The Second Avenue Line

Nathan rides the subway. And his apartment burns up.

The Second Avenue Line

Someone threw a bottle of gasoline with a burning rag stuffed in its throat through the window of Nathan's second story apartment. He wasn't home; he was in the bar downstairs watching himself on TV.

“The push to make witchcraft a convictable, criminal offense has its roots,” his face was saying on the big screen behind the bar, “in the Satanic Ritual Abuse scare of the 1980’s, but this is a far more serious and synchronized effort....”

The good part was coming up, but it was impossible to ignore the crowd gathering on the sidewalk and he came out to join them, squinting up at the leaping orange glow. Everyone had questions -- what is that? Is that fire? Anyone know whose place that is?

That's my place, Nathan said. That's my home. I'm burning up, up there.

He told the police the same thing when they arrived.

“Mr. Bennet,” the detective asked him, “is there anyone you can think of who wants to hurt you?”

Tons of people, Nathan said. He showed the man his phone -- an endless scroll of posts making illiterate death threats and then, when word got out, celebrating the attack with evil glee. The only problem, they said, was that he hadn't been home at the time. Bad luck! But surely someone would try again soon, right?

Nathan felt the man staring at him in muted disbelief.

“I did a story on, um, witchcraft,” he explained. “There's a congressman who wants to make it a, uh, crime? Sort of? My story wasn't very flattering. I said that the whole SRA thing is pretty much a hysterical delusion and they didn't like that. A lot of people are angry with me.” They called him a pedophile ‘satanist Stasi servant’” of the deep state. They couldn’t wait until the laws were passed and he could be locked up for spreading his deviltry-lies.

“Mr. Bennet,” the detective said, “I suggest you find a place to stay for a few nights. And I suggest you don't tell anyone where you're going.”

“Yeah,” Nathan said. “I had the same idea.”

It was a cool night. In a few hours it would be cold; he wasn't sure where to buy a coat at this late hour but for now, he didn't need one. He went for a walk and as he walked, he reflected on things lost: His digital press award. The suit he wore to his father's funeral. A photo album from back when those were still a thing. A shelf of dog-eared books he had counted among his most treasured possessions. The high thread count sheets Jen had bought when she moved in, and left when she moved out in May, not quite a year ago.

Call Matt, he told himself. Tell him you need a place to crash for a few days.

Maybe you should call Jen, his brain said.

And tell her what? Ask her what? Tell her he was okay? Fine. Good even. But he’d assured her, back when they were together, that the legions of people who hated him existed only on the Internet and posed no real threat to their flesh-and-blood physical existence. That was mostly true, but it obviously wasn’t the whole truth: sometimes the Internet spills out into reality and sets your drapes on fire.

It’s better if she hears about all this from you, his brain said, but he’d been drinking since this afternoon and he wasn’t sure he could trust his brain. He’d made that mistake before.

Call her in the morning when you’re sober, some more muted, distant part of him recommended, and while that sounded like good advice it was hard to be sure.

I’m going to figure this out. His aimless wandering had brought him north, all the way to Barclay’s Center, and he stood before the modern Colosseum, staring up at its lights and animate digital images, and then he found a place that would let him sit and think, so long as he ordered a drink. Perfect; another drink or so was just what he needed to get to the bottom of this.

Freshly fortified, he typed a long message into his phone that explained everything. He was okay. They just wanted him dead, but they were too disorganized to be serious about it. He was sorry about her sheets. He was sorry about everything. He missed her, and he was in free-fall without her, but he understood she couldn’t just be with him and watch as he kept plunging into the darkness. Oh, and the houseplants she’d left for him to care for and water, so he’d have something to nurture as he fought for his sobriety were all consumed in the inferno.

Then he deleted it. Maybe better to do this with a voice call, his brain whispered to him from far away on a noisy, long-distance, payphone line. When you’re not shitfaced, it said before it hung up.

Cohen, his editor and boss, texted him and asked if he was okay; he left Cohen on read.

“You’ll get blow-back for this,” Cohen had warned him earlier when they were thinking about not putting his face and his name all over the piece.

