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