**Chapter 6: Disembarkation **

Joel didn’t notice when the man he’d held the train for stepped off. He was more interested in sleeping at that point. The metal bar alongside the train seat wasn’t the most comfortable pillow he’d ever used, but it wasn’t the most uncomfortable either. The mounting fatigue of the trip had finally overwhelmed him and he would have slept anywhere.

Lucky for him, the McAllister Park stop was the last, and the train operator woke him with a harsh clap on the shoulder and a shout, looking less than pleased. Joel smiled sheepishly and rubbed his eyes as he was pushed out onto the platform.

The sun was looming higher in the sky now, and it was beginning to warm up. His bare arms and legs felt quite comfortable as he twisted from side to side, stretching his stiff body. He drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and began walking towards the exit.

He considered briefly walking straight home. His apartment wasn’t far, and he was tired. But looking around him, he realized that days as beautiful as this one were in short supply here at this time of year, and he should make the best of it while he could. Besides, he could really use a bagel – he hadn’t had one while he’d been in Asia.

He had sampled much of the local cuisine – a variety of curried rice, countless vegetables, and fruits that few western mouths had tasted. But the simplicity of a bagel slathered with cream cheese was something he had missed greatly during his absence.

It took him a moment to get his bearings. Things hadn’t changed that much since his departure, but months of trekking through real jungle had left him unready to tackle the asphalt one.

He set off east the opposite of his apartment, heading towards the Dominick’s that serviced all of McAllister Park’s grocery needs. He’d suffered a little culture shock during his return flight, largely due to the wide array of various items that were made available in even the smallest airport convenience shop. Dominick’s was sure to shock him even more.

The streets appeared to him much cleaner than when he last saw them. It was certainly an observation colored by his experiences with much dirtier streets in Asia. Most any street would appear cleaner than those.

He soon settled into a now familiar stride, born of countless hours spent hiking in secluded mountain jungles and vast grassy valleys. The distance to the store was more than an average American would consider walkable, but then, Joel was no longer an average American, was he?

A few children passed by on bikes, sending inquisitive glances his direction as they sped by. They probably didn’t see too many young men walking along the streets of McAllister Park. It wasn’t known as the best neighborhood in the city. Joel had ended up here just because it was cheap, and he’d never had any real problems. Every once in awhile you’d hear of someone getting beat up, or a bike getting stolen, or something, but Joel just did his best to be careful and didn’t let himself get too worked up about it.

He had sublet his apartment to a young couple that were still in school relative close by. They were strapped for cash, and he didn’t really want to give up his lease because of the trip. They had agreed to be out of the apartment by a month before Joel’s scheduled return, so by now the place would probably require a thorough cleaning. The bed, though, would be clean enough for a good night’s rest – no need to concern himself with that now.

What he did need to concern himself with was getting food. His stomach’s complaints grew audible as he crossed the nearly abandoned parking lot of Dominick’s. He entered through the automatic doors and thought idly how lazy people had become.

The scent of fresh-baked bread beckoned his nose frantically upon entry to the store. It didn’t take him long to find the bakery section of the store, despite his unfamiliarity with the new configuration of the store. It was much different that when he last saw it, but he let his nose do the leading, and all was well.

He pulled a large plain white bagel from an oversized bin and smiled as he imagined the joy he was about to experience while consuming it. He considered briefly buying a few more items while he was there, but he he hadn’t had a chance to convert any of his larger foreign currency, and the change in his pocket was barely enough to cover his bagel.

The line at the register was much longer than he had anticipated given the deserted parking lot. A man with graying hair and a Dominick’s smock motioned at him as he walked past the registers. The man seemed a little weak on his legs, but he hobbled over and flipped the light on his register back on.

“Good morning, sir,” he said, smiling slightly and quickly typing in the code for bakery goods. “Will that be all for you?”

“Yes, I’m just a little hungry,” Joel replied, smiling back. “Just got off a long plane trip.”

“Ahh, I see. Was it a good trip?”

“Yes, I think so. I certainly learned a lot.”

“Good to hear, good to hear. Well, enjoy your bagel, and have a nice day.”

“You too…” Joel glanced at the man’s name tag. “…Ned. I’ll see you later.” They both smiled at each other again. Joel was grateful for the conversation. The man sounded tired, but he had made a concerted effort to be friendly and engage with Joel. It was a quality he hadn’t seen a lot of since his return, and it was something he knew he’d miss from his trip.

[Insert another Asia back story here.]

He exited the store and began making his way back towards his apartment. The bagel was heavenly delicious, and for a time he became so lost in its flavor that he didn’t pay attention to where he was going. When he finally realized he’d missed a turn and was headed down the wrong street, it had turned eerily quiet and deserted. The sudden lack of sound struck him as strange, and he peered around in a vain attempt to get his bearings.

It was not in Joel’s nature to get nervous, but something about the air made the hairs on the back of his neck stand at full attention. He felt for a moment like a lawman from the wild west, stepping out into the main street of a seemingly deserted town, expecting ambush, but not knowing from where it would come. A newspaper, floating lazily by on the breeze, so tumbleweed-like, did nothing to erase the image from his mind.

In the silence, the unexpected **bang! ** from the east was startlingly stentorian. His mind stumbled for a moment – was it a shot, a firecracker, or what? Then he just started running, not really knowing why. Instead of running away from the sound, he ran towards it. It didn’t make much sense, he knew, but he felt that east was the only direction that made sense to run in. He couldn’t explain it, and the question of why he ran towards it instead of away would later plague him, but for now, he was running.

As he drew closer to the source of the sound, voices became clearer.

“Holy shit, man! Why’d you do that?”

“I wasn’t tryin’ to hit him! He jumped out of the way… I don’t know… Shit!”

“We’d better get the hell out of here, man.”

Joel emerged from an alley and saw what had transpired. Two men, the apparent sources of the screaming, were standing in the opposite corner of the alley, facing a dumpster, hands waving animatedly. One held a gun. Well, that answered his question about what caused the bang.