“You feel bad about putting me out there, boss?” Nathan had said it like it was a joke, but Cohen was aware of the cumulative effect Internet Hate had on Nathan; he’d watched the man almost drown.

210 unread messages on social media, his phone told him. Now 217. Now 242. He made the mistake of looking at one and it was a picture of him walking away from his apartment, asking if anyone had a better current location for Nathan Bennet.

Time to get moving.

He called Matt. “Hey, Matt... I have a huge favor to ask.”

“Sure,” Matt said. “Of course. You can crash on the couch any time. I'll make it up for you.”

Good old reliable Matt. Now it was time to get there, out into the dull middle-class mundanity of Queens where Matt lived. One more puzzle to solve. The Barclays Center arena was blessed with an abundance of subway lines but none of them seemed quite lame enough to take him directly to Forest Hills.

You’re like a goddamn tourist, he scolded himself, staring at the map, having it refuse to make sense. People are looking! They’re laughing, Nathan! They’re laughing at you!

What about the 5 line? something in the darkness behind his eyes asked. You could take the 5, right?

But that was stupid. The 5 didn’t go to Queens. It went north. Up into northern Manhattan and then on to the Bronx. The 5 was Jen’s line. The train to her sister’s apartment on 125th Street. But you’re not going to see Jen, Nathan. You’re going to see Matt.

Get with the fucking program.

Nathan concentrated, forcing the universe into order. Take the Q, he told himself. Switch over to the R at 57th street. R goes all the way to 71st Ave, Queens. You’ll be at Matt’s place in just under an hour. Easy peasy.

I can do this. His confidence rose as the black-on-orange Q train rattled into the platform and he stepped onto it, self-assured, like the authentic New Yorker he was. Perfect. It was warm in the car and -- thank God -- there was an empty seat. He settled into it and felt the doors close as the car began to shudder gently, accelerating into the darkness.

I’ll just rest my eyes for a minute. Not long. And anyway, 57th street is forever away. I’ll be sharp and aware well before we’re anywhere close to it. He let the heaviness settle into him. Safe and toasty and rocked into peace by the low rumble of the train, his mind wandered to more pleasant things and distant memories.

A moment passed.

“This is the last stop on this train,” a cheerful, automated voice said, “everybody please leave the train.”

The hell? There was the weird, disorienting feeling of coming awake suddenly in a place he wasn’t supposed to be. Embarrassing. He blinked and sat up. All the lights were on. The car was empty.

Where am I?

The end of the line, Nathan. He struggled up to his feet. Crap. He needed to go back? He needed to... the sign outside said 125th Street.

Jen’s street!

But counterpoint, Nathan, that’s impossible.

The Q doesn’t go to 125th street. It stops on 96th Street. The Second Avenue line was never finished. He grimaced through cotton-mouth fatigue and fog and closed his eyes.

Count to three. Focus. Open.

The sign still said 125th. All doors gaping wide: You don’t have to go home, Nathan, but you can’t stay here.

Nathan stepped out onto the platform and found it utterly deserted the way a subway platform might be in the early, vacant hours of the morning. Was it late? It felt late. It felt terribly late.

This can’t be right. He walked slowly, through the unfamiliar station, trying to make it respond to reason. It looked new. Clean. Sparkling, even. Had they finished the second avenue extension? And... not told anyone? Had he somehow missed that?

Nathan took the escalator up to ground level. His phone said it was 9:46 PM. Not even midnight? Where the hell was everyone? He pushed through the turnstile out into the frigid spring night.

He was braced for empty streets and nothing but the muted sound of the wind. A 28-Days Later nightmare. Maybe zombies? Maybe he’d fallen asleep on the train and awoken after a nuclear war?

But no. As the night air hit his face, so did the light and noise. The streets were full of cars and the bars and restaurants filled with people. Everything was lit up, turned on, bright and merry. There was music and laughter and the vibrant sound of communal joy.

Normal, Nathan. Everything’s normal. You just fell asleep like a drunk moron on the subway and you need to call Matt and tell him you missed your stop and you’re on your way.

