Manny tries to straighten, but he knows he’s still a little diagonal. “I’m not drunk.” He’s just seeing juxtaposed multiple realities while being plagued by inexplicable compulsions and phantom sensations.
“Well, then, take your high ass somewhere else.”
“Yes.” That’s a good idea. He needs to go… east. He turns in that direction, following instincts he never had before a few minutes ago. “What’s thataway?” he asks Bike Guy.
“My left nut,” Bike Guy says.
“That’s south!” laughs another bike rental hawker nearby. Bike Guy rolls his eyes and grabs his crotch at her in the iconic New York Sign Language gesture of suck-my-dick.
The attitude’s starting to grate. Manny says, “If I rent a bike, will you tell me what’s in that direction?”
Bike Guy’s suddenly all smiles. “Sure—”
“No, sir,” says Bike Woman, serious now as she comes over. “Sir, I’m sorry, but we cannot rent a bike to someone who appears to be intoxicated or ill. Company policy. Do you need me to call 911?”
People in New York sure like to call 911. “No, I can walk. I need to get to—” FDR Drive. “—FDR Drive.”
The woman’s expression turns skeptical. “You wanna walk to FDR Drive? What the hell kind of tourist are you? Sir.”
“He ain’t no tourist,” says he of the southern left nut, as he chin-points at Manny. “Look at him.”
Manny’s never been to New York before, at least as far as he knows. “I just need to get there. Fast.”
“Take a cab, then,” says the woman. “Taxi stand’s right there. Need me to grab one for you?”
Manny shivers a little, feeling the rise of something new within himself. Not sickness this time—or rather, not just sickness, since that terrible stabbish ache hasn’t faded. What comes instead is a shift in perception. Beneath his hand, which rests on the kiosk, he hears a soft rattle of decades’ worth of flyers. (The kiosk has nothing on it. There’s a sign: DO NOT POST BILLS. He hears what used to be there.) Traffic’s flying past on Seventh, hurrying to get through the light before a million pedestrians start trying to get to Macy’s or K-Town karaoke and barbecue. All these things belong; they are rightness. But his eyes stutter over a TGI Fridays and he twitches a little, lip curling in involuntary distaste. Something about its facade feels foreign, intrusive, jarring. A tiny, cluttered shoe-repair shop next to it does not elicit the same feeling, nor does a vape shop next door. Just the chain stores that Manny sees—a Foot Locker, a Sbarro, all the sorts of stores one normally finds at a low-end suburban mall. Except these mall stores are here, in the heart of Manhattan, and their presence is… not truly harmful, but irritating. Like paper cuts, or little quick slaps to the face.
The subway sign, though, feels right and real. The billboards, too, no matter what’s on them. The cabs, and flow of cars and people—all these things soothe the irritants, somehow. He draws in a deep breath that reeks of hot garbage and acrid steam belching from a manhole cover nearby, and it’s foul but it’s right. More than right. Suddenly he’s better. The sick feeling recedes a little, and his side dulls from stabbing pain into cold prickles that only hurt when he moves.
“Thanks,” he says to Bike Woman, straightening and grabbing his roller bag. “But my ride’s coming.” Wait. How does he know that?
The woman shrugs. Both of them turn away to resume hawking bikes. Manny walks toward the area where people are waiting for Lyfts or Ubers. He has both apps on his phone, but he hasn’t used them. There should be nothing here for him.
However, a moment later, a cab rolls to a stop right in front of him.
It’s like a cab out of an old movie: smooth and bulbous and huge, with a black-and-white checkered strip along its near flank. Bike Guy does a double take, then whistles. “A Checker! Haven’t seen one of those since I was a kid.”
“It’s for me,” Manny says unnecessarily, and reaches for the door.
It’s locked. I need this open, he thinks. The door lock clicks open. So, that’s new, but he’ll process it later.
“What the—” says the woman inside as Manny tosses his bag onto the back seat and climbs in after it. She’s a very young white woman, so young that she doesn’t look old enough to drive, who has twisted around to stare at him. But she’s mostly indignant rather than scared, which seems a good starting place for their future relationship. “Hey. Dude. This isn’t a real cab. It’s just an antique—a prop. People rent it for weddings.”
Manny pulls the door shut. “FDR, please,” he says, and flashes his most charming smile.
It shouldn’t work. She should be screaming her head off and trying to get the nearest cop to shoot him. But something else has occurred between them, helping to keep the woman calm. Manny has followed to the letter the ritual of getting-in-a-cab, introducing enough plausible deniability that she thinks he’s deluded rather than a potential threat. However, there’s power in what he’s done that goes beyond just psychology. He’s felt it before, hasn’t he? Just a moment ago, when he somehow drew strength from the chaos of Seventh Avenue to ease the pain in his side. He can actually hear some of that power whispering to her, Maybe he’s an actor. He looks like That Guy whose name you can’t remember, from That Musical you like. So maybe don’t freak out yet? Because New Yorkers don’t freak out around famous people.
And how does he know all this? Because he does, that’s how. He’s trying to keep up.
So he adds, after a breath passes and she just stares, “You’re going that way anyway, aren’t you?”
She narrows her eyes at him. They’re at a red light, but the walk sign nearby is blinking. He’s got maybe ten more seconds. “How the hell did you know that?”
Because the cab wouldn’t have stopped if you weren’t, he doesn’t say, and reaches for his wallet. “Here,” he says, handing her a hundred-dollar bill.
She stares at it, then her lip curls. “Right, a fake.”
“I have twenties, if you’d prefer.” There’s more power in twenties anyway. A lot of businesses in the city won’t take hundreds, also for fear of counterfeit bills. With twenties, Manny will be able to compel her to take him where he needs to go, whether she wants to or not. He’d rather persuade, though. Force is… he doesn’t want to use force.
“Tourists do carry a lot of cash,” she murmurs while frowning, as if reasoning with her better instincts. “And you don’t look like a serial killer…”
“Most serial killers take care to look like ordinary people,” he points out.
“Not helping your case with the mansplaining, guy.”
“Good point. Sorry.”
That seems to decide her. “Well. Assholes don’t say sorry.” She considers for a moment longer. “Make that two Benjies, and okay.”
He offers the twenties, although he does have another hundred-dollar bill in his wallet. There’s no need to use the bills for power anymore, however. She has completed the ritual by accepting his directions, then performed the orthogonal ritual of haggling for more money. All the stars have aligned. She’s on board. As she’s pocketing the money, the traffic light changes and a car immediately honks behind her. She casually flips that driver off and then wrenches the wheel to drag the cab across four active lanes as if she’s done this, or driven the Daytona 500, all her life.