Echo

Peter came out of work with his mind in something of a fog; there was a light drizzle, and it was a cold rainy night in downtown Manhattan. He was on his way to a subway stop, walking, taking the back way, around behind his building and toward the river, in order to avoid occupy protesters who crowded the main streets near his building. You trade a little more danger, he thought, for the opportunity to not have those occupy protestors in your face asking for change, one kind or another. Better to stay away from them altogether. Peter was a futures trader, which meant that he was somewhat removed from real money or real goods. As he explained it to his girlfriend, a futures trader used to trade only on the futures of real goods, like corn, which made it possible to gamble on the future price of corn; behind this gamble, however, was a real bushel of corn which one could, in one’s mind, at least see, even if it were never in fact delivered anywhere. Now that futures trading involved mostly currencies, and other unreal “commodities,” Peter felt more and more like it was pure gambling, with no bushel of corn anywhere if he actually lost or won. Thus one of his biggest concerns with his new job (he’d had it for about two years) was this sense of alienation from real things, and even real consequences of his actions. He would sometimes sense that something he did made his company big money, or lost it, but he often didn’t see it, or felt like he was getting a quick “thanks” or a nod instead of gaining or losing a pocketful of corn.

The subway was about eight blocks from his building, and about three blocks into the walk he came to a wooden tunnel created by a construction company that was remodeling a building. This tunnel was the one place which was somewhat sheltered from the noise of the cars on the wet road, the horns, the sounds of the city, the drizzle. His footsteps on the wood echoed off its walls. Walking in Manhattan required intense concentration and awareness of danger from all angles, yet still allowed him the freedom of letting his mind wander that he could never use at work or, for that matter, with his girlfriend. The people always had a sense of exaggerated and suppressed emotion, as if they hurried through the night as terrified as he was of every stranger. He’d peer at them from within his winter coat and feel miles away from them in every way; what kind of life did they lead? Why were they in such a hurry?

His girlfriend, Shana, was a fashion designer, and they had a bit of a communication gulf between them when they tried to describe their lives. Her view was that one’s clothes should always reflect one’s mood, and it seemed to Peter that she saw things he could never see in, for example, a black dress with an elegant cut, or even someone’s winter coat. To him, there wasn’t much to it, he cared more about practicality than style and he dressed accordingly, though he always felt it was acceptable to those around him. To her, there was always way more to it than met the eye, and she would look at these same strangers on the street with all kinds of observations that Peter could never understand or relate to. Their conversations had these gulfs in perception even when they walked around together, or took a cab. It had reached the point where their jobs were almost off-limits in their conversations, because discussing them highlighted the gulf between their perceptions. She didn’t want children, at least right away; something she’d said made him feel she thought that would make things worse. They lived their lives in a kind of suspended and animated tension.

He realized, suddenly, that he had forgotten some flowers that he had gotten for Shana; he’d set them down at the office in a corner, and walked off without them. He turned back to get them, realizing that he would now be a little late, and that he’d risk, again, encountering occupy protesters at every corner, asking perhaps for a dollar for a carton of milk. The extra exposure to them aggravated him the most. They were universally despised at his office (“What do you call a puddle near an occupy protester? Target practice”), even though many of them had left for the winter, but they got under Peter’s skin, precisely because they lived at the level of one dollar, one small carton of milk, while he was trading in thousands of dollars in yen futures, using a language so removed from theirs as to be useless anywhere outside of his trading exchange. And he was, in fact, living off the system, pulling his income out of the constant flow of money in such a way that he could hardly call it anything but pure gambling on the feelings of people about the value of their own money.

He had grown up in small-town Missouri, with hardly a chance to make big money at all, unless you bought up a bank or a big farm, or had connections, and he had always been attracted to the big city life, the fast cars, the taxis, the fine restaurants, but most of all, the opportunity. Trade futures, make the big buck, push your weight around, this is what he’d lived for the last few years. Yet out on the street, looking at people walking quickly with their heads down, he felt the gulf between worlds. Cabs sped by with someone inside them, peering out. People stood on the street waving for cabs that wouldn’t stop.

Back in the little construction tunnel, he saw suddenly that a woman blocked the path, just standing there, watching him approach. She was clearly an occupy protester, in a shawl, unwashed, uncombed hair reflecting the city lights, clear eyes looking right at him. And sure enough, she asked for a dollar for a carton of milk. But she was pregnant, and this is what actually blocked his path; he had trouble fitting past her. He stopped and reached into his pocket for a dollar; he couldn’t argue, even to himself, that she’d use it for anything besides milk. A dollar for the baby, he thought, and looked at her. She had that feeling that emanates from pregnant women that can’t be ignored; for a moment, they were alone in the wooden echo-chamber tunnel and he could smell her breath, watch her heart beat. The thoughts that raced through his head came to a crushing stop, and he could feel his own heart as well. She moved a little in order to let him pass, but her gaze held his. She seemed to know, even in a moment, all his discomfort with his own life, his own self. He at the same time was taken aback by her life, her baby her precarious situation, which he could only guess about.

More taxis on the street, more puddles splashing up toward the tunnel, though they were sheltered a little from the noise. He touched her hand as he gave her a dollar, but said nothing else. He had to keep moving, he thought; he was late for the subway, and he had places to go that night. Her image, though, stuck with him most of the evening, and made him question what he was doing with his life, walking around these streets. The sounds of the city faded, and he quickened his pace.