Joel froze in his tracks almost immediately, but the men noticed him quickly and he soon found himself eying the barrel of the pistol.

“Don’t move, man. Shit!”

“Come on Charlie, let’s get out of here!”

“No man, he’s seen us, he can ID us.”

“Just forget it, Charlie. Come on, let’s go. We’re already in deep shit man.”

“Yeah, and this’ll make it worse.”

Both men approached Joel slowly; Joel stood frozen.

“Don’t worry, guys… I won’t say a thing… I just took a wrong turn, you know. I just want to get home… Either one of you know where Western is from here?” He tried to steady the shaking in his voice. Who’d have thought having a gun pointed at you could reduce you to jelly so quickly?

“Yeah, I know where Western is,” replied the man with the gun. “But I think you’ll be needin’ more than directions to get there.”

Joel didn’t even hear the shot. He was suddenly on the ground, a sharp pain in his belly, nausea washing over him. He blinked and tried to focus as the men turned and ran, feet pounding hard on the asphalt.

“Shit! Charlie, you’re a fuckin’ idiot!”

Joel groaned. His head was swimming. What had happened? He looked down at his stomach and was surprised to see a hole that hadn’t been there before. Where did that come from? He tried to stand, but found any attempt to use his abdominal muscles sent wave after wave of pain coursing through his body.

He rolled over, and that’s when he noticed the crooked body beyond the dumpster. It wasn’t moving. Joel steeled himself against the pain and pushed upwards with one hand, using the other to hold his aching stomach. His mind still wasn’t entirely clear, but he knew he had to help the other guy crumpled there and get himself some help. He put his left arm under the man’s shoulder and lifted upward with all his might, keeping his right hand pressed against his abdomen.

The blood ran out over his fingers and dropped silently onto the asphalt as he dragged himself and his new companion out of the alley. He didn’t know where he was headed – he hoped the right direction. He made it about a block before an unexpected wave of lightheadedness hit him. He was suddenly falling towards a field of daffodils and butterflies, and then, nothing.

Chapter 4: Mike

_Come on, come on… Just start already! _Another wheeze and gasp from the engine, but it still wouldn’t fully turn over. “Dammit!” Mike shouted as he smashed his right fist down against the front dashboard, cracking the brittle, sun-bleached plastic of the air vents.

The day had not been going well. Come to think of it, the week, the month, the year had not been going well. But today had been especially trying. Marie had given him crap again for coming in late last night, he’d overslept and got on the highway later than he’d hoped (no thanks to Marie, who hadn’t been persistent enough in making roll out of bed), and now the car was not cooperating.

This was ridiculous. Any other day but this one! Today was important! Today was the meeting about the Richmond account – his account. An account that he had nursed from its infancy at Copeland. An account that he had brought to the company himself. Copeland didn’t even know Richmond existed until he’d brought it in. And he’d turned the account into a cash cow. Mike Turner was totally responsible for turning Copeland Advertising into a large, well- respected firm, and he wasn’t getting any credit at all.

Not enough, anyway. And these new executives – young enough to be his children – were coming in, acting like _they’d _ built the company, yanking his talented staff away and putting them under other, less adept leaders. Then they had the audacity to complain when the returns on the Richmond account weren’t as high as usual. How could he be expected to produce results when they were giving crappy, unskilled kids to work with? Most of these kids didn’t know Z-Form advertising from their ass. And he was expected not only to train them, but use them to produce high-quality advertising for the company’s biggest account. Yeah, right, the logic made sense.

And these kids – all they knew how to do was use a computer. If they couldn’t do it digitally, they couldn’t do it. Not an ounce of artistic talent between them. They only knew how to click a few buttons, move a cursor around a screen, and hit the print key. Mike had come in with a few physical mock-ups and these kids were amazed. “This must have taken you so long,” they exclaimed. Damn kids, with their skateboards, their body-art, their Japanese anime bullshit. They didn’t know jack about advertising. How the hell did they get degrees?

Today was the day he was going to fix the problems. The bigwigs upstairs wanted to talk Richmond , and Mike was ready. He’d prepared several new ideas for the account, and had outlined a plan to rejuvenate Copeland’s advertising efforts. He’d even formulated a sound argument to get some of the more seasoned staff back on his team. Surely they could listen to reason. After all, it was the least the company could do for him. And the Richmond guys were ready to sign a contract renewal, provided Mike could produce some quality mock-ups for the new campaign. A renewed contract meant a bonus for Mike – a bonus he desperately needed.

But now the damn car wouldn’t start. He’d asked Marie three weeks ago to take it to the mechanic while he was at work, but apparently she hadn’t. She wasn’t good for much of anything these days. She was a decent cook, though, and he kept her around as a back-up if he couldn’t get any from the younger, more lithe interns. A man had needs, right?

Besides, in his occupation, he needed a wife – someone he could bring to company functions and provide his account-holders a sense of stability and constancy. The latest in a string of vacuous office biddies wasn’t the best choice for a dinner companion if clients were present; they needed to see him as reliable, honest, and consistent, even if none of those words had ever accurately described him.

This was ridiculous. The anger of the surrounding drivers on the highway was mounting quickly, and they sped by him honking their horns and screaming obscenities in his general direction. What was he going to do? He could call a tow truck, but by the time they arrived and he made it downtown, he’d have missed the meeting and his opportunity to get things back on track at Copeland would be gone. He already felt he was on thin ice with many of the executives – he couldn’t afford to make a bad impression at this meeting.

So what was he going to do? He slammed his fist on the dash again, sending pieces of broken plastic flying, and dialed Marie on his cell. No answer. Where the hell was she? There was absolutely no reason she wouldn’t be picking up this early in the morning. Dammit, dammit, dammit! He hit the dash three more times for emphasis, this time driving plastic splinters into his knuckles. He didn’t care. He had to get downtown.

