Sadie said she saw one disappear; that it happened with a
sudden gust of wind, one of those winter squalls that came in off the Hudson
and barreled mercilessly down West 57th street, sending shoppers
running after a lost bag or hat. The man's clothes fell in a surprisingly neat pile
where he’d been walking that brisk, no-nonsense walk of a longtime Manhattanite
with somewhere to be, or somewhere he though he ought to be. Sadie bent down to
examine the pile of clothes, mostly because the man had been wearing an expensive
wristwatch and scarf she knew John would appreciate them, and also because she
wondered who the man had been. An ID card encased in yellowing plastic
announced him as ‘Edward Cohen III, Hedge Fund Manager, Cohen & Chase
Partners.’ Another hedge fund manager gone. Poof. ‘Like out of a bad movie’,
Sadie thought, but she had no time to dwell on reasons. It was all over the
news by now anyways. Well, the underground news, as the state had shut down
internet and wirecom access after the big networks picked up on the story a few
days ago. Some people said they saw spirits of the missing, strange figures and
demons moving through the night with their business suits wrapped in an eerie
green glow of burning hundred dollar bills. Most of these people were either
uneducated or religious though, Sadie thought…. Not that there was anything
wrong with the latter, God knew she could use a little faith lately.
It wasn’t just hedge fund managers that were disappearing
either. Self—professed ‘Tea Party’ leaders. Health Insurance company
executives. N.R.A lobbyists, Wall Street day traders, Mormon Missionaries, Catholic Church leaders, Coal Mining big wigs, political kingpins…. The list went on. Sadie just hoped
John wouldn’t be next. He was all she had, cliché as it sounded. As her
daughter Essa had said the morning Sadie first told her what was happening
downtown, ‘all those people seem sort of like bad people.’
John was not a bad person. He taught 4th grade at P.S 115 way up on 183rd street, in the hood, as his students would say, their voices like parrots, not yet aware of what the hood would really do to their lives. Sadie had wanted to lecture Essa on how ‘people can’t be split up into good and bad so easily, you have to let them change’, as her own mother would have said, but she was tired. She'd just shaken her head wearily. ‘Well, they seem like the kinds of bad people you and daddy talk about sometimes’, Essa said quietly, pulling on her sunflower pigtails the way she did when she knew she was right. 'Fair enough', Sadie though.
John was not a bad person. He taught 4th grade at P.S 115 way up on 183rd street, in the hood, as his students would say, their voices like parrots, not yet aware of what the hood would really do to their lives. Sadie had wanted to lecture Essa on how ‘people can’t be split up into good and bad so easily, you have to let them change’, as her own mother would have said, but she was tired. She'd just shaken her head wearily. ‘Well, they seem like the kinds of bad people you and daddy talk about sometimes’, Essa said quietly, pulling on her sunflower pigtails the way she did when she knew she was right. 'Fair enough', Sadie though.
Most of the people who had actually seen it happen had been 'committed'.' Sadie hated that word. The State used it with unabashed zealousness on their evening broadcasts, anchorman or woman always hiding a slight smirk at they said it. Committed to mental institutions, to be specific, Sadie thought with a clammy feeling. Or private hospitals, after they’d overdosed on their
usual mental health regiment, trying to ‘make the memory go away.’ Sadie wasn’t
too troubled though. She’d seen too much in her time to let logic interfere. It wasn’t like it was so
grotesque or disturbing anyways, she thought, if one momentarily excused the basic
laws of physics and human logic. One minute a ruffled-looking, balding man in
his early 50’s was hurrying down West 57th street carrying a slim Italian
leather briefcase and stabbing aggressively at an Iphone, the next minute,
one of those boxy-fitting starched Brooks Brothers suits lay in a neat pile
beside the curb. The majority of passer bys were too engrossed in their own lives or
devices to have noticed what just happened thought, it seemed. Sadie wasn’t too bothered. She’d
always sensed that if the end of the world really did come in her time on
earth, that it would be both spectacular and mundane; marked in arcane
embellishments of the ordinary that most folks simply weren’t paying enough
attention to notice.