But wait. He stood on the corner and saw two cabs with their welcoming ‘available’ rooflights on. Was that ‘normal?’ A young group of people sitting by the glass laughing animatedly as they toasted some good fortune. Did that feel right? Somebody loud, a half a block ahead of him, singing? Normal?

Jen’s place was a couple of blocks away. He was literally right there.

I'm not going to talk to her, he reminded himself. Showing up at Jen's place (Jen's sister's place) unannounced would be a gross violation of their unspoken agreement. He wasn't planning to do that.

What, then?

Coffee. No more booze. Time to give caffeine a chance.

There used to be a diner across the street from her apartment -- the apartment she had shared with her sister when they'd met a few years back, and the apartment she was living in again, since she’d left his place last Spring, unable to watch him spiral into despair.

The Alcyone. Classic Greek diner. Always open. A menu as thick as an encyclopedia volume.

And, of course, endless black coffee for as long as you needed it.

I’m not going to disturb her peace. He'd sit at the cracked Formica counter and order a cup and pretend, for a few minutes, that it was 2018 and they were dating, and he was waiting for her to get off work so they could spend their evening together.

Back then, she’d come down, and they’d sit in one of the Alcyone’s booths and relate the news of their day, starting with the mundane little dramas of work and friends and then maybe taking off into more fanciful realms of philosophy, or imagination... or dreams of a future that seemed replete with shining possibility.

So, sure. That was then. Tonight? He'd drink his coffee and then he'd go. Back to the subway, down to 51st Street, and east, out to Forest Hills, where Matt had a sofa waiting for him. He’d return to his regular life, where 62 new people wanted him dead because Thou Shalt Not Suffer a Witch To Live.

Of course none of this would happen. The Alcyone had closed some unknown time ago, a victim of the pandemic, probably. Jen had related that sad news to him when she had gotten re-settled at her sister’s place. A chunk of their shared past evaporating as time marched relentlessly on.

So what then? What did he expect to see when he rounded the corner? A hardware store? An empty bay with nothing but plywood and dust? And yet the night seemed pure and hopeful so he plodded on, turning onto her familiar street... And there it was!

The Alcyone, as eternally open and in-business as ever! Warm and lit up! Suffused with the inviting amber light it had always called him in with. Joy! New management, he guessed?

Whatever the mechanism behind this miracle of resurrection, it was a welcome sight and he pushed through the door, out of the chill. Feeling better already, Nathan?

Better already. Everything was as it should be. They had the same counter with the same stool at the end where, if he sat and turned to his left, he could see Jen's window up on the 4th floor across the street. He couldn't see in, of course, but if she was up and about, he could catch a glimpse of movement sometimes. Little hints of her he'd watched for in the past, waiting patiently for her to change after work, so he could call her and let her know he was downstairs only after she was ready, and without giving her any idea of exactly how long he’d been waiting.

Now, just as then, her light was on, which was no surprise. Was she laying on her bed streaming something on her iPad? Maybe she was at her desk doing email. He imagined calling her -- telling her what happened... Would she want to know? Would she be mad at him if he didn't call her? I didn't want to worry you, he'd explain. But would that do it?

Don’t be a fucking idiot, Nathan. Text her. He typed in a simple, appropriate message: I'm okay. Got some ‘fan mail’ tonight. Staying with Matt. If you hear anything, don't worry; I'm fine.

He was about to hit send, when something intruded on his awareness and he looked up and there, outside, across the street, a man in a rumpled overcoat had walked up to the front door of her building and stood at the metal panel buzzing someone inside to let them know he’d arrived.

There was nothing particularly notable about that, except maybe that the man’s coat was beige.

Beige, and was it a Cortefiel rain-coat? Just like the one he had back when he’d been coming here as much as their blossoming relationship would allow?

What were the odds?

The odds, Nathan thought, were that rain-coat guy needed a haircut. And a better posture. The gentleman caller was slouching more than he needed to. Trying to appear small?

Did he know this fellow? He seemed awfully familiar, and as Nathan tried to figure out what, exactly, he was looking at, the light in her apartment window went out. Nathan stared at the dark window. He’d seen the light there go out before -- when she turned it off on her way out to come meet him.

