I am Rocky. Yesterday I was Jean-Paul, but today I am Rocky. Or at least, that’s what I told the pretty barista when she asked for my name.
I fingered the little tins of mints at the front of the counter while she wrote my order on the cup. She had big, loopy handwriting that was almost unreadable.
“You want one of those?” She said, gesturing slightly at the mints with her sharpie. She was trying to catch my eye.
“No, thanks.” I looked anywhere but at her.
“So that’s one grande Americano, two pumps of hazelnut, room for cream?” She finished the question expectantly, sharpie poised over the cup. I nodded, darting my gaze up to her face, then back at her hands. There was a tarnished silver ring on her right thumb, emblazoned with an upside down star. Or right side up, whichever way you looked at it. I tried to concentrate on that star, but it didn’t matter. My eyes only met hers for half a moment, but half a moment was all it took. Her eyes flashed and six numbers entered my head. 05-24-2022. It would probably be an accident. A car crash. She was only eighteen or nineteen.
“Here’s your change, would you like your receipt?”
I took the change and answered with, “All things written must come to pass.” I smiled slightly at her confused look and walked away, taking a seat on one of the chairs to wait for my coffee. The cushion sank under my weight, thin enough for me to feel the frame of the chair beneath me. The arms were faux leather, and cracked from countless hands resting on them every day, every week. I thought about all those people. I thought about their numbers. There are so many numbers in my head, it’s a wonder they don’t spill out of my mouth when I open it. I stroked one armrest, the ridges of my palms catching on the cracks. The middle aged woman in the chair next to me watched my hand for a few moments before shifting her weight away and looking in another direction. I traced the lines of her wizened face and grey hair with my eyes. Two feet away. I imagined I could almost feel the warmth from her body. She had acknowledged my existence. It wasn’t a kiss on the cheek, or a long, love-filled hug, but it was contact. It was enough.
“…Rocky?”
I stood, took my coffee with a small smile and walked out, the bell above the door singing farewell. The streets were crowded, the sky white, the air crisp with early morning. Men and women dressed for work dragged briefcases and attachés behind them. A few truant teens wandered the streets, loving their freedom. I used to play hooky, too. I couldn’t stand knowing the numbers of my classmates, my friends. Better not to have friends. Better to wander. Better to find a new city every week, a new name every other day. Then I wouldn’t grow attached, wouldn’t try to fix it or prevent it. In the past I tried to help. All I ever got from that was cold shoulders and questions about my sanity.
A family standing by the window of a toy shop caught my eye. They were probably doing some Christmas window shopping, the parents finding out what their children wanted most. The boy was gesturing wildly as his parents laughed at his excitement. I caught the boy’s eye as I passed. He looked about seven years old, the same age I was when I realized what I could do. Numbers flashed in my head. I smiled. He would have a long life.
The light turned and I stepped onto the street, lost in the throng of people, head bowed, eyes downcast, counting the cracks in the sidewalk. I headed for the shabby motel where I was staying this week. Smelly carpet, water stained walls, and faded curtains that did nothing to keep the light out. It had been my home for the past three years. Not that motel, but that room, in dozens of different motels. When the location changed, at least the familiarity didn’t.
I set my coffee on the shaky wooden table. It was the only piece of furniture besides the bed. I went into the bathroom and set my hands on the sides of the yellowed sink and leaned forwards toward the mirror, so close my nose was almost touching the glass.
An old man stared back at me. He was, in fact, much younger than he looked. Gaunt and hollow. The corners of his mouth pulled at a steep angle towards the ground. There were permanent creases on his forehead, and between his thick brows. His eyes sunk deep into their sockets, trying to hide from what they could see. They were blue and dull.
And no matter how I hard I tried, or how long I looked, they never flashed back at me. No numbers attached to my face. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to know them.
Then it wasn’t my eyes I was seeing, but my mother’s, which had been a much brighter blue than mine. I started remembering everything about her. Gloriously sharp cheekbones and elegant hands that were always moving, doing something. Her nose had been longer, her face a bit narrower, but there was no mistaking her beauty.