‘Maybe if all the bad guys go poof, daddy can get went contwol and a waise, and we can have weal healthcare!’ Essa had said the night before at dinner, her face stuffed with mac n’ cheese. Sadie had smiled despite herself. Even with the whole microcosm movement really taking shape in their neighborhood, and the pirate Internet she was getting after the blackout, it was all still pretty scary, she had to admit. Supposedly creating illicit, moneyless, hyper-local microcosms was the way to fight the State, the Feds; the cops, whatever you wanted to call them. The point was they were big and we were small.
‘Maybe if all the bad guys go poof, daddy can get went contwol and a waise, and we can have weal healthcare!’ Essa had said the night before at dinner, her face stuffed with mac n’ cheese. Sadie had smiled despite herself. Even with the whole microcosm movement really taking shape in their neighborhood, and the pirate Internet she was getting after the blackout, it was all still pretty scary, she had to admit. Supposedly creating illicit, moneyless, hyper-local microcosms was the way to fight the State, the Feds; the cops, whatever you wanted to call them. The point was they were big and we were small.
When Sadie got home, John already had that hunched over,
vaguely glazed look of too much time in front of a screen.
‘Sweetie, I thought you were going out with your running group to the park this afternoon?', Sadie asked worriedly.
‘Sadie, you have to see these numbers', John said with mumbled urgency.
John loved statistics. Statistics and teaching 4th grade, which was a little like knowing nothing and everything at the same time. He beckoned her over to the screen, where neat columns of an Excel spreadsheet stood out in different themes and colors. ‘94% white males, median age 47.’ ‘Median income: 1.4 million.’ ‘Highest contributors to conservative political causes, and almost unanimous opposition to tax reform, gun law reform, education reform, or healthcare reform.’
'Honey, this is not a coincidence. Something big is starting.'
John loved to say that. 'something big is starting.' It sounded so prophetic and excusatory at the same time.
'Well, perhaps its none of our business', Sadie countered evenly. This was her nature, her Southern good girl no-nonsense upbringing New York hadn't quite been able to shake.
'That's what they want you to think', John said gravely.
'Oh stop it', Sadie said, breaking the tenseness with her warm laughter and hugging him from behind. He stayed focused on the screen but allowed a reluctant smile to play across his lips.
'Well, as my father would have said, there are lies, damn lies, and statistics', John admitted, and they both relaxed instinctively as they heard Essa sleeping next door, her breathing something refreshingly organic in this increasingly rigid world.
Sadie studied the columns on the screen for a few more minutes before realizing it was a list of all the people who had disappeared so far, probably hacked out of police records by their microcosm I.T guy.
‘Besides, I can’t go running today anyways; Rudy is gone’, John said, with a sigh, returning to Sadie's initial question.
Rudy was John’s right hand man at P.S 115 and his usual running partner. He’d checked himself into the mental health ward at Mount Sinai after claiming he saw a figure with an old man’s body and the head of a bison surrounded by green light from burning hundred dollar bills when he was walking home from his subway stop alone one night last week.
‘Just like the crazy people had said’, Sadie had thought. Rudy was not crazy though, at least not that kind of crazy.
Sadie pulled the Rolex wristwatch and cashmere scarf that had belonged to the hedge fund manager out of her bag and handed it wordlessly to John.
'Merry Christmas', she mouthed with a grin. It was August.
'Honey, you know we can't affor-'
'He disappeared', Sadie said calmly, stopping him in mid-sentence.
'You saw it?'
Sadie nodded once, a quick nod the way she'd nodded when her mother reprimanded her over some imaginary infraction as a child; a nod both proud and defeated.
'So you're not, like, messed up?', John said in slight awe.
She gave him a look.
'So one minute walking down the street, next minute poof, eh?', John prodded incredulously after she'd told him the story.
