—although, in the flurry of the moment, he cannot remember any of those people’s names or faces—
—but that doesn’t matter, because they can’t understand. They know him as he was, and maybe who he is now. New York is his future.
It’s hot on the platform and crowded on the escalator, but he feels fine. Which is why it’s so weird when he reaches the top of the escalator, and suddenly—the instant his foot touches the polished-concrete flooring—the whole world inverts. Everything in his vision seems to tilt, and the ugly ceiling fluorescents turn stark and the floor kind of… heaves? It happens fast. The world pulls inside out and his stomach drops and his ears fill with a titanic, many-voiced roar. It’s a familiar sound, to a degree; anyone who’s been to a stadium during a big game has heard something similar. Madison Square Garden sits on top of Penn Station, so maybe that’s it? This sound is bigger, though. Millions of people instead of thousands, and all of those voices doubled back on each other and swelling and shifting into layers beyond sound, into color and shaking and emotion, until he claps his hands over his ears and shuts his eyes but it just keeps coming—
But amid all of the cacophony, there is a through line, a repeated motif of sound and word and idea. One voice, screaming fury.
Fuck you, you don’t belong here, this city is mine, get out!
And the young man wonders, in confused horror, Me? Am… am I the one that doesn’t belong? There is no answer, and the doubt within him becomes an unignorable backbeat of its own.
All at once the roar is gone. A new roar, closer and echoing and indescribably smaller, has replaced it. Some of it is recorded, blaring from PA speakers overhead: “New Jersey Transit train, southbound, stopping at Newark Airport, now boarding on track five.” The rest is the sound of a gigantic space full of people going about their business. He remembers then, as it resolves around him: Penn Station. He does not remember how he ended up on one knee beneath a train-schedules sign, with a shaking hand plastered over his face. Wasn’t he on an escalator? He also doesn’t remember ever before seeing the two people who are crouched in front of him.
He frowns at them. “Did you just tell me to get out of the city?”
“No. I said, ‘Do you want me to call 911?’” says the woman. She’s offering water. She looks more skeptical than worried, like maybe he’s faking whatever weird faint or fit that’s apparently made him fall over in the middle of Penn Station.
“I… no.” He shakes his head, trying to focus. Neither water nor the police will fix weird voices in his head, or hallucinations caused by train exhaust, or whatever he’s experiencing. “What happened?”
“You just kinda went sideways,” says the man bent over him. He’s a portly, middle-aged, pale-skinned Latino. Heavy New York accent, kindly tone. “We caught you and pulled you over here.”
“Oh.” Everything’s still weird. The world isn’t spinning anymore, but that terrible, layered roar is still in his head—just muted now, and overlaid by the local and perpetual cacophony that is Penn Station. “I… think I’m fine?”
“Yeah, you don’t sound too sure,” the man says.
That’s because he’s not. He shakes his head, then shakes it again when the woman pushes the water bottle forward. “I just had some on the train.”
“Low blood sugar, maybe?” She takes the water bottle away and looks thoughtful. There’s a little girl crouched beside her, he notices belatedly, and the two of them are nearly mirrors of each other: both black-haired, freckled, frank-faced Asian people. “When was the last time you ate?”
“Like, twenty minutes ago?” He doesn’t feel dizzy or weak, either. He feels…“New,” he murmurs, without thinking. “I feel… new.”
The portly man and frank-faced woman look at each other, while the little girl throws him a judgy look, complete with lifted eyebrow. “Are you new here?” asks the portly man.
“Yeah?” Oh, no. “My bags!” But they’re right there; the Good Samaritans have kindly pulled them off the escalator, too, and positioned them nearby out of the flow of traffic. There’s a kind of surreality to the moment as he finally realizes he’s having this blackout or delusion or whatever it is in the middle of a crowd of thousands. Nobody seems to notice, except these three people. He feels alone in the city. He is seen and cared for in the city. The contrast is going to take some getting used to.
“You must have gotten your hands on some of the really good drugs,” the woman says. She’s grinning, though. That’s okay, isn’t it? That’s what’ll keep her from calling 911. He remembers reading somewhere that New York’s got an involuntary commitment law that can hold people for weeks, so it’s probably a good idea to reassure his would-be rescuers as to his clarity of mind.
“Sorry about this,” he says, pushing to his feet. “Maybe I didn’t eat enough, or something. I’ll… go to an urgent care clinic.”
Then it happens again. The station lurches beneath his feet—and suddenly it is in ruins. There’s no one around. A cardboard book display in front of the convenience store has fallen over, spilling Stephen King hardcovers everywhere. He hears girders in the surrounding structure groan, dust and pebbles falling to the floor as something in the ceiling cracks. The fluorescent lights flicker and jerk, one of the overhead fixtures threatening to fall from the ceiling. He inhales to cry a warning.
Blink: everything is fine again. None of the people around him react. He stares at the ceiling for a moment, then back at the man and woman. They’re still staring at him. They saw him react to whatever he was seeing, but they did not see the ruined station themselves. The portly guy has a hand on his arm, because he apparently swayed a little. Psychotic breaks must be hell on inner ear balance.
“You want to carry bananas,” the portly guy suggests. “Potassium. Good for you.”
“Or at least eat some real food,” the woman agrees, nodding. “You probably just ate chips, right? I don’t like that overpriced crap from the train dining car, either, but at least it’ll keep you from falling over.”
“I like the hot dogs,” the girl says.
“They’re crap, baby, but I’m glad you like them.” She takes the little girl’s hand. “We’ve got to go. You good?”
“Yeah,” he says. “But seriously, thanks for helping me. You hear all kinds of stuff about how rude New Yorkers are, but… thanks.”
“Eh, we’re only assholes to people who are assholes first,” she says, but she smiles as she says it. Then she and the little girl wander off.
The portly man claps him on the shoulder. “Well, you don’t look like you’re gonna chuck. Want me to go get you something to eat or some juice or something? Or a banana?” He adds the latter pointedly.
“No, thanks. I’m feeling better, really.”
The portly man looks skeptical, then blinks as something new occurs to him. “It’s okay, you know, if you don’t got money. I’ll spot you.”
“Oh. Oh, no, I’m good.” He hefts his messenger bag, which he remembers costing almost $1,600. Portly Guy looks at it blankly. Whoops. “Um, there’s probably sugar in this—” There’s a plastic Starbucks tumbler in the bag, sloshing faintly. He drinks from it to reassure Portly Guy. The coffee is cold and disgusting. He belatedly remembers refilling it sometime yesterday, before he got on the train back home in—