But why now? Was she coming to meet slouch-guy? Had he buzzed her apartment -- this guy in his worn overcoat who looked like a reporter. Or maybe who looked like someone trying just a little too hard to look like a reporter?

More coffee, sir?

Nathan nodded. More. There was a mystery here, right? It was, maybe, unclear who the guy was but there was no question, when she emerged, who he had buzzed. Jen came out and hugged him, a casual, familiar little hug-hello. Overcoat man, Nathan decided, responded with more enthusiasm than strictly necessary. Cringe, buddy. Needy.

But she didn’t notice, or maybe she did and she pretended not to.

They were walking over, now, coming to the Alcyone as expected. He'd been working late at the newsroom, Nathan guessed. She'd been doing whatever mysterious things Jens did when they were off by themselves. Now they were together to share the bounty of their day--stories of their lives to amuse, connect, and inspire. Triumph. Tragedy. Comedy. Drama.

They were, of course, oblivious to him as they came in. Jen was talking, trying to make sense of something in her office politics. A story of mediocre middle management and the frustrations they evoked. She was entranced by the puzzle of her own story, but the Nathan who walked with her was sober and alert and, after all, had good instincts for things out of joint.

That Nathan, the new-Nathan, saw Nathan at the bar immediately and acknowledged him with a very slight nod. Well, his face said, this is awkward.

He was a quick-thinking Nathan, Nathan thought. He steered Jen away from the bar to a booth up front, and he took the seat facing Nathan so her back was to him.

They sat for a moment, still talking, while Jen finished her explanation and then she excused herself to go wash her hands.

Nathan hunched over his steaming coffee, avoiding eye contact, and when she vanished down the narrow stairs, he and the other Nathan stood up at almost exactly the same moment. They waited uncertainly, each pausing to allow the other to make his move and finally Nathan took the initiative. He walked over to the booth.

“Rough night?” Booth-Nathan was concerned.

“Firebomb,” Nathan said. “Top-shelf Molotov. I wasn't home, so...” He shrugged. “Just my stuff.”

“The books!” Booth-Nathan looked stricken.

“The cops will let me back in over the weekend to assess the damage,” he said, “but yeah. Between the fire and the fire department, I think it's pretty much a total write-off.”

“I'm... So sorry to hear that,” Booth-Nathan said.

“Occupational hazard,” Nathan assured him. “At least in my occupation.”

“Dystopia beat,” Booth-Nathan nodded. “I bet.”

“What do you do?”

“Mostly finance stuff,” Booth-Nathan said. “Still pretty grim but less of the lunatic fringe.”

“Not so fringe these days.” Nathan — both Nathans — knew the numbers: thirty to fifty percent of the country believed something crazy that justified violence. Depending on how you count it, that could be more than seventy percent. A for-real, emergent, American-grown fascism, spreading like a virus, unchecked because no one can really imagine it could happen here. “You’d rather cover Wall Street?”

“I couldn’t do what you do,” Booth-Nathan said. “I’d...” he shook his head. “I’d cave in. Implode. I’d lose everything.” I’d lose Jen.

Yes, Nathan thought. You would.

“It's important work,” Booth-Nathan acknowledged. “Necessary work. What’s happening out there needs to be covered. Exposed. It needs a witness. I guess that’s important.” He glanced at the door to the stairwell. “Does it have to be you?”

“Is that who you are?” Nathan wanted to know. “Me from another timeline? Me who saw the waterfall of crazy out there and chose to do something else?”

“Look,” Booth-Nathan said, “I'm as confused by this as you are, okay? But I'm pretty sure I'm not the one who shouldn't be here. So.” He rubbed at his eyes as if he were tired. “What were you doing instead of being home to get burnt alive?”

“Getting drunk,” Nathan admitted. It wasn't much of an admission; he was still more than a little blitzed. “They're bringing back literal witch trials in Florida. Spectral evidence. Recovered memories. The whole nine yards.” He shook his head. “So many voters are convinced satanists are abusing kids. Doing animal sacrifices. It's like the eighties greatest hits but now with active authoritarianism behind it.”

