Robert Swartwood - Legion

“Tell me about it. I’m pretty much fucked for the rest of the day. But this package, someone needs to come pick it up.”

Reggie’s silent for a long moment as he types. “Sorry, dude, but I don’t have anyone near your location right now.”

“So what should I do?” I close my eyes, take a deep breath. “Can you call and tell them I’ll be late?”

Reggie doesn’t answer right away. I don’t expect him to. My request isn’t something I’m proud of. In fact, it’s something I really hate to ask. In this business, you deliver packages on time. That’s it. Your reputation-and, more importantly, your company’s reputation-all hinges on the fact that you’re faster and more prompt than the other guy. Because there’s always another messenger company to hire, and if a business gets screwed over enough times by a company they’ve grown a relationship with, they’ll cut ties and go elsewhere. So calling and telling them their package won’t arrive on time, even if there is a valid excuse? Not a good idea.

“Reggie?”

“I’m thinking, I’m thinking. Who’s the package going to again?” Before I can answer, he says, “Shit,” no doubt reading the name off his screen.

I nod, knowing exactly what he means. The firm I’m taking this to-Bachman Payne-is one of the top firms in the city. They’ve been using us for the past five years, if not longer. They’re always satisfied, because we always deliver on time. But one screw up? They’re a business that’s apt to walk away just on principle.

Through the phone I hear typing and voices, but I also hear a new voice, a deep, throaty voice tinged with a Brooklyn accent, sounding like it’s coming closer.

“If that’s Hank, don’t tell him it’s me.”

It’s a risky move, trying to keep the supervisor out of the loop on an issue like this, but the truth is I just don’t want to deal with his bullshit right now.

“Who’s that?” Hank says, and before Reggie can voice a coherent response, the phone is taken away (I picture Hank ripping the headset off Reggie’s head), and Hank’s voice booms, “Who’s this?”

I swallow. “It’s John.”

“What do you want?”

A hundred smart ass replies flash through my mind, but instead I say, “Someone jacked my wheels.”

“So?”

Cold son of a bitch.

“So, I have a package that needs to get to Bachman Payne in”-I glance at my watch-“seventeen minutes.”

“Yeah, and why are you calling?”

“I’m not going to be able to make it. I was hoping”-I clear my throat-“someone could call down and let them know I’ll be late.”

“John, let me ask you something,” he says, and I picture him in his short-sleeved company shirt, crossing his hairy arms, bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet as he stares up at the board tracking our pick-ups and drop-offs. “What is our company’s motto?”

Another fire truck arrives on scene, its lights blazing red and white, blaring its horn for cars to get out of its way.

“What is that?” Hank asks.

“Fire truck,” I say. “There was a fire in the building. The alarm went off right before I hit the elevator, and then I had to-”

“Our motto, John. What is it?”

I take another deep breath. “ ‘Never Late, Always Early.’ ”

“That’s right,” he says, like he’s an elementary school teacher and I’m a slow-learning student. “That’s our motto. That’s how everyone knows us. That’s what keeps us in business. And the people that hire us? They want their packages just like our motto says-never late, always early. They don’t care about fires, or missing wheels, or even if your legs are broken. They want their packages on time, if not early, but never … guess, John.”

I force the word out through clenched teeth: “Late.”

“Bingo. So my advice, John? Start running.”

• • •

I do start running. Only I don’t head downtown. Instead I head uptown, the three blocks it takes me to get to the subway station. In a split-second decision, I leave my bike behind. Right now it will only slow me down, and quite honestly, I’m not sure if I can take it on the subway. Despite all the years I’ve been living in the city, I rarely take the subway. I have a mild case of claustrophobia, and being trapped underground with a bunch of strangers in a tin can isn’t necessarily my idea of a good time. Besides, my bike is chained up, and I know where it is, and I’m confident it will still be there when I return.

Down the stairs, wait in line at one of the MetroCard kiosks, wondering briefly if I can charge it to the company, and then I’m hurrying through the turnstiles, looking left and right for the downtown train. Judging by the few commuters milling about, I’ve just missed the most recent train, which means for the next train I now have to wait, what, three minutes? Five?

I wander over to the nearest subway map, check where I am and where the train will be headed whenever the hell it shows up. The way it looks, the train will let me out four blocks from the firm. Okay, no problem. There are three stops in between here and there, so yeah, that shouldn’t be a problem at all. As long as the train isn’t late. As long as my bad luck for the day has finally run out.

Then again, who am I kidding? There’s no way I’m going to make it on time. I would have a better chance if I just ran down the street.

I check my watch, wait thirty seconds, then check my watch again.

No train.

I wander over toward the tracks and stand by the pillars like mostly everyone else, angled toward the tunnel out of which the train will hopefully spit very soon. We stand there and stare, as if staring long enough will make the train appear. Actually no, that’s not true. I’m the one staring, while everyone else is looking down at their cell phones or tablets or e-readers, everyone a slave to their favorite technology. I shake my head, wondering what they all see in their senseless toys, when the distant shriek of brakes sounds out down the tunnel.

Everyone moves closer to the edge of the platform, which has flooded with more and more people.

Light fills the tunnel seconds before the train appears. The stuffy wind in the terminal changes direction. A single sheet of newspaper slips off the platform onto the tracks, caught up in the sudden rush of air, slow dancing like a tabloid tumbleweed.

Everyone takes their positions, including me. We all inch closer to the yellow line, watching the train as it screeches into the station, as the train-

I don’t realize I’m falling at first. I barely even feel the hand on my back until it pushes me off the platform. One second I’m standing there, the next second the world is on its side and I’m headed toward the tracks, the train’s light burning into me, the brakes squealing, people shouting and screaming.

I hit the ground hard, my head knocking on one of the rails, everything going momentarily black, and the squealing of the train fills the world so completely, like it’s about to burst, that for an instant I know I’m going to die, that the light coming at me is the light of Heaven or Hell or whatever afterlife there may be, and my body, it goes on autopilot, not staying still like it should, hoping that the train will pass over me, but instead standing up, first finding a knee, then raising to a foot, facing the train like we’re in a duel. I’m aware of the renewed screams and shouts in the same way I’m aware that I’m soon going to die, but it’s all faint, distant, white noise, and when the hands grab my bag and yank me up toward the platform I just go with it, letting it happen, a puppet content to have its strings pulled any which way it can.