Matt Richtel - The Cloud

“What? Your head?”

“That too.”

I stand, feeling her fingers fall away. I wobble, get my footing, walk unsteadily to the piece of paper that fell from the man’s leather jacket. I pick it up.

It is lined and legal sized, creased and smudged with black grease. I unfold it and discover two names written in blue pen. One name is Sandy Vello. Doesn’t sound familiar. The other name does.

“What is it?” The brunette puts a hand on my arm.

I point to my name on the piece of paper. She shakes her head, uncertain what I’m talking about.

“This is my name?”

“What?”

“Nathaniel Idle.”

“I’m Faith.” She’s still not getting it: My name was on a piece of paper that fell from the pocket of a man who nearly turned me into a subway smoothie.

“That wasn’t an accident.” I clutch the piece of paper in both hands.

“Do you think you need an ambulance? I suspect you’re in shock.”

I look at Faith. She’s biting the edge of her bottom lip with perfect teeth, her head tilted, concerned, empathic. Early thirties, jet-black hair, arched eyebrows, soft features, irresistible grace of the genus Beautiful Person. My eyes lock on her for a millisecond more than is appropriate. I am struck by an urge to make her laugh. But it’s overwhelmed by a more powerful compulsion.

I look at the stairs where the man disappeared. I sprint after him.

Ibound up a steep set of metal stairs. They’re slippery and dimly lit from a track on the low ceiling.

I’m halfway up when I’m hit by a wave of light-headedness and nausea, and feel my toe slide, causing my leg to collapse underneath me. My knee smacks the edge of a stair. A burst of pain shoots forth from my right patella. I look down and curse my cheap canvas high-tops and their cheap rubberized soles that offer inexpensive-chic-and traction approximating paper plates.

I hear footsteps behind me. I glance back to see Faith.

“You’re hurt. Wait.”

I ignore her and stumble to the top of the stairs.

I’m looking down a long, empty tunnel, ending in the well-lit maw of the subway station. I start running again but with a decided hitch in my step.

At the station entrance, my eyes adjust to the wide-open space, with cathedral-like high ceilings, illuminated by bright light. Very bright. Another wave of nausea, one I can’t suppress. I put my hands on my knees and heave spittle and hot breath.

I stand and focus again on the cavernous station. In front of me, a handful of ticket machines line a distant wall. To my left, stairs lead down the tracks for trains heading to the beach, the direction I wasn’t traveling. To my right, turnstiles provide exit and entrance. Next to them, in a rectangular cage of thick glass that stretches nearly to the ceiling, sits a man in blue cap, gray hair overflowing, wooly sideburns, eyes turned down, lost in paperwork, or the paper. Oblivious.

There is no drunk or homeless man. There are no fellow travelers besides Faith, who I hear behind me.

I hobble to and through the turnstiles. Beyond them, a set of majestic stone stairs.

I walk ten yards to the top of the stairs. Outside, I inhale cool air, grateful for it, and peer into the darkness dotted by brake lights, headlights and a stoplight at the corner just to my right. It’s just past 10 p.m., rainy, cold, windy. There’s an empty bus parked for the night in front of the subway terminal, and a Volvo in the passenger pickup zone; its driver sits behind the wheel mesmerized by whatever is on his smart phone.

I return to the turnstiles and knock on the glass cage. The blue-capped man takes a deliberate few seconds to look up, communicating his superiority.

“Excuse me. I was attacked-on the inbound platform.”

In his beefy hand, a Snickers. He swallows a bite that causes a hitch in his throat. He lets me back through the turnstiles and we start labored communication through a small opening in the glass cage.

“What happened?” He’s trying to sound interested but projects weariness, chocolate and nougat on the tips of his front teeth.

“Did someone just come through here? Big guy wearing a leather jacket? He had a beard and maybe a limp.”

“You were mugged?”

Was I mugged? I paw my right front jeans pocket and feel the outline of my phone. My wallet is still in the right back pocket.

Not mugged.

“Your bag is open.”

It takes a second for me to realize that he means my backpack. I turn around and see a few papers have scattered on the ground in the station.

Faith, having reappeared, has scooped up several of the straggling sheets. I turn back to the agent.

“Some guy nearly pushed me into the tracks. Can you call the police?”

“Nothing’s missing?” He hates the idea of the bureaucratic time sink involved with reporting a non-mugging.

“You must have surveillance cameras.” Maybe they got a good look at the falling mountain and me.

I turn to Faith, who stands just a few feet away, holding my papers. Part of me is wondering what she’s doing, why she followed me, and where she came from, why she’s wearing a skirt after dark in rainy mid-January.

“You must have seen him, Faith.”

“You should sit down. You look a little green.”

“I’m okay. I’ll get it checked.” I strongly suspect I won’t. It doesn’t take a former medical student to recognize I’ve got a head contusion and maybe a concussion.

“Your backpack has taken a mortal blow.” She pauses. “Seen him? Who?”

“The guy who toppled me over. You passed him in the tunnel, or he passed you. You each appeared out of nowhere, simultaneously.”

She looks momentarily stricken. “I’m sorry.”

I need another approach.

“I usually don’t interrogate a woman when I first meet her. Usually, it’s a cup of coffee, or a beer, maybe dinner, and only then do I start treating her like a witness or suspect.”

She laughs. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.” For a millisecond, she lowers her brown eyes and then looks back up. She smiles reassuringly.

“What’s on your sweatshirt? Did you get sick?”

I look down at the stain just above the left shoulder.

“Or did your baby get sick?” she asks.

What’s with this woman? Does she know something about me?

“I’ve got a nephew,” she explains. “When he was a baby, that’s right about the spot where he liked to press his face when I fed him.”

I look again at the splotch on my shoulder, and feel light-headed again, momentarily unreal. This prescient woman is right. I’ve got feeding casualty on my shoulder. Isaac. My son. I’ll see him again. I manage a smile. “Masticated avocado I bet. From the mouths of babes. Right onto my shoulder.” Note to self: buy stain remover.

“I take it your baby is not in his or her twenties.”

I feel my eyes mist. “Eight months, give or take. He spits up like an Olympian.”

I cannot possibly be connecting with a woman, not now, not given my track record in relationships. I’m a romantic Hindenburg: promising takeoff, brief smooth sailing, splat. It’s probably not the time to blurt that out, or disclose my dysfunctional personal life and worldview. I’m no longer with Isaac’s mom, and he’s with her. And I’m far from at peace with the whole thing.

“They’re out of town. Visiting her parents.”

“Who?”

Good job, Nat. Instead of confessing your romantic failings, you mutter non sequiturs. “Never mind.”

“Anyhow.” Faith hands me the papers she’s gathered. “I’ve got to catch a cab and get home.”

“Wait. Please.” I’m coursing with a dozen questions, chiefly: What did Faith see? I ask her if she can spare five more minutes to help me deconstruct what happened on the platform. She acquiesces, with a light flavor of impatience, denoted by fidgeting fingers and diminished eye contact. She tells me that she bought a single-ride fare, made a quick phone call, then headed down to the tracks to get the K. When she arrived, she saw the huge guy fall down toward me. She couldn’t tell if it was deliberate or not, but she could tell it was a major impact. “He squished you,” she says.