I had a sudden need to call the place I left behind, to check in, even though I no longer called it home.
I didn’t own a phone. I had to rush out of the motel and down the street to the nearest payphone. I pushed the change from my morning coffee through the slot and punched the keys. The phone rang. And rang. And rang.
“Damn,” I cursed, just as the voicemail picked up. I had forgotten about the time difference. It was the middle of the day where they were. With everyone at work or school, no one was going to pick up the phone. I slammed the phone into its cradle.
My coffee was cold by the time I got back. I threw.
It’s becoming tougher to live like this. Even though it’s familiar, it gets harder and harder to live without purpose, without a plan. All I know is run and hide, close my eyes and pretend I’m not cursed. I keep wishing that there is a reason why I can do what I do, some special destiny I have to fulfill. Or rather, I wish there was some way to save them. I had clung to that foolish belief ever since I discovered my ability. Maybe that’s why I stayed in the cities. Maybe someday I’d find someone to save.
But that didn’t work the last time. Why would it work now?
Someone was cursing from the street below. I just shut the window.
It seemed unusually crowded on the streets this morning. I kept bumping shoulders, and had my toes stepped on more than a few times with less than a few “sorrys.”
A girl bumped into me, hard enough to make her stumble.
“Oh, hey,” I said, reaching out a hand to steady her. She shied away, sparing me a heavy look, her eyes flashing, before pushing past me. I found four numbers floating in my head. Not six, four. Not a date, but a time.
I followed. It took a second to find her, then I caught a glimpse of a plaid skirt bouncing around a corner. From the back, she looked like an ordinary schoolgirl. Long brown hair, knee high socks, dark blue blazer. But at this moment she wasn’t very ordinary. Today, she was going to die.
She glanced over her shoulder, eyes skimming through the crowd behind her. When she saw me, they widened, her hands clenched into fists, and she took off.
“Come on!” I started sprinting. I understood. Stranger-danger, and all that. It was easy enough to follow her, she left a pathway of confused city folk in her wake.
The clock tower began to chime. I absently counted ten rings, and realized what the numbers had been: 10:11. She had eleven minutes to live. I had ten minutes to save her life. And this time, I was going to do it. My feet pounded out the rhythm of two words. I was not going to let her die.
Not again.
She led me on a merry chase. Her small frame allowed her to slip between people I had to shoulder past with an apology. I don’t know how long I chased her, only that it was drawing nearer and nearer to her time. My stomach churned with doubt. I thought I might throw up.
The girl glanced over her shoulder again. Saw me again. She tripped, and then was alone, her arms waving as she tried to catch her balance. A crowd stood on the sidewalk, and she was in the street looking back at me.
A red hand hovered at the end of the crossing. Tires ground into the asphalt. A siren filled the air, one long grating note. I threw my shoulder between two people. I elbowed someone else. Her mouth opened. I lunged. I reached out for her arm, her collar, anything. My hand closed around something soft, and I yanked backwards. There was a scream, lost amongst the blaring of car horns.
We landed in a heap.
“What on earth!” The girl pushed me away and scrambled to her feet. “What the hell was that?”
I looked up at her. Her eyes were flashing, but in anger and embarrassment. I knew no numbers. There was no date on this girl anymore. I had done it. I saved her. I saw only the dark pools of her eyes. They swirled into unfathomable depths. No numbers. No death. This was paradise.
Except she was glaring at me, demanding some sort of explanation.
“Look before you leap,” I said lamely.
“Psycho.” She scowled at me for another moment, rubbing the back of her head, then became aware of the horde of people that had gathered around us. They were whispering and pointing, not wanting to talk to us, but not wanting to leave the scene just in case anything else interesting happened.
Tears boiled in her eyes. She looked at the people around, as if one of them might step forwards to help. No one did. So she ran, dropping a trail of blood from scrapes on her knees and arm.
“There’s no such thing as bad publicity,” I said to no one in particular, rising to my feet. I took an unsteady step. The landing had twisted one of my ankles and it twinged painfully. The crowd parted for me, then dispersed as I passed. The excitement was over.
I looked around, but she was gone.