There was more riding on this meeting than anyone realized. He needed that bonus, and in order to get the bonus, had had to convince the execs to give him his old team back. And to do that, he had to get to the meeting! It was a chain of events, all connected and reliant on the other, and he couldn’t afford to screw any one of them up at this point.

In a moment of sudden clarity, Mike noticed the train track to his left, running parallel to the highway. How close was he to a station? He could see the outline of the Whoorsley station in the distance ahead of him. Could he make it on foot? He glanced back and saw the light of an approaching train pulling to a stop at the faraway Allerton stop. He’d have to chance it.

He threw the door of his black Mercedes open, grabbed his briefcase, and dodged oncoming traffic and verbal assaults over to the shoulder. He briefly looked back at the car; he’d probably never see it again, but it was a small price to pay.

He loosened his tie and began to run towards Whoorsley as fast as he could. He hadn’t run like this since college, and his body apparently took great pleasure in reminding him of that fact with burning lungs, rubbery legs, and the complexion of a pickled beet. And this was only the first hundred feet.

The train passed him with about 1000 feet left. He felt as if his lungs were going to explode, but he kept going. He had to. Mike was not a religious man; he hadn’t prayed since he was a small child kneeling at his bedside, hands folded, but he prayed harder than he ever had that something, some one, would make that train wait. If he could make it, he might be able to make it all the way downtown and still have a few minutes to take the elevator up to the office.

And the train waited. Time just seemed to stop. The rest of the world kept moving, but that train was rooted, statue-like, at the Whoorsley station. Mike kept running, sweat pouring from his brow, legs numb, lungs pumping furiously, blood oozing from the dashboard-incurred injury he hadn’t even noticed yet. He made it to the rear car and literally fell into it. The passengers looked at him strangely, but he didn’t care. He’d made it, somehow. Perhaps this day wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

Chapter 5: The Corner

Ernie stepped his way back along Sullivan Street . The music was roaring in his ears again. The walk would get him warmed up; he’d be more than prepared to take on the kids at 34 th and Broadway by the time he arrived.

Some of the kids on “the corner,” as it was known to those in the elite circle of participants, resented Ernie’s presence, but no one could deny that he could move. Ken was sure to set straight anyone who argued about Ernie’s participation. Ken understood that despite appearances, Ernie wasn’t a grown- up, and the rest of the kids had nothing to fear from him.

A rising rhythm in the music caused a requisite wave to ripple through Ernie’s body. He loved that part of the song. In a sudden burst of inspiration, he jumped up, spun 180 degrees and landed on his back heels, still moving the same direction. A new move! He didn’t discover that many anymore. He’d have to try that out at the corner today. It would drive the kids nuts – especially Karen.

Ken teased Ernie all the time about his crush on Karen. He tried to deny it, but he had to admit to himself that it was true. There was something about the way she shook her body while out on the floor, moved her hips back and forth, and seemed to look right through him when their eyes met… he grinned. She should be there today, and armed with a new move, he was sure to impress her.

He rounded the corner and made his way along the Dominick’s parking lot. He stole a glance in the storefront window, searching for the nice girl with the blonde hair and a metal bar in her eye. Ernie had always found the piercing strange – why someone would do that to their body was beyond his comprehension – but she had been friendly to him, providing him with the occasional sandwich or soda on a warm day, so he eventually accepted the shiny metal accessory as a part of her.

She was kind to all the residents, past and present, of St. Ives, and many others that had never set foot there. She always had some spare change, a kind word, or a candy bar, or something. She often brought a pizza out on her lunch brea k and dined with the less fortunate in the lot, or, during the winner, brought small mugs of del iciously warm hot chocolate for all.

Ernie could nev er remember her name, but he’d nev er forget her face. She always took the time to talk to him when she could, and he appreciated it. She reminded him of Rho nda, but he could nev er remember her name. She’d told it to him many times, but it wouldn’t stick. She always giggled when he repeated it countless times in her presence to make sure he’d know it for next time. Perhaps he forgot it just so he could make her laugh again the next time they met.

There she was in the store, scanning items over the laser reader and smiling at the customers. She didn’t see him, but he didn’t have time to try and get her attention. Ken would be waiting at the corner.

In fact, Ken came out to meet him a couple blocks before the corner.

“Hey, Ern, didja hear?” Ernie nodded in confusion.

“Somethin’s going on down by the store. Cops and everything! Come on, lets go check it out!” Ken whizzed by on his bike, made a wide u-turn, and pedaled up beside Ernie.

“Man, I hope we can see somethin’. Maybe there’ll be a body and everything! Wouldn’t that be awesome?” Ernie wasn’t entirely sure he was ready to witness a dead body. He certainly wasn’t as excited as Ken, but with something this exciting going on, it was doubtful anyone would be at the corner anyway.

The fla shing red and blue of the emergency vehicles were visible a few blocks from the convenience store. Ken sped up and pedaled on ahead, leaving Ernie alone with his thoughts for a few moments. All he really wanted to do was jive down on the corner. Maybe he should just go back towards St. Ives and jive by himself for the day. No, eventually the kids would get bored or realize they weren’t going to see anything, and the corner would ramp back up to it’s usual buzz of activity. He’d just have to wait it out.

As he approached Ken’s chosen vantage point, men in blue police uniforms were wheeling a gurney into the back of an ambulance.

“Well, they ain’t in no hurry. He must already be dead. Come on, let’s go take a look!” Ernie groaned inwardly, but followed Ken as he clandestinely cut up the alley behind the store and emerged beside the nearly deserted far side of the ambulance.

“Come on, Ern, lift me up,” Ken whispered, gesturing at the small side window of the ambulance. Ernie grasped Ken under his arms and heaved him towards the window, holding him steady as he himself peeked in the window.

Ernie dropped Ken hard on the pavement as his vision cleared and he recognized who it was on the gurney.

It was Darryl.

