Entropy

part 1 . . .
I wake up reluctantly. I am still tired. It is the sort of fatigue that sleep does not remedy not
that I am sleeping well anymore. For sixty days I have held on restlessly to an ideathat will not
take shape. Each time i put my hand out to touch, it melts away through myfingers in a flutter,
like a breeze through late summer leaves.From my bed I hear the sound of my super, dragging
garbage from the basement onto tothe sticky sidewalk. I am fully awake now, and conscious of a
decision that I have madethe night before. As I drag myself out of bed I realize that I have let too
much time pass,and that I will have to push to get the gears back in motion. The thought does
notdiscourage. What else is there anyway, but the endless struggle to capture pleasant bits
of time and stretch them as far as possible, knowing that the inevitable snap will again tear the
respite apart, but resigned to the effort all the same.I leave the apartment with a purpose, thinking
of a face that exists no where in this world.I have to get downtown to meet the guy.
part 2 . . .
The 4 train is running slow, some kind of long needed rehab is finally taking place. I stareat the
people on the train, catching some staring back at me in turn. I compulsively order each of them
in my mind according to career and relevant details.The guy in the bland suit, with the the too
short pants works for a hedge fund. He isunhappy that morning because his wife forgot to wake
him up when she left for work.The other guy has a nicer suit and a good tie. He's in sales. He is
separated and has agirlfriend who lives out of town. The woman across from me is a student at
Pace. She isworried about a test she has later that day. I go on until everyone has been neatly
put into place. It's a mental exercise that distracts me from thinking about other, less
pleasantthings.As the train pulls toward 14th street a man in the station removes his Breguet
watch, places it carefully on the the nearest bench, and walks slowly toward the edge of
the platform.
part 3 . . .
It happens too fast for anyone to react. He just walks to the edge of the track and takesanother
step. Whatever sound his body makes on impact is inaudible, buried beneathhigh-pitched grind
of the brakes as the train shudders to a stop. If there is blood no onesees any, nor is there a mark
where the body hits.The people on the platform look at each other as if to confirm that what they
have just witnessed has actually happened. A woman holds her hand over her mouth. Some kids
dance around in excitement. The subway attendant hardly looks up from the pile of onesshe is
counting. "Stupid people." she thinks, "Everyone's gotta be inconvenienced now."I fall into the
guy next to me when the train stops short. We don't know what ishappening, just that something
is wrong. By the time they get us off the train the policeare already there. There must be a mess
somewhere but none of us see anything. The guy just sort of vanished from sightlike some
tired magic trick. The watch is already gone, probably before the body hit the train: In some kid's
pocket out on the street by now.I am going to be late now . . .
part 4 . . .
It's hot outside: The kind of heat that can only build up in New York City in mid-summer.Air
conditioners drip endlessly and push stuffy air into the streets. Men in expensive dark suits pull
sticky collars off of their necks and think wistfully of their younger days on beaches along the
Jersey Shore. Everything comes with a price, even success, and everytrade wears our sharp edges
down a little more until we can no longer cut through the lifearound us and escape through the
hole we've made.I am pressed for time, but only as far as a kid from Nebraska can feel pressed.
The guywill still be there, even if he is a little annoyed that I am late. Most of us wait our
entirelives for people who never show up anyway.I think about the subway conductor, and what
sort of look flashed across his face when hesaw the guy walk off the platform. Maybe he didn't
even see him, perhaps he was lookingdown at his own watch and just heard the sound of steel
and flesh coming together. WhenI read about the whole thing in the paper later I note that no one
had seen the man's face.I hop in a cab and read the address to the driver . . .
part 5 . . .
The cab inches its way downtown in a typical glut of city traffic. I stare out the window atthe
sweaty peds. Most of them looked pressed, as if they are running late for someappointment
or other.I read the driver's license posted on the plexiglass divider in front of me. Last name
first,Pascal Manuel. Manuel is listening to some sort of French talk show on the radio. Thehost
sounds irritated by something, or maybe that's just how he always sounds. It's hard totell when
you can't understand the language. I decide to go with the assumption that he isirritated. It seems
a safe bet: If he had no conflict there would be little reason for him to pontificate over the
airwaves.I came to the conclusion, years ago, that communication is nothing but a series of little
conflicts that can only hope to be resolved by the conscious goodwill of the involved parties.
