Chapter One

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It’s amazing how lonely one can feel when standing in the middle of a crowd.

    It seems impossible, you know?  Loneliness and crowds are polar opposites.  On one end, you have you.  Just you.  Nobody else.  And on the other end, you have...well, you have everybody.  It’s never just you in a crowd.

And yet, I seem to feel the loneliest when in a huge throng of people.  I guess for me it just emphasizes how much of an outsider I’ve always been, how I’ve never quite been able to fit in.  You feel like an outsider?  Here, let’s surround you with people who have never been outsiders and multiply that feeling by a thousand.

    The crowd tonight on 13th Street isn’t going to be any different.  I’m being sent over there to take some pictures for tomorrow’s paper--I’m a photographer, you see.  A lot of people have been protesting about unethical business practices lately, and I’ve been assigned to cover tonight’s protest about genetic experiments conducted by the Paragon Scientific Corporation.  To be honest, I don’t like jobs like tonight’s.  I prefer smaller assignments: they usually don’t involve too many people, which means I don’t have to worry about that “alone in a crowd” feeling creeping up on me.  But the bigger assignments--like photographing massive protests in the middle of downtown--pay better. And I desperately need the money.  So I’m going.

    13th is in the middle of downtown.  My place is on the outside of town, so I have to take the subway to get there.  The subway is my preferred method of transportation.  The streets are always packed, so a car is useless.  Buses are often packed with people, which means I have to worry about the loneliness creeping up on me.  Taxi drivers try to make small talk, which I’ve never been good at.  Walking is too slow.  So I take the subway.  For the most part, it isn’t too bad.  You just get on, pick a spot away from everybody, and wait for your stop.  Nothing to it, really.  I almost miss the subway tonight, but manage to slip between the doors before they close.  I find a secluded seat near the rear and sit down.  I close my eyes, lean my head back, and try to prepare myself for the night ahead.

    Someone gets on at the next stop.  Then, to my dismay, they take the seat directly across from me.  “Relax,” I tell myself.  “Just because someone sits close to you on the subway doesn’t mean--”

   “Rough day, huh?”

    I open one of my eyes to see a young woman looking at me.  She’s pretty.  Has brunette hair, brown eyes.  She’s wearing a slight smile, as if someone has said something amusing.  And she is quite pretty.

    I close my eye again.  “Yeah.”

    Just get this over with.  You’ve only got to talk for three stops.  Then you’re free.

    “Same here.”  A brief pause.  “But your day isn’t over yet, is it?”

    I look at her again, but with both eyes.  “How did you know?”

    Her smile widens slightly.  “It’s seven at night, and you’re headed downtown.  There’s nothing there but office buildings and million-dollar apartments, and you don’t look like the kind of guy who lives in one of those apartments.  No offense.”

    “None taken.”  The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

    “So unless I’m terribly misinformed about how the one percent looks these days, you must be headed back in for business.”

    I don’t want to respond.  But she’s impressed me.  “I am.  But I’m a photographer, not a businessman.  I’m taking pictures of the protest.”

    “The ones against Paragon Scientific?”

    I nod.  “That’s the one.”

    “I see.”

    The next stop comes and goes.  Two more.

    “What do you think’s gonna happen to them?”  she asks.  “I mean, you’re work with the media.  Surely there must be some idea about what’s going to happen to Paragon?”

    “What I think will happen and what I want to happen are two different things,”  I say. “Which would you like to hear first?”

    She smiles again.  “Tell me what you’d like to see happen.”

    “What I’d like to see is everyone responsible get punished,”  I say.  “I know corporations like Paragon are massive bureaucracies with hundreds of people, but somewhere in that company is a group of people who knew what kind of tests were going on.  Somebody knew because somebody authorized them.  And I’d like to see those people taken to court and punished for what they allowed to happen, for what they made happen.”

    “But what if those experiments had good results?  What if the things they learned will help cure some disease?”