Chapter 3: Joel

“…like to thank you for flying with American Airlines. We know you have a choice when you fly and we’re glad you chose American. Enjoy your stay, and we hope to fly again with you soon.”

Joel stirred from his light slumber and stretched his arms above him in a wide arc. Finally, the flight was over. It was about time, too. Fourteen hours on the plane had left him stiff, tired, and certainly not the most pleasant to be around. But the trip was over. He wasn’t in a particular hurry to get off the plane, so he sat back and allowed the rest of the crowd to clamor for their bags.

That was one of many things he’d learned this trip. Time was simply not as important as everyone seemed to think it was. Waiting patiently ten minutes for a majority of the passengers to clear out would not negatively impact one’s life beyond repair. But if the frenzied approach of the other passengers was any indication, this particular philosophy was certainly not the most popular. At least it was different elsewhere.

Joel closed his eyes and smiled, leaning his head back against the uncomfortable hard foam of the seat. It had been a good trip. He’s learned a lot, about everything. He didn’t know whether it was more incredible that it had come to an end or that it had even started in the first place.

When he’d graduated high school, he’d never imagined he’d take a trip like this. Many of his friends traveled to Europe for that summer before college, but Joel hadn’t been able to afford it. He’d attended St. Ignatius College Prep on a merit scholarship, and unlike most attendees, didn’t have a trust fund. His father owned a gas station, his mother was a seamstress, and pretty much everything about Joel’s life contrasted starkly with that of his classmates at St. Ig’s.

But Joel was a whiz with numbers. They just made sense to him. He couldn’t draw, he couldn’t sing, and he spelled at about a third-grade level, but he could do wonders with numbers. At St. Ig’s, he had been led through the magical world of mathematics by Dr. Alan Sparrow, who had impressed upon Joel the fact that math was everywhere.

It was a fact that opened up an entire universe of opportunities to Joel. After he realized that there were few things in life that couldn’t be broken down mathematically, his entire world began to make sense. He began to compose music mathematically, writing entire symphonies and handing them out to friends to play on real instruments, because he didn’t play any himself. He created complex formulas that, when graphed, produced wonderful works of art. He turned his entire world into numbers, and he excelled.

During his senior year at St. Ig’s, Joel met his first girlfriend, Sara. They hit it off immediately, and began dating exclusively after two weeks of knowing each other. For awhile, life was good. But eventually, as he did with all things, Joel began to analyze their relationship statistically, attempting to find the magic formula that would allow him to make sense of the complex interactions between them.

At first, Sara was amused and intrigued by Joel’s approach. His analytical mind had been a major contributor in her attraction him from the start, and his fascination with her mathematically was, in her words, “cute.” Increasingly, though, Sara began to resent her role as a mere variable in Joel’s increasingly complex formula. It became clear to her that Joel was simply running an elaborate experiment, and she was the guinea pig. He didn’t seem to care about her at all except in the context of his attempt to quantify human interactions. So, in the middle of their final semester at St. Ig’s, she explained to him that their relationship, such as it was, was over.

Sara had not been totally correct about Joel’s feelings towards her. In reality, Joel cared very much for her. His “experiment,” as she termed it, was really his attempt to figure the relationship out and put it into a context that he could understand. He had a burning need to know exactly what action he should perform in a given scenario in their relationship, and Sara simply wasn’t telling him.

He was beside himself with depression after the breakup. His statistical model had never, ever, predicted this outcome. Sara should be enthralled by him – he was doing everything right! Wasn’t he?

The failure of his model to predict the breakup was a source of great distress for Joel. It meant only one of two things; either he had made a mistake in his abstractions or calculations, or human interaction simply couldn’t be analyzed in terms of mathematics. Both options made him shudder. He was fairly certain he hadn’t made any mathematical mistakes, which left only… Joel hadn’t been able to come to terms with the possibility that he wouldn’t be able to arithmetize human sociality.

The emotional repercussions of the unexpected breakup did not contribute positively to his situation, so Joel had consoled himself by throwing himself into college preparations. He’d already been accepted and was enrolled, so he found out what classes he’d be taking, and spent most of his days that summer in the local library reading the text books and other material for his classes. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t the best decision. During his first semester at college, he became very bored, very quickly. His above- average intelligence combined with the foreknowledge of most of the material forced him to look for other things – some of them good, most of them bad – to keep himself occupied.

It wasn’t long before Joel realized that more schooling simply wasn’t in the cards for him. The nagging suspicion that mathematics weren’t everything just wouldn’t go away, and he didn’t feel as though he were truly learning anything in his classes that he couldn’t learn in a library.

He dropped out after his freshman year with no plans, no job, and realistically, no real future. His uncle owned a lawn mowing business, and Joel eventually began working there. It wasn’t especially difficult work, but it kept Joel busy, and he had plenty of time to contemplate the questions that were plaguing him about his approach to life.

It didn’t take long for him to realize that he needed to get out and experience the world if he wanted to try and understand it. That realization gave birth to the trip he was now returning from.

He had saved pennies for two years to afford it. Two years of ramen, weekends spent reading instead of going to the movies, and shirking vacation time in favor of overtime pay. Two years of blood, sweat, and tears for this – the trip of a lifetime.

Fortunately for Joel, the trip was all he had imagined it would be and more. He had hiked through countless mountains, seen wonders he never thought existed, and had met so many good people. The cultures of the places he had been were so much friendlier, so much more, he thought, evolved. His smile grew broader as he leaned back on the airline seat again and remembered the sheer incredibility of it all. He had done it.

His thoughts were brought back to the present by the sudden realization that all was quiet. He opened his eyes and glanced around. Nary a soul was present, save a woman and her two uncooperative children in the section behind him. He found his backpack, the sole possession he had with him and ambled towards the exit of the plane.

The hustle and bustle of the airport terminal was another wake-up call. It was now clear that he was far from the quiet jungles from which he had recently departed. Everyone seemed in such a hurry. People brushed by him roughly, not even stopping to apologize. It was strange, the difference between the attitudes of those he’d met in his travels and the people that now surrounded him.