Even then, with the best of intentions and a practiced patience, resolution is atough go: Entropy
is always present, ready to bring down a house over the most irrelevantmisunderstanding.
Without a good deal of luck, we don't stand a chance.As I listen to the driver mutter endlessly
into his cell phone, I become conscious of anerratic movement on the sidewalk to my right. It has
been bobbling in the corner of myeye for a moment. I turn my head to see a woman with a
shopping cart ramming a paththrough the crowd. She is not of this world, and therefore does
not feel obliged to followits social customs. She bullies her way along the sidewalk leaving a
bruised and irritated public in her wake. I do not have a chance to see her eyes before she turns a
corner, so Iam left wanting. The eyes are everything in trying to figure out motive."This is good,
I'll get out here," the cab driver pulls to the corner still muttering into his phone and I push a ten
into his palm. I figure I can walk about as fast as the cab ismoving and I am beginning to get
impatient with the traffic. I open the door at the samemoment that a bike messenger decides to
take a shortcut between my cab and thesidewalk."HEY, FUCK YOU!"I'm not in the mood to bite . .
.
part 6 . . .
I stare at the messenger for a calculated moment before responding. "That's not even alane man."
His response seems to indicate that he disagrees with my assessment . . ."Fuck you bitch. I
should kick your ass."I look at him a little sideways and can't help but smile, not because I don't
think he has achance of said asskicking, but because I really don't believe it is in his best interest
to bother. I step over the back wheel of his bike onto the sidewalk and leave him with a"You'll
live."I make my way south down Bowery, weaving around slower peds, and try to guess
howirritated the guy will be when I finally arrive. I would call at this point had I bothered tosave
his number: It was a careless of me not to bother, but I am careless sometimes.Canal streettime
to head west. I plan on grabbing the W. It will get me there sooner than walking. I make it about
two blocks when I notice the woman with the shopping cart pushing her way through traffic on
Canal.
part 7 . . .
I stop and stare at shopping cart lady. Angry drivers are leaning out windows and screaming at
her. If she had waited another 5 seconds she would have gotten the walk sign, but in her mind
she must figure that she has earned the right of way indefinitely.I wait for the light to change and
cross over to her side. She has pushed her way acrossCanal and is back on the sidewalk now
plowing a jagged path through the sweatycrowd. Shopping cart lady is tricky to followI slip
into her broken wake and try to keep pace. I really just want one good look at her face. Everyone
comes from somewhere and Iam curious. She has obviously gone too far and I want to know
what has freed her, or expelled her as the case may be.Going too far in life is the biggest gamble.
You might be rewarded for your honesty andinsight, or you might find yourself an exile, packing
bags in the middle of the night. Ihave gone too far on more than one occasion, and I am still
uncertain as to whether I havegained or lost for my efforts. At this point I would have to call it a
draw, but of course Iam not done. There is hidden treasure out there and I have every intention of
unearthing iteven if I have to break some irrelevant set of rules.Shopping cart lady doesn't see
the truck, or perhaps she figures it will give way: She is jammed under the front bumper when I
catch up to her. Her cart has rattled off into theintersection and flipped over onto its side. The
driver jumps out of the truck looking more pissed off than worried. He has the green light, but
running over pedestrians is always atouchy legal affair.He and a few of us stand over the lady
to assess the situation. If she is in pain she makesno indication. She just stares blankly at us
as we stare at her. I dial 911 and tell them thesituation and intersection. They try to keep me
on the phone but I hang up, I want tofocus on the lady.She is young, maybe 30, and not
unattractivedirty, yes. I stare at her eyes, they are of the palest blueeerie, threatening, cold
eyes. I want to reach down and touch her hand but there is a loud guy yelling at us to keep back:
The old "give her air" theory that noone can prove works, but that we follow on social
custom.Her mouth is moving, but she makes no sound. Her teeth are nice, straight. Most
likelyshe has worn braces as a kid. I pull my eyes away from hers and look over at the cart. It
islying on canal with it's contents half spilled out. I go over and gather her things, put thecart
upright, and roll it near her. She points to the cart and her mouth moves. I can hear the sirens
now . . . I point at different items in the cart, hoping that she will nod when Ifind what she is
looking forif she is looking for anything at all. No luck, she just stares blankly at each item as
I hold it up.I'm not sure what I expect to find, something a little magical; something that
mightcomfort her; or something that will help explain why this woman exists as she does . . .The
cops are here nowthe sirens and the noise. I wander away from the scene with lessinformation
than I had hoped to get.