She gave him another curt nod.
'Well, nice watch I guess.'
'John, have you heard about the folks upstate?', Sadie asked him quietly.
'No honey, you mean the microcosm crew that drove up to Saranac Lake last week?
'They're missing.'
'What!?'
'Rex said they'd been taken to the facility in Albany', Sadie said, her voice shaking slightly. Life under the spanish moss and roman columns of Charleston hadn't prepared her for this.
'No', John said in disbelief, his hands running through his hair like scissors the way her did when the kids in his class wouldn't settle down after recess.
Rumors were that the feds were cracking down on young microcosm folks who were leaving the city to start splinter cells upstate, they they thought they were radicalizing, or getting ready to call in help from overseas. Other rumors said that 'the feds' were really just a consortium of corporate power brokers, and the president was a hand puppet in a cardboard White House. Sadie didn't know what to believe any more. Maybe she should listen to Essa more, Essa who saw the world as 'good people' and 'bad people' but not in any concrete morality, merely as abstract syllables uttered by people who had an obligation to make the world a better place for her.
John stood from his desk in a single, swift motion that Sadie had always found strangely sexy; that a man whose mild manner and easy likability made him a magnet for 4th graders could execute such a polished, executive motion. He turned and hugged her wordlessly, and brought his lips close to hers with that same gentle urgency.
'We've going to be OK in all this. We've got no real ties to any of that, nor are we Upstate. Essa is beautiful and safe. you're beautiful and safe. Rudy is beautiful and hopefully safe too.'
God, Sadie thought, John was a wonderful man. An elementary school teacher who studied American corporate structure with hopes of dismantling the barbarism from the inside. A straight man who read queer theory and got spat at and harassed at LGBT rally's in the village. A breadwinner who'd break bread with a homeless man on the corner just to hear his story. She knew that together they'd weather whatever was thrown at them, love made them 'New York tough', not money.
'Thanks J-flash', Sadie said through her teeth, her hair mingling around his face, her nose and eyes taking in his smell and the taste of his lips and the delicious feeling of proximity that is only buffered by comfort. She called him 'J-flash' because he could seemingly show up anywhere at just the right moment, out of a flash, or perhaps not the right moment if you were a troublemaking 4th grader with a box of stolen crayons or the classroom pet frog in your pocket.
'Your welcome, Say-dizzle, John said, and did his best b-boy uptown New York swagger impression. They did live in Spanish Harlem after all, or what used to be it before they all got driven out to the Bronx and Connecticut. They both laughed and headed into the kitchen for a French press full of fresh coffee, an evening ritual they both cherished after long days of work and school.
‘Sweetie, I thought you were going out with your running group to the park this afternoon?', Sadie asked worriedly.
‘Sadie, you have to see these numbers', John said with mumbled urgency.
John loved statistics. Statistics and teaching 4th grade, which was a little like knowing nothing and everything at the same time. He beckoned her over to the screen, where neat columns of an Excel spreadsheet stood out in different themes and colors. ‘94% white males, median age 47.’ ‘Median income: 1.4 million.’ ‘Highest contributors to conservative political causes, and almost unanimous opposition to tax reform, gun law reform, education reform, or healthcare reform.’
'Honey, this is not a coincidence. Something big is starting.'
John loved to say that. 'something big is starting.' It sounded so prophetic and excusatory at the same time.
'Well, perhaps its none of our business', Sadie countered evenly. This was her nature, her Southern good girl no-nonsense upbringing New York hadn't quite been able to shake.
'That's what they want you to think', John said gravely.
'Oh stop it', Sadie said, breaking the tenseness with her warm laughter and hugging him from behind. He stayed focused on the screen but allowed a reluctant smile to play across his lips.
'Well, as my father would have said, there are lies, damn lies, and statistics', John admitted, and they both relaxed instinctively as they heard Essa sleeping next door, her breathing something refreshingly organic in this increasingly rigid world.