It was a transition that he had noticed on this return trip. He had had some trouble with his tickets on the return flight. The airline in Thailand had suggested that he confirm his reservations with the local agent at each stop along his itinerary, so he did. At most stops, the agents were helpful, friendly, and understanding. One even made several frantic phone calls and escorted him personally to his gate to make sure he made his flight.

As if he’d crossed some invisible line, the agents on the American side of the world turned snobbish, were far less than helpful, and seemed determined to make interaction with them a living hell. And that was only part of it. The passengers on the domestic flights were closed off as well – they seemed to actively avoid all contact with other passengers, content rather to cower under their blankets and read the in-flight magazines. Joel had, on several occasions, attempted to start a friendly conversation during a flight or while waiting at a gate, but he was always pushed away. He had a lot of adjusting to do before he’d feel at home again in this place.

He arrived at the terminal train station just as a shuttle was departing. Oh well, no matter. He’d just get the next one. Stepping outside, he realized he’d forgotten how cold the city could be at this time of year. It was in fact quite warm, relative to the usual temperature of the city, but the gentle wind against his bare legs and sandaled feet only accentuated the remaining chill he had from the frosty airplane cabin. Yet another thing he’d have to readjust to.

Looking around him, he noticed several other travelers standing on the platform, donned in light autumn jackets, each one with a serious expression, talking on a cell phone and smoking a cigarette. Everyone seemed so isolated – he wondered for a moment if perhaps two of the people standing there were perhaps talking to each other, not realizing that they were in fact less then twenty feet apart. It wouldn’t be that surprising. None of them looked at each other. They were too engrossed in their own private conversations to care bout or notice the rest of the world around them.

Joel decided to take a short stroll around the platform while he waited. The conversations he overheard were topically different, but equally indicative of worried, frightened people.

“I know I’m late, Gerald. You don’t have to keep telling me. If the damn plane had been on time, I would have made it. Well, you’ll just have to without me for the time being. Yes, I have the portfolio. I’ll bring…”

“Did you get Mikey to school? Is he feeling better? What did the doctor say? Was he sure it was just a cold? I thought…”

“…got me thinking, you know? I mean, it was just a little fender-bender, no big deal, right? But the insurance company is saying that they might not cover it, and the mechanic is charging me my left nut to get it realigned. Yeah, I know…”

Joel shook his head. So many things to worry about – so many things to push out of proportion. He silently wished he was back in Asia . Things seemed a lot simpler over there. He chuckled. He was “home” less than an hour and already complaining. That made him a true America n, right?

The train pulled up and Joel stepped on behind a tired-looking woman pulling three large suitcases. She was trying to pull them, anyway.

“Could I give you a hand, ma’am?” Joel asked, placing a hand on the largest of the three and preparing to pull it up into the train. Confused, the woman gave Joel a quick visual appraisal and apparently judged him unworthy of the task.

“No, no, I’m fine, I’m fine. Just leave me alone.”

Joel shrugged as she moved as quickly as she could to the opposite side of the train, sat down, and eyed him warily. Whatever.

As the train began to move towards its downtown destination, Joel found an empty seat and sat down, peering out the window at the cars passing on the highway alongside him. Every driver had the same serious expression as the commuters at the station. Eyes gazing straight ahead, hands clenching the steering wheel tightly, lead foot on the accelerator. Everyone had somewhere to be, apparently.

Joel distracted himself by watching the autumn leaves perform complex acrobatics in the winds above the highway. The seasons were one thing that he’d missed while he was away. He didn’t much care for winter, and spring was his favorite, but autumn, with its falling leaves, grey skies and clear moonlit nights, held a special allure for him as well.

He smiled to himself as he realized he’d been absent-mindedly contemplating the physics governing the leaves movements, and reflecting on the equations behind them. He hadn’t changed that much on his trip, had he?

_[Insert more Asia back story here.] _

At Allerton, the traffic on the highway had come to a complete stop. Joel soon discovered the reason. A car was abandoned in the center lane, driver door swung open. The drivers rolled down their windows and cursed, at who they didn’t know, and abruptly cut off their rant when they noticed the car was empty. The combined symphony of multi-pitched car horns was deafening. Joel wanted to go out in the middle of it and yell at everyone to calm down. Seriously, it wasn’t the end of the world. Geez.

As they approached the next stop, Whoorsley, Joel noticed a man running brea thlessly towards the train from the highway entrance. _He’ll never make it _, Joel thought as the train slowed down for the stop. As the passengers boarded and departed, Joel poked his head out looking for the man. There was no way he could make it without a little help. He discreetly dropped his backpack to the floor, making sure it obstructed the door closing mechanism just enough to prevent the train from departing.

The passengers grew increasingly agitated as the annoying prerecorded voice said, “Doors closing,” over and over again, but no one noticed Joel’s surreptitiously placed backpack.

The man boarded a few seconds later, and there was a sigh of relief from all the passengers when the final “Doors closing” warning was repeated. Joel leaned back against the train door, awash in the glow that came with doing good deeds. His place in heaven was assured, no doubt about that. He smiled.

This was his least favorite part of the meal, but he had to drink the remaining milk or Rhonda would not be pleased. “Waste not, want not,” was her motto, and she made sure Ernie ate everything he was given.

He grasped the bowl by the sides and brought the edge to his gaping mouth, pouring as quickly and carefully as he could. He swallowed, barely, and set the bowl on the table with a clatter as he shook his head back and forth violently.

Rhonda chuckled at the sight. She knew he hated the taste of milk, but she couldn’t afford to have him wasting any, not with as many financial problems as St. Ives was having. She was already stretching it just to buy him his favorite cereal every week. But really, how could she deny him?