    I shake my head.  “Doesn’t matter.  Those people they ran those tests on are real people.  They have families and friends and jobs and normal lives, and now they’re broken beyond repair.  All because of what those experiments did to them.  It doesn’t matter what kind of results they got.  There are rules in place to keep test subjects from being hurt.  They didn’t follow those rules.  And so they should be punished.”

    The subway stops.  An elderly man gets on, but he takes a seat at the other end of the car.  Next stop.

    She’s quiet for a moment.  “And what’s going to happen?”

    “Same thing that always happens.  The corporation will hire some big team of lawyers and get a slap on the wrist.  The people responsible will get to keep their jobs and keep doing the same things.  Meanwhile a bunch of people are trying to figure out how they’re going to live the rest of their lives.  It’s always the same old song and dance:  the guilty go free while the innocent suffer.”

    “You feel pretty strongly about this,” she says.  “Did you know someone involved?”

    I hesitate, then answer.  “No.”

    It’s true.  I don’t know anyone wrapped up in this thing.  But I have very strong feelings about justice.  And I just ranted about them to some random woman on the subway.  Nice going, idiot.  You only had to make it three stops and you couldn’t even do that.

    We’re silent the rest of the trip.  Finally the subway slows to a crawl, then stops.  The doors hiss open, and I hurry out the door.  As I make my way towards the stairs, I hear a familiar voice call, “Hey.”

    I stop and turn as she walks up to me, putting something in her pocket.  “Yeah?”  I don’t want to go off on another rant, so I’m determined to keep this conversation brief.

    “I just wanted to say I enjoyed talking to you,” she says.

    Out of everything that’s been said and done tonight, this is what surprises me the most.  I’ve never had anyone tell me that they’ve liked talking to me.  And now a woman I barely know is telling me she enjoyed the conversation.  I’m caught off-guard, but I manage to utter a half-hearted “Thanks.”

    “I have to run, but I hope to see you around.”

    I didn't think it was possible, but I am shocked even more.  “Yeah, you too,”  I say quickly.

    “Have a good night,” she says.  “I’ll look for your pictures in the paper.”

    Before I can reply, she starts to leave.  She brushes by me as she heads for the stairs, and I catch a brief whiff of pine.  Then she’s gone.

    I stand on the subway platform for a few seconds, thinking about what has happened.  Then I head up the stairs to street level.  I make my way over to 13th Street, where I find a small group of people already protesting.  I pull out my camera and being snapping photos:  an elderly couple here, a middle-aged woman there, a teenage couple shouting indistinctly.  I see two women holding some sort of sign and quickly try to take a picture, but a man bumps into me and jostles my arm.  He mutters some kind of apology and hurries off while I try to get another shot of the couple.  The crowd is growing quickly, and as much as I try to lose myself in my work I can feel the loneliness starting to rear its ugly head.

* *     *

    Several hours later, I’m on the subway headed home.  I’ve got plenty of shots and I know the boss will be pleased.  I’m slightly disappointed to find the woman from the trip in is not on this subway, then I’m surprised that I’m even thinking about her at all.

    I get off at my stop and walk to my home, a small apartment in a run-down building.  I climb the stairs to my door, unlock it, step through and shut it behind me.  I take a deep breath and feel myself begin to relax.  Home is the one place where I can truly be calm.

    As I’m taking off my coat, I feel something in the pocket.  Puzzled, I reach in and pull out a wadded up paper.  I open it up and find a phone number, with the name “Hope” scrawled above it.  She must have written it while she was getting off the subway, then slipped it into my pocket when she brushed past me.  Whatever the case, whatever the reason, she decided to give me her phone number.

    I stare at it for a brief moment.  I walk to the trashcan.  My hand hovers over it, clutching the paper tightly.

    But something keeps me from throwing it away.

    I put the paper by the phone.  At least I have it, if I ever feel the need to use it.

    I get ready for bed.  When I’m done, I turn off the lights and crawl under the covers.  And as sleep begins to take me, I am calm.  For the first time all evening, I don’t feel so lonely.

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