Part 8 . . .



I walk west, lost in thoughts of shopping cart lady and her cold blue eyes.So many people come
in and out of our lives, thousands of them, and yet so few leaveany sort of impression. In the
most rare and special cases they collide into us with suchforce that they leave a part of
themselves with us, ingrained. We hope that what is left benefits us, some learned knowledge or
acquired trait that gets us one step closer towhere we want to be. Sometimes though the collision
leaves nothing but a jagged hole a painful setback and a reminder that people are not as
generous or kind as we had hoped.I have recently experienced a different kind of collision, one
that fell in to neither category. Nothing of value left behind, and no gaping puncture to nurse.
Just a slowdraining of vitality and muddling of instincts. The touch of cold words, exchanged
inhollow breaths of a long-stoked malice and practiced self-loathing. Eyes grown wide,slowly
focusing on the physical presence of hate hovering between us.
Too far gone, thisis a dangerous mistake,
I thought to myself as it came to an end. Something from nothingleaves nothing.What sort of
collisions has shopping cart lady endured in her life, I wonder. She seems soremoved from this
world. Perhaps people have just bounced off her, leaving no trace, andshe has gone through life
untouched, a closed circuit.
part 9 . . .
I walk down the steps into the blistering heat of the subway hoping that the train will bewaiting
for me. I get lucky, it's pulling up as I pass through the turnstile. I sit down acrossfrom a
businessman who looks as if he is about to have a heart attack. His face is flushed purple and he
is sweating profusely through his shirt. I nod at him and make a commentabout the heat. He
wipes his face nods back in agreement.I get off at Whitehall and pull the guy's business card out
of my pocket. One Whitehallstreet. I make my way north looking for the address and wonder
what the guy looks like.He sounded a little squeaky on the phone, I picture him on the short side,
probably ingood shape for his age, and probably balding. One Whitehall Street: It is a short
glass building, one of those types you find in the city that look as if they were designed to
betaller than they ended upa skyscraper with a thyroid condition."Hi, I'm here to see
Ken Birkman." The security guard looks up from his magazine and points toward the elevator.
"Fourteenth floor, right hand elevator." His eyes drop quickly back to his magazine, something
about cars, Motor Trend perhapsSleek expensive toysthat rich men play with and poor men
daydream about. "Thanks."As I ride the elevator I notice that there is no thirteenth floor. I smile.
I am not asuperstitious person, but I find it charming how many others are. I am the person
in thecar who says "it's great that we haven't seen any cops out here," when the driver is doing85
with a beer in his lap. At some point I think I just started saying things like that to geta reaction
out of people. I don't believe in jinxes. I believe that you should assume you are going to win
the race before it starts and you should say it out loud to anyone withinearshot.Fourteenth floor,
it's a nice office, tasteful. There are real plants in the corners of the reception area and real art
hanging on the walls.Once I'm done looking around I begin to notice that there is something
strangehappening. There is no one at the reception desk and I can hear a panicked
soundingconversation coming from somewhere down the hall. I sit down and flip through
amagazine, trying to make out the conversation. In about five minutes the receptionistcomes out.
She doesn't notice me at first. She heads to her phone and starts dialing beforeshe sees me."Hi.
I'm here to see Ken Birkman. I'm a little late, had some trouble with the subway."She is
distracted, she looks back down the hallway before responding. "Mr. Birkman isn'tin . . .
something happened."My first reaction is relief, I figure I've gotten lucky, it doesn't matter that
I'm late. "Oh,sorry to hear that," I get up from the chair, "I can reschedule with him."She looks
exasperated. "No. You can't. There was an accident . . . He's dead." She turnsaway and walks
back down the hallway. I stare at her back until she disappears through adoorway. I turn
and walk slowly toward the elevator. The doors open right awaythe car has not moved since I
got off. As I ride down to the lobby, I wonder who will take theguy's place.