack before remembering that he’s only got one suitcase. The other was shipped ahead and will be waiting for him at his apartment up in Inwood, where his roommate already is, having arrived a few weeks before. They’re both going to be grad students at—
—at, uh—
—huh. He’s forgotten his school’s name. Anyway, orientation is on Thursday, which gives him five days to get settled into his new life in New York.
He’s really going to need those days, too, sounds like. As the train slows to a halt, people are murmuring and whispering, peering intently at their phones and tablets with worried looks on their faces. Something about a bridge accident, terrorism, just like 9/11? He’ll be living and working uptown, so it shouldn’t impact him too much—but still, it’s maybe not the best time to move here.
But when is it ever a good time to make a new life in New York City? He’ll cope.
He’ll more than cope. The train stops and he’s first through the door. He’s excited but trying to play it cool. In the city he will be completely on his own, free to sink or swim. He has colleagues and family members who think of this as exile, abandonment—
—although, in the flurry of the moment, he cannot remember any of those people’s names or faces—
—but that doesn’t matter, because they can’t understand. They know him as he was, and maybe who he is now. New York is his future.
It’s hot on the platform and crowded on the escalator, but he feels fine. Which is why it’s so weird when he reaches the top of the escalator, and suddenly—the instant his foot touches the polished-concrete flooring—the whole world inverts. Everything in his vision seems to tilt, and the ugly ceiling fluorescents turn stark and the floor kind of… heaves? It happens fast. The world pulls inside out and his stomach drops and his ears fill with a titanic, many-voiced roar. It’s a familiar sound, to a degree; anyone who’s been to a stadium during a big game has heard something similar. Madison Square Garden sits on top of Penn Station, so maybe that’s it? This sound is bigger, though. Millions of people instead of thousands, and all of those voices doubled back on each other and swelling and shifting into layers beyond sound, into color and shaking and emotion, until he claps his hands over his ears and shuts his eyes but it just keeps coming—
But amid all of the cacophony, there is a through line, a repeated motif of sound and word and idea. One voice, screaming fury.
Fuck you, you don’t belong here, this city is mine, get out!
And the young man wonders, in confused horror, Me? Am… am I the one that doesn’t belong? There is no answer, and the doubt within him becomes an unignorable backbeat of its own.
All at once the roar is gone. A new roar, closer and echoing and indescribably smaller, has replaced it. Some of it is recorded, blaring from PA speakers overhead: “New Jersey Transit train, southbound, stopping at Newark Airport, now boarding on track five.” The rest is the sound of a gigantic space full of people going about their business. He remembers then, as it resolves around him: Penn Station. He does not remember how he ended up on one knee beneath a train-schedules sign, with a shaking hand plastered over his face. Wasn’t he on an escalator? He also doesn’t remember ever before seeing the two people who are crouched in front of him.
He frowns at them. “Did you just tell me to get out of the city?”
“No. I said, ‘Do you want me to call 911?’” says the woman. She’s offering water. She looks more skeptical than worried, like maybe he’s faking whatever weird faint or fit that’s apparently made him fall over in the middle of Penn Station.
“I… no.” He shakes his head, trying to focus. Neither water nor the police will fix weird voices in his head, or hallucinations caused by train exhaust, or whatever he’s experiencing. “What happened?”
“You just kinda went sideways,” says the man bent over him. He’s a portly, middle-aged, pale-skinned Latino. Heavy New York accent, kindly tone. “We caught you and pulled you over here.”
“Oh.” Everything’s still weird. The world isn’t spinning anymore, but that terrible, layered roar is still in his head—just muted now, and overlaid by the local and perpetual cacophony that is Penn Station. “I… think I’m fine?”
“Yeah, you don’t sound too sure,” the man says.
That’s because he’s not. He shakes his head, then sha
kes it again when the woman pushes the water bottle forward. “I just had some on the train.”
“Low blood sugar, maybe?” She takes the water bottle away and looks thoughtful. There’s a little girl crouched beside her, he notices belatedly, and the two of them are nearly mirrors of each other: both black-haired, freckled, frank-faced Asian people. “When was the last time you ate?”
“Like, twenty minutes ago?” He doesn’t feel dizzy or weak, either. He feels…“New,” he murmurs, without thinking. “I feel… new.”
The portly man and frank-faced woman look at each other, while the little girl throws him a judgy look, complete with lifted eyebrow. “Are you new here?” asks the portly man.