“I did a whole thing on the people pushing this -- the politicians, the TikTok witch hunters.... They ran it up tonight on the seven o’clock news. My face, my name. Evidence of actual, criminal activity -- harassment, conspiracy. People are going to jail, probably. I was celebrating.”

“Sounds like an incredible story,” Booth-Nathan agreed. And he couldn’t keep the slight edge of regret out of his face. Regret and maybe a little professional jealousy.

“If I'd been home,” Nathan said, “I might be dead. If Jen had still been living with me... in the apartment...” that I’d assured her was safe...

“I don't think you can have both of them,” Booth-Nathan told him. “I thought a lot about this... I couldn’t see a way through. You fight the good fight... and you end up in the awful darkness with the people who wallow in it. Or you do normal people things with normal people. You live a normal life.”

He glanced at the door, sure to open at any moment. “I don't think Jen can exist in your world. I'm not... I'm not even sure it's fair to ask her to.”

“Or maybe she's a big girl,” Nathan snapped, “and she can make her own damn decision.”

“What did she decide?”

Fair point. “I haven’t been handling the stress very well,” Nathan admitted. “Drinking. Getting depressed. I took a leave of absence from work,” I’m imagining fictional subway stops that only exist on maps of the improbable future, he didn’t say. “Anyway, she didn't need to be around for me getting drunk every night. I'm working on it. I...” He looked around the cozy little place. “Can I say ‘hi’ to her?”

Booth-Nathan nodded. “You might as well.” She was back.

“Nathan?” Jen looked, in all fairness, completely confounded. “... Nathans?” Plural.

“My cousin,” Booth-Nathan said. And then in the quizzical, expectant silence as she waited to be introduced, “He's also named Nathan.”

Oh.

Nathan stood and extended a hand. “It's super confusing around Christmas,” he said.

Jen looked more than a little suspicious.

“He's also a reporter,” Booth-Nathan told her, resolutely failing to come up with a decent cover story. “His beat is the really crazy stuff going on out there. It's wild. Death threats. Fascism. Conspiracy theory. His apartment got firebombed tonight --”

“Oh my God! Are you okay?”

“I wasn't home,” Nathan assured her. “Just lost some things.”

She nodded. She kept studying his face. “Are you two...”

“We think we might have been identical twins separated at birth," Nathan said.

“Part of a study or something,” Booth-Nathan concurred.

She was too polite to call them both obvious liars. Then it turned out she had something to say after all. “Nathan,” she said. Clarified: “my Nathan, covered some of that stuff. Ten years ago. During Obama? I guess it was just getting started... even back then It was really stressful. It messed him up.”

Nathan nodded. “It's... Dark. And yes. Stressful. That’s a good way to put it.”

“I was really worried about him,” she said. “Are you... Okay? Do you have someone? To take care of you?”

“I'm on my own right now,” Nathan admitted, “but I’m... working on it.” He nodded. “I don’t... I’m not sure it’s fair to anyone to expect them to be with me for what I’m in the middle of.”

Booth-Nathan, had arrived at the same conclusion; nodded in agreement.

“Have you considered doing something else?” Jen asked quietly.

“All the time,” Nathan said, “but...” He took a deep breath. “I’m good at this. I... I can’t stop what’s happening, but I can fight back. I guess if it’s war someone has to fight it. To chronicle it. To witness it, if nothing else. Some of those people are going to get hurt.” He shook his head. “Tonight was a bad night for me, but I think... it was a good night for the side of decency and sanity. I might have made a bit of a difference. A little.”

She nodded. “Maybe you need a friend right now more than a romantic partner?”

“I’ve got friends,” he told her. Them. “In fact, I’ve got one waiting for me right now. He’s made up his couch.” Nathan laughed. “I should call him and tell him I’m on my way.”

“Do you know your way back?” Booth-Nathan asked quietly.

“Second avenue line,” Nathan said. He took a long sip. “Take care of yourselves,” he told them, standing. “Take care of her.” He went back to pay, and then he walked out into the night, feeling the lights dim behind him, and refusing to look back, for worry about what he might see.