Devon Ford - The Fall

He paid his fees, went through security, and headed for the top of the building, shuffling his feet during the long elevator ride as they were still hurting him from all the walking he wasn’t used to.

The observation deck was packed, and more disappointingly, Cal saw that he was actually nowhere near the top. The place was literally thronging with tourists. The fact that he was a tourist escaped him briefly, and he inched forward to get a good view.

In spite of his dark mood and his aching feet, he had to admit that the view really was something special. The clouds had broken, and, despite the wind chill, he could see for miles. The East River to one side, the Hudson to the other, the Statue of Liberty clearly visible, and a skyline that made his jaw drop, even if all he could see essentially was miles and miles of concrete laid out below adorned with air-conditioning units sprouting from the buildings like so many small parasites. How mankind could cram so much activity, so many people, into a small island was a wonder to him. Getting out his phone he took a few panoramic shots, the resulting pictures jumping from frame to frame as the mass of people made his footing unsteady. He settled on a 360-degree video, overshadowed by the loud commentary in multiple languages, when the crowd began to make a similar noise all at once. He had abandoned the audio commentary, partly because he refused to shuffle along to the relevant numbered boards to be told what he could see, and partly because the borderline-offensive stereotype in his ears annoyed him.

Turning instinctively toward the source of the interest, people around him everywhere broke out into spontaneous applause.

What the fuck? he thought, before a person in front of him shifted position to take a picture of the scene. There, at the top of the goddamned Empire State building, was a man on one knee holding up a ring box to a tearful, emotional, and embarrassed girl.

“Oh, fuck my life!” he groaned aloud before his brain could intercept the words from reaching his mouth.

All around him people tutted and made disapproving noises, heightening his sense of shame. One woman even tapped him on the shoulder.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” she told him. “It’s a beautiful thing.”

Cal couldn’t take it. Wordlessly he pushed through the cooing crowds and headed for the elevator. Remarkably it wasn’t too full as he turned himself sideways to disappear into a gap and hang his head. Tears pricked his yes, feeling simultaneously angry and sorry for himself, when a voice behind him spoke.

“I thought it was lame too,” it said. Female, rich in humor and sarcasm, and seemingly directed at him. He turned to face the woman who spoke.

Tall, slim, with a ring in her nose under eyes framed by dark makeup, she tucked her straight, dyed-red hair behind one ear and revealed a line of piercings there too. Cal didn’t say anything. Her voice didn’t sound like the accents he’d heard in the city. Like him, she didn’t seem native.

“Everybody clapping though? What the hell was that about? Like they’re actually going to be happy!” She laughed, earning sighs of disapproval from the others in the elevator.

The way she said everybody, Errybody , made him smile.

“Hi,” she said, “I’m Louise.” The smile flashed at him, making him blush. “And y’all ain’t from around here, are ya?”

“Cal,” he muttered, “and no, what gave it away?” He tried to return the smile and suspected he may have crossed from awkward into creepy.

“Just a hunch,” she said, one corner of her mouth curling up and making his heart skip a little.

They rode the rest of the way down in awkward silence, him trying to think of things to say to her, and her watching him with a smile of amusement at his discomfort. The doors opened and the elevator disgorged them all onto ground level. Cal walked slowly, hoping she would continue the conversation. He glanced behind him and saw that she had gone.

Shit, he thought, kicking himself for a wasted opportunity of some human contact to smother his sullen loneliness. Turning back to the doors, he found himself staring into her amused face as she stood blocking his path.

“So, what are y’all fixin’ to do now?” she asked him, the smile still there.

“Oh,” Cal stammered, not understanding her use of her native vernacular, “it’s just me actually…”

“I can see that, silly,” Louise said. “Wanna grab a cup of coffee?”

Cal thought that sounded like a good idea. The best idea he’d heard in a long time actually. She indicated that he should follow her and set off at a brisk pace for the exit, forcing him to scurry to make up the lead she had extended. Cursing himself for falling in line so easily to chase another woman, he did the most British of things, and had a word with himself.

Play it cool, he thought, or at least try to play it cool…

They walked in silence for a while, Cal because he didn’t know what to say and Louise because she evidently enjoyed a comfortable silence, even if it was only comfortable for her. She walked into the nearest coffee shop with its familiar green and white livery, bought herself a coffee with cream and two sugars, and stepped back for Cal to make his order as their barista, complete with his ironic moustache, wrote names on the paper cups.

“I’ll have the same please, mate,” he said to the vendor, feeling as though he’d made a mistake and Louise would think he was copying her.

“Funny,” she said, “being from England and all, I thought you’d have tea.”

Cal had never liked tea, had even refused it when it was the only hot drink—or brew as he would say—on offer when he desperately needed the comfort of one. He had even refused tea when he was offered a hot mug of it after finishing the last forced march, the final test to pass out as a Royal Marine so many years ago, even though he was frozen to the bone.

“Can’t stand the stuff,” he told her, earning another amused curling of her mouth. Dammit, he thought, she’s seriously cute. So why is she talking to me?

Cal had been in a relationship with Angie for years, and had remained faithful throughout. When they ran out of things to talk about they moved in together, and when that exhausted their conversation points they— she —talked about getting married. Cal had taken the hints and bought an engagement ring, knowing her high expectations for what that ring should be like and how expensive it had to be. She’d said yes, and for the next year and a half he had saved and worked overtime to pay for the wedding. Her father had never approved of Cal, had told her that he wouldn’t amount to anything because he lacked any vision of his future, and refused to pay for any part of it.

Working for a company which specialized in pouring concrete for mostly commercial buildings, Mr. Holt, the prospective father-in-law, had disapproved of him and his prospects, and had even once called him ‘nothing but a lackey’ to his face.

Cal didn’t see it that way. He worked hard, and he had progressed as far as he could in that business, graduating to running projects on his own with laborers working under him. He had a company van which he could drive for personal use if he wanted to, and he was paid well enough. Since the engagement he had worked six, sometimes seven days a week and had offered to take the biggest jobs which involved the most travelling. He had almost doubled his usual wage in a few months, and every penny was saved for the wedding.

Which was all gone now, the only exception being the ridiculously expensive hotel room that was his for another few days and the flight home. The agreement was that Angie would save up for the spending money, which was why he was seeing the sights of New York City on a shoestring budget and still managing to max out his last credit card.