She couldn’t put her finger on the quality about Ernie that made him so endearing. Perhaps it was his quiet, unassuming eyes, always hidden behind those thick glasses. Or it could be the fact that he danced – if you could call his carefree movements that – his way everywhere, and didn’t care at all what others thought of him. Most likely, it was just his mind. He was a child trapped inside a man’s body, destined never to understand the complexities of the world. He perceived things so innocently – and struggled with even the simplest task that involved remembering something – but he had such tenacity that it was hard not to admire him. It was sad, in a way, that he’d never mature past his current mental capacity, but Rhonda was careful never to pity any of the many down-on-their-luck people she knew at St. Ives. She didn’t believe in pity – she believed in helping people.

Rhonda thought back to 20 years ago, when she first came to St. Ives looking to help those less fortunate than herself. She’d always had a heart for the homeless, and St. Ives needed someone skilled in the culinary arts to help out in the kitchen. It seemed to be a perfect fit, and for a long time it was. That was a long time ago, when she was an attractive, idealistic whippersnapper of a child who wanted to save the world. Much had changed since then – now she was just struggling to keep food on the table for all the residents, and every day seemed to drag on longer than the next. Her chance to make a true difference was gone, and her options were dwindling even more quickly.

Thankfully, though, there were people like Ernie that appreciated the work she did. Even if he didn’t say it, she knew he’d be lost without her and the rest of the staff at St. Ives. And truth be told, they’d be lost without him and the other residents as well. Their lives were inexplicably intertwined, and Rhonda knew she could never leave St. Ives voluntarily, no matter how hard it got or how pointless it all seemed sometimes.

The scraping of Ernie’s chair brought her back to the present.

“Ernie,” she said. “We need to talk ‘bout last night.” He’d hoped he could escape without receiving the lecture, but he knew better.

Rhonda pulled out the chair across from Ernie and sat down heavily. Her dark round face, framed by her bunned graying hair, was taut as she looked hard at Ernie, but her eyes shone a compassionate gleam. He looked down at the floor, avoiding her eyes.

“Ernie, why didn’t you come back las’ night?” The questions was simple enough. Ernie thought hard, trying to remember exactly why he hadn’t made it back, but his mind drew a blank. “I don’t know,” he finally muttered.

“Wal, you know da rules… You know I want ya ta be back before 8. You shouldn’t be runnin’ ‘round late at night by yerself. Besides, you have a nice warm bed here. Why you wanna sleep anywhere else?”

“I slept with Ike… he was warm,” Ernie replied, moving his head back and forth methodically, still staring at the floor.

“Wal, jus’ be sure you make it back in tonight. You know I was worried ‘bout you. I’m just glad you’re all right.” She stood up and patted him on the back.

“Go on. I guess you’ll be going back up to the corner today?”

Ernie nodded.

“Well, come back later on. I’m baking cookies, and you might not get any if you’re not careful.” Ernie nodded again and stood up quickly as Rhonda began busying herself around the kitchen again.

“Bye Rhonda,” Ernie mumbled as he walked out of the kitchen. Rhonda smiled again. One could never stay angry at Ernie for very long. She knew he didn’t mean to stay out, and that he was sorry. He was safe, that was all that really mattered.

As soon as he left the kitchen, Ernie grasped the headphones and put them over his ears. With a familiar flick of his index finger, he started the music again, and jived his way on back towards 34 th and Broadway.

Chapter 2: Ned

Beep. Eggs, they’d have to wait for a minute. Beep. Ahh, milk, that could go with the orange juice –- better double-bag it just in case. Beep. Chips. Nothing special there. Beep. Beep. Beep. Load the bags in the cart and…

“Would you like some help getting that out to your car, Mrs. Jensen?”

“Oh no, dear, I’ll be fine. Thank you for your help. You have a nice day.”

“You too, Mrs Jensen.” Looking towards the back of the store, he was Ned was pleased to see an empty register line. He ran his hand through his graying hair and began to twirl his mustache. Finally a short break. His line had been non-stop for the entire morning, and despite his affinity for hard work, Ned needed a break. He nodded at Maria, turned off his cashier light, and walked towards the men’s’ room.

After relieving himself, he lowered himself slowly on the small bench in the lavatory. His knee was acting up again today. He’d need to take a few more Aspirin if he was going to make it through the rest of the day.

The door to the restroom blew open with a whoosh and in stepped Bob McCrane.

“Hey, Ned. Taking a break?” His smile was far too plastic to be genuine. Bob was about 25 years old, and most of the cashiers resented him, Ned included. Ned was nearly twice his age, and probably twice as intelligent, but Bob was the boss. He knew how to kiss corporate ass like no one Ned had ever met, and he was rewarded for it. He was always smiling, always trying to joke with everyone, always oblivious to the fact that no one liked him.

Ned smiled wryly back. “Yes, it’s been a busy day.”

“Indeed it has. Everybody needs a break eventually, that’s the truth, mmm- hmm. Back when I was working for…”

Ned took the cue and tuned out the rest of the inane story. All of Bob’s stories were the same. They all eventually ended with Bob saving the day somehow with his ingenuity, his charisma, and his I-just-won-an-Oscar smile. Ned didn’t need to hear another one of Bob’s supposedly inspirational stories in order to do his job better. And no story could improve his knee’s condition – certainly not one of Bob’s.

He already took his job very seriously. In fact, he took everything in his life seriously, but the job was especially important. Before immigrating to the US , Ned had been a well-trained, well-respected mechanical engineer. He was a wizard with mechanical structures, talented at design, and had a decent job designing small engines for lawn mowers, cement mixers, and the like.

It was a decent life, but there were dangers too. He and Lavina just didn’t have the kind of freedom that they truly wanted, and they wanted their children to have the best possible opportunities available to them. Life in the US seemed the best way to provide all of that, so they emigrated.

Things didn’t work out as they had planned, though. Lavina had become pregnant early on in their new life in America , and their finances were already strained from the journey itself. The pregnancy was long and difficult, and hospital bills continued to pile on. Ned had been holding out for a job related to his field of expertise, but at every interview they turned him away, citing “lack of reliable experience.” It seemed his years in Europe were not verifiable by the American companies, and despite his excellent overseas references, most companies were not willing to give him a chance.