Sadie studied the columns on the screen for a few more minutes before realizing it was a list of all the people who had disappeared so far, probably hacked out of police records by their microcosm I.T guy.
‘Besides, I can’t go running today anyways; Rudy is gone’, John said, with a sigh, returning to Sadie's initial question.
Rudy was John’s right hand man at P.S 115 and his usual running partner. He’d checked himself into the mental health ward at Mount Sinai after claiming he saw a figure with an old man’s body and the head of a bison surrounded by green light from burning hundred dollar bills when he was walking home from his subway stop alone one night last week.
‘Just like the crazy people had said’, Sadie had thought. Rudy was not crazy though, at least not that kind of crazy.
Sadie pulled the Rolex wristwatch and cashmere scarf that had belonged to the hedge fund manager out of her bag and handed it wordlessly to John.
'Merry Christmas', she mouthed with a grin. It was August.
'Honey, you know we can't affor-'
'He disappeared', Sadie said calmly, stopping him in mid-sentence.
'You saw it?'
Sadie nodded once, a quick nod the way she'd nodded when her mother reprimanded her over some imaginary infraction as a child; a nod both proud and defeated.
'So you're not, like, messed up?', John said in slight awe.
She gave him a look.
'So one minute walking down the street, next minute poof, eh?', John prodded incredulously after she'd told him the story.
She gave him another curt nod.
'Well, nice watch I guess.'
'John, have you heard about the folks upstate?', Sadie asked him quietly.
'No honey, you mean the microcosm crew that drove up to Saranac Lake last week?
'They're missing.'
'What!?'
'Rex said they'd been taken to the facility in Albany', Sadie said, her voice shaking slightly. Life under the spanish moss and roman columns of Charleston hadn't prepared her for this.
'No', John said in disbelief, his hands running through his hair like scissors the way her did when the kids in his class wouldn't settle down after recess.
Rumors were that the feds were cracking down on young microcosm folks who were leaving the city to start splinter cells upstate, they they thought they were radicalizing, or getting ready to call in help from overseas. Other rumors said that 'the feds' were really just a consortium of corporate power brokers, and the president was a hand puppet in a cardboard White House. Sadie didn't know what to believe any more. Maybe she should listen to Essa more, Essa who saw the world as 'good people' and 'bad people' but not in any concrete morality, merely as abstract syllables uttered by people who had an obligation to make the world a better place for her.
John stood from his desk in a single, swift motion that Sadie had always found strangely sexy; that a man whose mild manner and easy likability made him a magnet for 4th graders could execute such a polished, executive motion. He turned and hugged her wordlessly, and brought his lips close to hers with that same gentle urgency.
'We've going to be OK in all this. We've got no real ties to any of that, nor are we Upstate. Essa is beautiful and safe. you're beautiful and safe. Rudy is beautiful and hopefully safe too.'
God, Sadie thought, John was a wonderful man. An elementary school teacher who studied American corporate structure with hopes of dismantling the barbarism from the inside. A straight man who read queer theory and got spat at and harassed at LGBT rally's in the village. A breadwinner who'd break bread with a homeless man on the corner just to hear his story. She knew that together they'd weather whatever was thrown at them, love made them 'New York tough', not money.
'Thanks J-flash', Sadie said through her teeth, her hair mingling around his face, her nose and eyes taking in his smell and the taste of his lips and the delicious feeling of proximity that is only buffered by comfort. She called him 'J-flash' because he could seemingly show up anywhere at just the right moment, out of a flash, or perhaps not the right moment if you were a troublemaking 4th grader with a box of stolen crayons or the classroom pet frog in your pocket.
'Your welcome, Say-dizzle, John said, and did his best b-boy uptown New York swagger impression. They did live in Spanish Harlem after all, or what used to be it before they all got driven out to the Bronx and Connecticut. They both laughed and headed into the kitchen for a French press full of fresh coffee, an evening ritual they both cherished after long days of work and school.
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