“Yeah?” Oh, no. “My bags!” But they’re right there; the Good Samaritans have kindly pulled them off the escalator, too, and positioned them nearby out of the flow of traffic. There’s a kind of surreality to the moment as he finally realizes he’s having this blackout or delusion or whatever it is in the middle of a crowd of thousands. Nobody seems to notice, except these three people. He feels alone in the city. He is seen and cared for in the city. The contrast is going to take some getting used to.
“You must have gotten your hands on some of the really good drugs,” the woman says. She’s grinning, though. That’s okay, isn’t it? That’s what’ll keep her from calling 911. He remembers reading somewhere that New York’s got an involuntary commitment law that can hold people for weeks, so it’s probably a good idea to reassure his would-be rescuers as to his clarity of mind.
“Sorry about this,” he says, pushing to his feet. “Maybe I didn’t eat enough, or something. I’ll… go to an urgent care clinic.”
Then it happens again. The station lurches beneath his feet—and suddenly it is in ruins. There’s no one around. A cardboard book display in front of the convenience store has fallen over, spilling Stephen King hardcovers everywhere. He hears girders in the surrounding structure groan, dust and pebbles falling to the floor as something in the ceiling cracks. The fluorescent lights flicker and jerk, one of the overhead fixtures threatening to fall from the ceiling. He inhales to cry a warning.
Blink: everything is fine again. None of the people around him react. He stares at the ceiling for a moment, then back at the man and woman. They’re still staring at him. They saw him react to whatever he was seeing, but they did not see the ruined station themselves. The portly guy has a hand on his arm, because he apparently swayed a little. Psychotic breaks must be hell on inner ear balance.
“You want to carry bananas,” the portly guy suggests. “Potassium. Good for you.”
“Or at least eat some real food,” the woman agrees, nodding. “You probably just ate chips, right? I don’t like that overpriced crap from the train dining car, either, but at least it’ll keep you from falling over.”
“I like the hot dogs,” the girl says.
“They’re crap, baby, but I’m glad you like them.” She takes the little girl’s hand. “We’ve got to go. You good?”
“Yeah,” he says. “But seriously, thanks for helping me. You hear all kinds of stuff about how rude New Yorkers are, but… thanks.”
“Eh, we’re only assholes to people who are assholes first,” she says, but she smiles as she says it. Then she and the little girl wander off.
The portly man claps him on the shoulder. “Well, you don’t look like you’re gonna chuck. Want me to go get you something to eat or some juice or something? Or a banana?” He adds the latter pointedly.
“No, thanks. I’m feeling better, really.”
The portly man looks skeptical, then blinks as something new occurs to him. “It’s okay, you know, if you don’t got money. I’ll spot you.”
“Oh. Oh, no, I’m good.” He hefts his messenger bag, which he remembers costing almost $1,600. Portly Guy looks at it blankly. Whoops. “Um, there’s probably sugar in this—” There’s a plastic Starbucks tumbler in the bag, sloshing faintly. He drinks from it to reassure Portly Guy. The coffee is cold and disgusting. He belatedly remembers refilling it sometime yesterday, before he got on the train back home in—
—in—
That’s when he realizes he can’t remember where he came from.
And he tries, but he still can’t remember the school he’s here to attend.
And this is when it finally hits him that he doesn’t know his own name.
As he stands there, floored by this triple epiphany of nothingness, the portly guy is turning up his nose at the tumbler. “Get some real coffee while you’re here,” he says. “From a good Boricua shop, yeah? Get some home food while you’re at it. Anyway, what’s your name?”
“Oh, uh…” He rubs his neck and pretends to have a desperate need to stretch—while, quietly panicking, he looks around and tries to think of something. He can’t believe this is happening. Who the hell forgets their own name? All he can come up with as fake names go are generic ones like Bob or Jimmy. He’s about to say Jimmy, arbitrarily—but then, in his visual flailing, his eyes snag on something.
“I’m, uh… Manny,” he blurts. “You?”
“Douglas.” Portly Guy has his hands on his hips, obviously considering something. Finally he pulls out his wallet and hands over a business card. DOUGLAS ACEVEDO, PLUMBER.
“Oh, sorry, I don’t have a card, haven’t started my new job yet—”
“S’okay,” Douglas says. He still looks thoughtful. “Look, a lot of us were new here, once. You need anything, you let me know, okay? Seriously, it’s fine. Place to crash, real food, a good church, whatever.”