He tried everything he knew to become more desirable to the American employers. He immersed himself in American culture, became familiar with American mechanic style and design, and created a portfolio of impressive ideas to present at interviews. He even changed his name to Ned, since employers seems to have such a hard time pronouncing his real one.

Again and again, however, he was turned away. With mounting bills and a new baby at home, Ned did the only he could – he took a manual labor job helping out at a construction site. Most of his co-workers were either in high school or immigrants like him. It wasn’t glamorous, but it helped pay the bills.

Ned worked incredibly hard, but he hadn’t lasted long. The knee injury from his childhood made it nearly impossible to carry heavy loads for long distances, a major job requirement, and he spent each evening with an ice pack on his swelling joint. Lavina finally convinced him to try and find another job, one that would require less physical strain. And with yet another baby on the way, Ned knew he’d have to find something.

When Ned spoke to Jon, his supervisor, about leaving, Jon had asked his wife, who worked as a manager at the local Dominick’s to hire him. It was a dock in pay, and certainly not the step upwards that Ned was hoping to make, but he was grateful for the much needed opportunity.

That was several years ago. Jon’s wife no longer worked at this particular store, and most of the other people he’d worked with in the past had long since moved on, but Ned had kept his job and continued to support his growing family.

It was far from the dream he and Lavina had had when they came to America , but Ned worked hard and earned himself quite a reputation amongst those customers who frequented Dominick’s Store # 4534. His grocery bagging skills had grown so legendary that new trainees were required to work with him a minimum of 10 hours before they could start bagging items themselves, just so they could learn the ropes.

Ned was ruthlessly committed to efficiency. He could scan, bag, and load a customer’s groceries into their cart faster than most customers could get their credit card out of their purse, all while holding a pleasant conversation. He never forgot a customer, he remembered everyone’s children or family and asked after them, and was always ready with a joke or short anecdote to lighten someone’s mood. Not to mention his uncanny ability to fit more items in a plastic bag than one would think possible. He knew exactly when items required a double or even triple bag, always took extra care not to break eggs or crush bread, and ensured all scented items were kept separate from food items, to protect his customers from soapy tasting bread, meat and cheese.

Ned did not go entirely unnoticed for his dedication and knack for the job. He’d been employee of the month countless times, and many customers flocked specifically to his line at the front of the store, just so they could tell him how their new baby girl was doing, or hear his latest joke, or ask for prayer for an ailing relative. Many women in the local area brought cakes, cookies, and other food stuffs for Ned and his family; yes, Ned was not unnoticed for his hard work.

But Ned was growing old. He could feel it in his bones every morning, and he could especially feel it as he sat down idly listening to Bob ramble on about nothing in the men’s room.

“So how about that, huh?” Bob beamed as his story drew to a close.

“That’s pretty incredible, Bob,” Ned answered idly. He had no idea what Bob had been talking about, but all the stories were the same, and the appropriate responses sounded nearly as rehearsed as the stories themselves by now. Of course it was all lost on Bob. He was completely infatuated with no one but himself, and Ned’s lack of interest didn’t faze him in the least.

“Yeah, it’s a great story… Well, I’d better get going. Lots to get done, mmm-hmmm. Don’t dally too long, Ned. The candy around your line seems to be a little out of whack.” Bob flashed another prize-winning smile as he dried his hands and stepped back out of the men’s room with a whoosh.

Ned stood up slowly and gingerly put some weight on his knee. He hoped the Aspirin would kick in soon. It was going to be a long day.

Chapter 1: Ernie

“Are we there yet?”

Melissa sighed again. “No, baby, not yet.” The five-year-old squirmed restlessly in the backseat.

“Mommy…”

“Angela, I’ve told you already. We’ll get there when we get there. Sit down, be still, and hush up!” Melissa felt the tension in her own voice. Could it really only be 10 AM? It was guaranteed to be a long day. Offhand she realized that it had been far too long since Angela had commented.

At Lawrence ’s insistence, she had taken Angela to an ear, throat and mouth specialist, but of course he had found nothing wrong with Angela’s hearing. It was with a certain sense of satisfaction that she had informed Lawrence of the results. She had long since argued with him that Angela could listen; she simply never wanted to. Lawrence, ever the idealist, desperately wanted to believe that there was something physically hindering her obedience, rather than accept the fact that their daughter was obstinate and overly excitable.

By now, Angela should have been bouncing off the walls, but all was quiet in the back seat. A quick glance in the rear-view mirror revealed an enthralled five-year-old, nose glued to the window of the beat up Chevy Astro, staring outside.

“What are you looking at?” asked Melissa as she followed Angela’s eyes to the sidewalk outside. Melissa smiled as she realized what had caught her daughter’s attention. On the left side of the street was a man in a faded wind-breaker walking in their direction.

Well, he wasn’t really walking, he was gyrating. His arms flew out at odd angles from his body, his head bobbed, Melissa assumed in time to the music that was coming out of a pair of ancient, oversized headphones he wore on his ears, and every so often he spun in a full circle and started the whole process over again.

“Why is he walking like that, Mommy?” Angela giggled.

“I think he’s dancing,” Melissa replied, slowing down slightly. The quiet brought on by Angela’s trance was something to be cherished, and Melissa wanted it to last as long as possible.

“Well, he’s not very good at it,” Angela piped up, with a slight hint of disdain in her voice. The ballet lessons to which Melissa and Lawrence had finally given in were paying off in many ways; not all of them were positive.

“Everyone could use practice, Angela. Not everyone is blessed with as much talent as you are.” Melissa caught herself as soon as she said it – there was far too much sarcasm in her voice. Thankfully, the condescension was lost on her daughter, who was now squirming restlessly once again, her interest in the strange man now gone.

Melissa sighed again as she pushed down gently on the accelerator. It was going to be a long day.

