The Numbers (Fiction – Part One of Two)

Today’s post is the first half of a story that started out as Flash-ish Fiction but got a little long… I enjoy a little suspense in my reading, and if I do, I figure other people do too. If you don’t, I’m sorry – but I’m still only giving you half of the story today. Patience is a virtue, after all… (Teehee) The other half will be available tomorrow. I am not trying to annoy anyone or create artificial demand, honest. The story ended up running a little long for a blog post, so I decided to cut it in half and milk – oops, I mean, maximize – what I had by turning it into two posts. (Teehee again) Enjoy! 🙂

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The Numbers (Part One)

I am in the middle of the city when the numbers first appear. One minute I am waiting in line for my morning coffee – like every other morning – and thinking through the list of things I have to do before the week ends, picturing shopping lists, papers I still have to grade, and the ever-growing pile of laundry at home. Then, suddenly, superimposed over everything in my head I see numbers. Ten. Thirty. Double zero. Separated by colons.

I shake my head to try to clear it, figuring I must be visualizing something I have forgotten – some deadline or appointment. The numbers are still there. I close my eyes, rubbing them with my thumb and forefinger. When my eyes are closed the numbers disappear, but as soon as I open them back up, there they are again. Only now they are a little different: ten, twenty-nine, fifty-six.

I scan the coffee shop, trying to figure out what is going on. When I first opened my eyes I was facing the counter, which stands against a white wall. The numbers, which appeared in the upper right corner of my sightline, were black. As my eyes roam around the shop, passing over other people, the windows, and the closed door, I notice that the numbers change colors, so that they are visible in contrast against the background anywhere I look. Their position never changes, only the colors. As though they wanted to be sure that they were seen at all times.

I see the other people in the shop looking around too, confusion evident on every face. There is more than a little muttering and eyebrow-raising, and a lot of squinting and head-shaking. “What the…” “Do you see…” “Is it just me or…” The muttering is getting louder as people glance around and see looks of dismay echoed in each other’s eyes. Ten. Twenty-nine. Twenty-one.

I am next in line and, not knowing what else to do, I place my order. “An extra-large black please,” I say. “Do you see it too or am I just really under-caffeinated today?” I ask the girl behind the counter, with a small, nervous laugh, after I notice her staring off into space – upper, right-side space.

“Oh thank goodness,” the girl chirps, “you see them too! I was afraid something was wrong, you know, with my head?”

“Well, if something is wrong it’s wrong with me too,” I reply with a grin, feeling slightly less nervous now that I know I am not having a nervous breakdown or some sort of post-traumatic stress reaction to a missed parent-teacher conference or doctor’s appointment. Ten. Twenty-eight. Thirty-eight.

“You see numbers, too, right? And they keep changing? And I’m sorry, extra-large black, you said?”

“Yes, extra-large black. And yes, changing numbers.” I shift my attention to actually focus on the numbers for the first time since they appeared and notice the steady pace with which they change. I watch for a little while, before it hits me: “Hey, I think they’re counting down, like a timer!” Ten. Twenty-eight. Zero Six.

“Oh my gosh, you’re right!” Peggy (I just noticed counter-girl’s nametag) exclaims. “That’s so cool! What do you think it means? I mean, what’s going to happen when it hits all zeroes?”

A very good question, I think to myself; “I don’t know,” is what I reply though, as I try to keep my face blank. Ten. Twenty-seven. Fifty-five.

Truth is, I’m starting to get a little nervous. I don’t know what to make of this whole number thing, but one thing I do know is that I don’t think it’s cool. It’s too weird and random for cool. And I don’t trust weird and random. I blame it on books.

I’ve always been a reader. I love books – all kinds of books. I always have. That’s why I became an English teacher. I love stories – telling them, reading them, writing them – all kinds of stories. I always have. And if I’ve learned one thing in all my telling, reading, and writing it’s that weird and random things – while interesting to read about – rarely lead to happy endings. Ten. Twenty-six. Fifty-nine.

I take my extra-large black and head out of the coffee shop and toward school. I don’t want to make other people nervous, and won’t be able to keep blank face forever. If no one else is thinking scary thoughts, why should I? Maybe I’m overreacting. I mean, who knows, maybe Peggy’s right and it is cool. Maybe it’s not like a story at all. Maybe. Ten. Twenty-five. Forty-one.

I walk the three blocks to the Meyers School and push my way through the crowd of high schoolers milling about outside. Every morning, the same thing – all the kids jockey for position as far away from the double doors as possible. You’d think learning was a disease – and a contagious one at that – by the way they tried to avoid exposing themselves to it. Once inside, I wave to Mike the Security Guy (he always has a smile for me in the morning – I love that) and head to my classroom.

I am the lucky possessor of prime Meyers real estate. My classroom is the big one on the corner of the English and Science Halls. The wraparound windows provide a clear view of the pristine athletic fields on one side and the Green on the other. The Green is a kind of park in the middle of the school grounds, offering students and faculty a place to eat lunch or wait out study hall and parents, alumni, and donors a place to attend catered fundraisers. Given the tuition, I guess the kids and families are entitled to a pretty environment – they sure pay enough for it. Ten. Thirteen. Twelve.

From this point on, my day is pretty much a blur. Like every other day. I love my job. Don’t get me wrong – sometimes the kids drive me a little insane. They are teenagers, after all, and privileged ones at that. Occasionally I run into attitude, sure, but on the whole they are great kids who genuinely want to learn. Either that or they’re the greatest pathological liars on the planet. I teach four classes and am responsible for one lunch period and one study hall. I usually stick around after school for a couple of hours too, just in case any of my kids need a little extra help (or reassurance). Which means a nine-plus hour day or so. Zero Zero. Forty-two. Fifty-six.

As I walk home, the numbers seem to loom larger and to change faster. Back-of-the-envelope math (which even us English teachers can do) tells me that the numbers appear to be tracking time, which means that it is unlikely that they are actually moving faster. I don’t need a minor in psychology to understand that the numbers will seem larger and faster until they run out – although I have one. As well as a second minor in philosophy, which is not helping right now either, because it means I have given more thought than the average joe to the grand scheme of things and why we are here, and these thoughts are all roiling in my head as I watch the numbers continue to count down. Zero Zero. Thirty-eight. Thirty-seven.