Passing by

He was late for work. Shake off the pole as the train along the track-thin man in his forties, pale, clean shaven. It's a wedge between fellow travelers. A beggar relies meters anyone in particular, "Please, anything that can help."

He looks ahead to a young sitting in front of the car, dressed in black, with a pot. An endowment has been caught between the rods. Another train narrow ledge, just outside the glass, blurring the windows and faces. The driver is the next stop.

Power platform is the thin man on, down on the wet brick is a kick and threw it toward the stream. Raise your hand and called the woman. It does not seem to hear it, does not continue along its path. Continued strength, tear before it reaches the ditch. When the train leaves another explosion occurred in the opposite direction.

The beggar said, "Ladies and gentlemen, please."

The angle shoulders, as part of the crowd as he ascends the sidewalk. He sees the black woman, about to cross the street. He is so determined to catch up with her, giving her an envelope, is still in front of a bus from New York City, is sucked by a stranger.

"Jesus, man!" Beware! "

We see again after the bus passes. Then people down.

According to a revolving door of glass in the lobby of the new record in New York, Macmillan, call the elevator, but it lacks. He looks at his watch, he saw a man standing in front of large fireplace, his face turned away. The man wears a coat black and a towel at his feet. The bag may contain hardly defensible; papers excel in all directions. The man also looks at his watch.

The elevator strokes as their role to open the door steps and skinny, awkward in a woman who spilled hot coffee on him. He sees the figure by the fire spinning, as nurses in the burn. The elevator doors close. One woman told another: "Yes, we lost. Is not it terrible? All this effort just in the wrong direction!"

It jumps all, but as the elevator doors opened its roll, and the room quickly reviews from men. Rolls up sleeves, pouring cold water on the burn. He paused at the sink: The face in the mirror is thin, white, sickly. Run to his office.

A big roll in his chair in his path. "You, O'Malley?

O'Malley enters a small room full of potted plants and piles of paper. The plants do not look very good. He has not had the opportunity to sit down when a colleague brings another pile of papers. "I will put them on the ground," he said.

"Mmm" O'Malley said. He puts the envelope on his desk.

Their cries chair as he moved in hover your fingers over the keyboard. He gets up and goes to get the pitcher of water, with the intent to feed the plants, but only a few drops fall. He leans close to the glass. With rehabilitation, the city is stretched to the horizon, a little cloud, boxes in boxes.

He looks at the envelope. He picks it up and returns, he says, 'Wilshire Clinic.

Have the letter and its contents in petticab both hands and shakes along inch by inch through traffic. Plastic windows are dotted with water as he looks: the smoke, pedestrians and buses burping, residents of Manhattan with umbrellas and police dogs and beggars.

The sprints on the steps of the Wilshire and locate room 234, as the author of the letter, but paused in the doorway. There is a bed surrounded by a white plastic curtain. Beyond the window is small enough, it opens the shutter. Flowers and cards crowd at the door. A fresh breeze blows, ruffling petals, tossing the paper. The plastic curtain flaps.

It is opening and peeks inside.

A man was there, pale, sickly yellow cheeks collapsed, lost their hair. His eyes misted see Relics deep roof. It has multiple IVs, insert points are purple, swollen, and is connected to a computer network covered with plastic appliances, bags of saline. Feschner a book is placed on the belly, like a tent.

"Who is there, "says the man, not looking back. His breath comes and goes in uneven gasps.

"Nobody. I went through there. … I am a friend Christine."

"You are a friend … Christine?

"Yes. I wanted to give something. "

"Christine?

"Yes. I here.

Ragged gasps, coming and going.

"How is she?

"She's fine. She plans to come. When can. "

"That's good. That's good. What is it?"

"A letter.

A train whistle somewhere place outside the window, curtain, plastic rattles. "I can not read."

"I can read it for you."

"Okay.

"Do you mind if I go?

"Please."

He supports the shade, looking for a chair, and find a stool. He denies the curtains, pulling the nets feces on the floor, and headed man. The man rolls his eyes to see, show of hands, which is responsible for infusions, placed on the cold, grab bars in bold, chrome.

Dear Laurence, "O'Malley begins with the letter.

"You are a true friend Cristina? "

O'Malley raises his hand on the man.

Dear Laurence, begins again.

It puts control $ 7680 aa of the receptionist and left the clinic, but instead of calling a cab rides along the side of the building of the subway terminal. It's getting cold. He walks with his head bowed, hands in his pockets. Rainwater that flows along the channels and courses of streams. Some sewer rats scurry.

The wind picks up free newspapers and eddies in the air. He looks toward the window where the man feels the breeze in the curtains. The wind gets up as he looks around to the threat, the gray towers and columns of steam in tanks on the roofs and chimneys angle chaotic.

Descend into the terminal. Open the doors of the train, and roared advice as another passed in the opposite direction.

(c) Copyright 2008 by Wayne K. Spitzer

About the Author

Wayne Spitzer is an author, filmmaker, and teacher of writing from the Pacific Northwest. His genre work includes an SF/horror novel, Flashback (Books in Motion/Classic Ventures, 1993), the movies Shadows in the Garden (Indie-Flix, 2007) and Monstersdotcom (Brimstone LLC, 2003), and numerous low-budget television programs and ad spots. His non-genre work has appeared in Columbia: The Magazine of Northwest History, subTerrain, Micro-film: The Magazine of Personal Cinema in Action, and Generation X National Journal. Wayne teaches creative writing at Airway Heights Corrections Center and Corbin Art Center in Spokane, Washington.

Mr. Detail steam cleaning floor mats.