Ernie was oblivious to the curious faces peering at him as he jived his way down Sullivan Street . He wouldn’t have cared, even if he had noticed them, but with his headphones on he was in another world – his world. A world where one couldn’t afford to be still. A world of vigorous, deliberate movements, of spinning and twirling, of quick-stepping, of fishtailing, bouncing, and doing it all over again. A world of glorious movement; when surrounded by such miraculous music as Ernie’s, what other choice did one have?

Ernie had been out since last night. He had tried to make it back to St. Ives, but the kids at 34 th and Broadway had been jiving late, and by the time the last of them went inside, it was too late for Ernie to make his return trip safely. Ken snuck him into his garage later that night, after his parents had gone to bed, and Ernie stayed warm playing quietly with Ike, Ken’s German Shepherd.

Ken was a good friend, probably Ernie’s best. He had invited Ernie over for dinner once, but Mr. and Mrs. van Zandt were less than thrilled having a “dirty, disturbed man” at their home. Ernie had heard them arguing about it from outside the house, and though he didn’t understand all the words, he knew that he wasn’t going to be eating dinner at the van Zandt’s then or ever. Ken had come to the door with a sad look on his face telling him that his parents “already had dinner plans.” Ernie didn’t argue; he knew Ken didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter. Ken’s parents had told him not to hang out with Ernie any more, but fortunately Ken took much pleasure in doing the exact opposite of what his parents told him.

Ernie had woken up early to make sure he made it out of the garage before Mr. van Zandt saw him. He had wanted to stick around to jive with kids some more, but it was too early; they were all still sleeping. He milled about the neighborhood for awhile, but hunger eventually got the better of him, and he started making the long trek back towards St. Ives. Rhonda was probably worried about him anyway.

The perspiration was beginning to gather on his brow. It was going to be a warm day. Ernie preferred it that way. It made him feel as though he was working hard, even though he wasn’t. After all, work couldn’t feel this good. Rhonda made him do work around the shelter every once in awhile, landscaping and such, and she never let him listen to his music while he did it. He hated being without his music; life was so empty, so boring without it.

The first side of his cassette finished, and his trusty Walkman soon made the familiar _click-pah, click-pah _ as it automatically switched to the second side. Ernie turned the Walkman over in his hand and admired it yet again. His rough, calloused fingers traced over the worn buttons. The text identifying their respective functions had long since faded, but it didn’t matter. He knew the buttons by heart anyway. The casing was scratched and cracked, the battery cover was attached by a piece of duct tape, and the small motor made a dull moaning sound as it spun, but the Walkman was his. It belonged to him, and only him; it was his passport to an astounding world of sound and rhythm.

The dull gray stone of St. Ives snuck up on him without warning. The smell of sweetbread and chicken soup wafted gently across the street towards him, and he salivated involuntarily. He jived his way across the way, pausing momentarily while a taxi flew by, horn blaring. Glancing up at the flickering neon cross above the door, Ernie pushed the large oak door open with one hand and reluctantly pulled the large headphones from his ears. Rhonda would already be a little annoyed that he hadn’t come in last night – there was no need to annoy her more by keeping the headphones on.

He took the small staircase from the vestibule to the dining room two at a time, and glanced around the small tables looking for familiar faces. Lester was there, apparently taking a break from his occupation begging down on the Boardwalk, and Michael too, accompanied by his ever-present collection of assorted aluminum scrap.

Ernie briefly considered attempting to bypass the kitchen and head upstairs to his room, then retrace his steps back downstairs to trick Rhonda into thinking he’d been upstairs all along. Of course, it wouldn’t work. Rhonda was already well aware that he’d been out all night, and he’d only incur more wrath by trying to avoid her now.

So into the kitchen he went, head down in his customary ignore-the-world fashion. He was aware of Rhonda’s stare as he moved straight towards the cupboard and grabbed a bowl and spoon.

“Just siddown, Ernie. I’ll git it for ya,” Rhonda said, moving towards him. Ernie didn’t argue. He sat down with his bowl and waited patiently for Rhonda to fill it.

Rhonda walked over to the cupboard, took a nondescript Tupperware container out, and filled Ernie’s bowl. Ernie was more than happy to do this himself, but Rhonda knew it would take him an hour just to find the right container. No matter how hard he tried, he could never remember which container held the magical cereal known as Trix. On the rare occasions he did attempt to locate the Trix himself, he was reduced to tasting each container of cereal to find the correct one.

Rhonda poured the cereal and milk, and Ernie dug in with great fervor. Ah, Trix… or an off-brand that tasted remarkably similar… what a brilliant cereal! An explosion of sugary, fruity flavor in every bite! He wished that Rhonda would give him real Trix – he could tell the difference – but Rhonda said that Trix were for kids and Ernie, unfortunately, was no longer a kid. How could such a wonderful dietary concoction be limited to only those under age 13? He didn’t argue with Rhonda, though, because he had a feeling there were other issues, most likely financial – which he would not even attempt to decipher – at play.

“Wal, it look dat man done done it ageen,” Rhonda shook her head back and forth at the small television in the corner. Ernie peered up at the screen, where the President was prattling on, looking strangely determined and striking his hands against the podium definitively. Ernie wondered briefly what music he was listening to that could make him move like that – if he ever met the President, he’d have to ask to borrow the tape.

Rhonda was still shaking her head and muttering under her breath as Ernie returned to his breakfast. Politics made the same amount of sense to Ernie as finances, so he just avoided getting into any discussions about it. Rhonda, on the other hand, was quite vocal about the upcoming election.

“How we gonna manage with dem cuttin’ this, cuttin’ dat, not thinkin’ about dose ‘round us ain’t got nothin’? How we gonna do dat, Ernie?” She didn’t expect an answer – but the question had to be vocalized in order for it to matter.

Ernie took the last bite of his Trix and stared down at the remaining milk, now the color of rainbow sherbet.