ladyfirestarter (
ladyfirestarter) wrote2007-08-26 11:30 pm
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Every so often, Charlie's called to the home office in New York. She tries to arrange a day or two extra before and after the scheduled meeting, just to walk around and see the city.
The desert has become her heart's home, but ... once or twice a year she starts to sicken for the sight of skyscrapers and yellow cabs, the way some people sicken for mountains or the sea.
It's a brisk day in early September, cool and breezy, ideal for walking.
The desert has become her heart's home, but ... once or twice a year she starts to sicken for the sight of skyscrapers and yellow cabs, the way some people sicken for mountains or the sea.
It's a brisk day in early September, cool and breezy, ideal for walking.
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He waits.
"What are you thinking?"
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"Not so much thinking," she says, with a small shaky laugh. "I don't ... I'm not sure what to think."
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"There's no clock ticking. All options are on the table. Particularly the first one."
Prometheus stops to take stock of where he is. New Yorkers don't do this. Almost instantaneously, a man with a fanny pack taps him on the shoulder. A woman, also with a fanny pack, waits behind him. Prometheus cups his hand around one ear as he turns to face them.
"Excuse me," the tourist says, "you don't happen to know where the -- what was it called, honey? The thin, pointy building on the intersection."
"The Flatiron Building," the wife provides.
"Yeah." The tourist looks up at Prometheus hopefully.
"The Flatiron? -- 'Scuse me for a sec." Prometheus holds out an arm behind him. "Go that way, maybe seven, eight blocks. Can't miss."
The tourists beam. "Thanks!"
He dips his head. "No problem." His crosswalk goes red.
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Charlie sounds startled.
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That's amused, rather than annoyed.
"And seven or eight blocks north of the Flatiron Building? We're practically on top of each other."
Half a beat.
"Don't touch that one."
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The crosswalk changes. He steps into the street. "This is going to be a recurring theme, isn't it. The there-but-for-the-division-of-the-multiverse thing."
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Another pedestrian gives her an odd look at that, and walks on.
(Later in the week, the line will show up on www.overheardinnewyork.com.)
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A pause, then: "Sunny day, sweepin' the -- clouds away!"
The words fit: New York could have been painted by Vermeer today, if he were more given to outdoor scenes. The light shimmers over a vivid sky-and-stone palette.
"On my way to where the air is sweet."
Prometheus would look like Gene Kelly, given a little more rain and a little more room to dance. He cranes his neck, only half paying attention to where he's going.
"Can you tell me how to get, how to get to Sesame Street?"
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"You are a loon."
She can picture him, dancing along the sidewalk, the crowd of pedestrians eddying around to give the crazy man a wide berth -- kind of like that sudden bubble in the crowd two blocks down, on the other side of Broadway --
-- wait.
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She's slowed down a little, studying the movement of the crowd.
It can't be. It's a coincidence.
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He sails over the sidewalk, not even pretending to hold a phone, just talking out loud and smiling.
New York is heady. He's only observant as far as it keeps him from walking into people.
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One way to find out.
"How did the other one go? It's time to get things started...?"
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"On the most sensational! Inspirational! Celebrational! Muppetational! This is what we call the Muppet Show!"
A grin, to punctuate the emphatic hand gestures. "I did that right, didn't I?"
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She can see him now, as pedestrians scatter before the noise.
Coincidence, as so often happens, has been cancelled.
"Prometheus?"
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"What?"
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"I see a Starbucks, and somebody wearing a leopard-print jacket, and... and..."
If the passersby needed any more proof of this fellow's unhingedness, his sudden stillness is more than sufficient.
"I see a redhead standing there waving at me." He knits his brow. "But that doesn't make any sense."
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"The redhead's wearing jeans and a grey button-down shirt," she says cheerfully, "and she can see you now."
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"The redhead may not want to be seen with me, considering the ruckus I was making a moment ago. It's a very fetching look on the redhead, though, I've got to say."
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These questions evidently don't preclude an uncontrollable grin, though.
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Prometheus looks both ways -- it pays to stay safe, and provide a good example, after all -- and ventures out into traffic. A quick jog and a little darting later, he hops up on the curb beside Charlie.
"Hmm." An experimental poke at her shoulder, still disbelieving. "You don't seem to be an optical illusion."
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"Neither do you."
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"Where are we?"
Something's certainly off, though he can't quite pinpoint it yet.
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