It’s unbelievably kind. “Manny” doesn’t bother to hide his surprise. “Whoa. I—Wow, man. You don’t know me from Adam. I could be a serial killer or something.”
Douglas chuckles. “Yeah, somehow I’m not figuring you for the violent type. You look…” He falters, and then his expression softens a little. “You look like my son. I’m just doing for you what I’d want somebody doing for him. Right?”
Somehow Manny knows: Douglas’s son is dead.
“Right,” Manny says softly. “Thanks again.”
“Está bien, mano, no te preocupes.” He waves off then, and heads in the direction of the A/C/E train.
Manny watches him go, pocketing the card and thinking about three things. The first is the belated realization that the guy thought he was Puerto Rican. The second is that he might have to take Douglas up on that offer of a place to crash, especially if he doesn’t remember the address of his apartment in the next few minutes.
The third thing makes him look up at the Arrivals/Departures board, where he found the word that just became his new name. He didn’t tell Douglas the full name because these days only white women can have given names like that without getting laughed at. But even in modified form, this word—this identity—feels more true than anything else he’s ever claimed in his life. It is what he has been, without realizing. It is who he is. It is everything he’s ever needed to be.
The full word is Manhattan.
In the bathroom, under the sodium lights, he meets himself for the first time.
It’s a good face. He pretends to be extra meticulous about washing his hands—not a bad thing to be in a smelly Penn Station public bathroom—and turns his face from side to side, checking himself out from all angles. It’s clear why the dude figured him for Puerto Rican: his skin is yellowy brown, his hair kinky but loose-coiled enough that if he let it grow out, it might dangle. He could pass for Douglas’s son, maybe. (He’s not Puerto Rican, though. He remembers that much.) He’s dressed preppy: khakis, a button-down with rolled-up sleeves, and there’s a sports jacket draped over his bag, for when the AC is too high maybe since it’s summertime and probably ninety degrees outside. He looks like he’s somewhere in that ageless yawn between “not a kid anymore” and thirty, though probably toward the latter end of it to judge by a couple of random gray threads peppered along his hairline. Brown eyes behind dark-brown-rimmed glasses. The glasses make him look professo
rial. Sharp cheekbones, strong even features, smile lines developing around his mouth. He’s a good-looking guy. Generic all-American boy (nonwhite version), nicely nondescript.
Convenient, he thinks. Wondering why he thinks this makes him pause in mid-hand-wash, frowning.
Okay, no. He’s got enough weirdness to deal with right now. He grabs his suitcase to leave the bathroom. An older guy at the urinal stares at him all the way out.
At the top of the next escalator—this one leading up to Seventh Avenue—it happens a third time. This episode is better in some ways and worse in others. Because Manny feels the wave of… whatever it is… coming on as he reaches the top of the escalator, he has enough time to take his suitcase and get himself over to some kind of digital information kiosk so he’ll be out of the way while he leans against it and shudders. This time he doesn’t hallucinate—not at first—but he hurts, all of a sudden. It’s an awful, sick feeling, a spreading chill starting from a point low on his left flank. The sensation is familiar. He remembers it from the last time he got stabbed.
(Wait, he got stabbed?)
Frantically he pulls up his shirttail and looks at the place where the pain is worst, but there’s no blood. There’s nothing. The wound is all in his head. Or… somewhere else.
As if this is a summons, abruptly the New York that everyone sees flickers into the New York that only he can see. Actually, they’re both present, one lightly superpositioned over the other, and they flick back and forth a little before finally settling into a peculiar dual-boot of reality. Before Manny lie two Seventh Avenues. They’re easy to distinguish because they have different palettes and moods. In one, there are hundreds of people within view and dozens of cars and at least six chain stores that he recognizes. Normal New York. In the other, there are no people, and some unfathomable disaster has taken place. He doesn’t see bodies or anything ominous; there’s just no one around. It’s not clear anyone ever existed in this place. Maybe the buildings here just appeared, sprung forth fully formed from their foundations, instead of being built. Ditto the streets, which are empty and badly cracked. A traffic light dangles loose from an overhead fixture, swinging on its cable but switching from red to green in perfect tandem with its other version. The sky is dimmer, almost as if it’s nearly sunset and not just post-noon, and the wind is faster. Clouds boil and churn across the sky like they’re late for the cloud revival meeting.
The City We Became Page 3
