The mustiness of the subway station reminded Naublus he was still on Earth. Sometime he forgot. Sometimes he would walk down the grey streets of Baltimore, and the gleaming sunset would transport him to the Sun, where it was nice and warm and comfortable and everyone shared food -- hummus, fried green tomatoes, chappati with cumin-sauteed potatoes, the finest Bordeaux red wines. In a most fleeting instant, he'd be on that brilliant ball, filled with nothing but light and warmth. And then -- plop! -- his cheek would scrape the wrinkly Baltimore sidewalk. "Reality, man," Naublus urged himself, "you've got to stay in reality."
All subway commuters saw of him was two pitifully beige, brown-splotched shoe soles sticking straight up like spring shrubs, forming a sort of trapezoid. At times, on their own account, the soles would liberate themselves from Naublus' shoes and glide towards the commuters, eventually hanging themselves on top of the subway doors. As the bankers, fast food workers, and random jays rushed into the airconditioned car, the soles slapped them on their foreheads. Of course, they would feel the sting much later on, when they were about to fall peacefully to sleep. Naublus had no idea this happened.
With a sad crack of his muscles, Naublus stood up, greeted the whoosh of the passing subway cars. Oh, the fresh air! Oh, morning, yes, come to Naublus, breathe in new strength to march the streets of Baltimore! Welcome back, Naublus, to life!
But what to eat? Naublus scrounged the spare platform for any bit of crystallized milk, sugar, ketchup, cheesesteak grease. No luck, only dust. He walked up the steps and down he plunged into Washington Heights, into Baltimore, into the United States of America. The first rays of sunlight shot through the clouds like needles piercing a scraggly old T-shirt. Naublus frowned. The sun did not radiate food. No, he was sure it didn't. He tried reaching for the light with his hands, wafting it into his mouth. It didn't fill him up, so onward, Naublus! Food is out there somewhere!
Out of the grey, a man resembling bamboo bumped into Naublus, breaking his slow, deliberate, yet dazed stride.
"What the hell's yer problem?" Grandma Pearl's grandson squealed.
Ding-dong. The doorbell of hunger resonated in Naublus's mouth. He pounced on the man, reaching -- yes! -- and clawing at the Chinese take-out box in his hands. With but a little struggle (the man immediately backed away), the Mongolian beef was all Naublus'. All Naublus', could you believe it?
Lady Liberty flew in, this time on a hot pink hovercraft and wielding a socker-bopper. She affectionately punched his head, softly.
"Ya did it, Naublus!" she smiled widely, her teeth, all with teeny mouths, smiling too. "I told you you'd be alright."
Heavy breathing and panting -- with tongue smacks mingled in -- were Naublus' response. He looked up, a blob of sauce suspended in the hair between his eyebrows.
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Several mornings had passed since the revolution. So many, in fact, that a layer of dust had begun to accumulate over Elizabeth's laptop. She hadn't touched the keys to success quite yet. She needed something — something that made it worthwhile to return to the story in which she despised her every move.
'It's like reading Jane Eyre the second time through,' she thought. 'As I watched her celebrate the life she had, I only wanted to rip my hair out for the despair I knew she was about to encounter, provoked by her companions.'
"But it makes the ending that much better," she said, reaching for her coat.
Elizabeth hadn't taken five steps from her apartment when she seemed to run into a wall — a tall and narrow wall apparently exiting from apartment 707.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Elizabeth smiled. She looked up at the man's gaunt face. He looked to be in the later half of middle age, or older. She couldn't tell. "Have we met before?" she inquired.
The man was silent.
"I'm Elizabeth Farraday," she said, extending her hand despite the chills running down her back. "It's nice to meet you."
"No," the towering man said, sternly and very matter of fact. "I'm sorry."
Elizabeth kept her smile long enough to escape the gentleman's presence, and hurried down the stairs.
Soon enough she was in the diner, and on her way to relieving a growling stomach. She'd skipped breakfast for pacing, and the night before, dinner was traded for a walk around the town. She was starving.
Sitting down, her leg began to fidget like it was dancing to Ain't That Just Like a Woman. She looked at the menu.
The waiter approached and asked if she'd seen the diner's specials. As she looked to the white board, it wasn't the specials that caught her eye — it was the quotation beneath it.
"Could you give me a minute?" Elizabeth inquired, extracting a pen from her pocket.
The waiter left.
"The man who writes about himself and his own time is the only man who writes about all people and all time," she read, copying the words onto a napkin. "George Bernard Shaw."
"Oh, you want the Shaw special?" The waiter asked, returning with a glass of water.
"No — a short stack of pancakes and a side of sausage would be great."
"Anything else to drink?"
"Tea."
The waiter began to walk away.
"Oh," Elizabeth began.
"Yes?" He returned.
"And I'd like to get a Shaw special to go."
"I'll have it ready with the check." He said, before departing.
Elizabeth had heard about Alex's encounter with some homeless guy. She knew it was bad, but she was sympathetic towards the hobo. There'd been a rumor going around that he lived in the train station. After breakfast, Elizabeth strolled over to the SMARTA station with the bag of hot breakfast in her hand and occasional raindrops falling on her head. As she viewed the station it looked to be empty ... almost.
"Hello," she called.
A man exited a train car in smoke and shadow. He appeared alone, as did the car - seemingly shoved off to the side.
"Did you have Mongolian Beef yesterday?" Elizabeth asked.
The man nodded and smiled.
"Then here," she said, handing over the Shaw special.
The man took the bag of food — astonished. He looked from Elizabeth to the bag, and then back to Elizabeth.
"Everyone deserves to eat." Elizabeth smiled, before she returned to the stairs.
As she looked down the street to her next destination, she groaned. She needed english muffins. That was it. She didn't need butter or bacon, soup or salad ingredients, or even coffee beans! No. Just english muffins - her staple breakfast food. To reach the grocery she would have to walk past Victoria Lampshade's stand - the most perturbing business with the most revolting products she had ever encountered. Elizabeth would be the first to admit she was the kind of Girl Scout who nursed wounded birds back to health. She was proud of it, too. Though the similarities between the animals she had helped and the ones ending up on Ms. Lampshade's stand were a tad too apparent. Just the thought of it made her shiver. Accordingly, Elizabeth sprinted down the sidewalk after crossing Baker Street.
She sighed as she entered the grocery store, and almost ran into a shiny show girl aiming to leave.
'Why,' Elizabeth objected in silence, as she viewed the woman's colorful attire. She paused. 'There's not even a show in Washington Heights!'
She turned away from the door.
'Today I'm writing,' she thought, 'while eating a pint of Cherry Garcia ice cream, drinking mugs upon mugs of hot tea, and maybe even watching Casablanca on the couch.' The weather made it so, not to mention her desperate need for rest.
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