Marco Etheridge

Three Seconds

The happiest moment of Zach Preston’s life occurs three seconds before he steps into a crosswalk and is struck by a speeding car. Two seconds after that emotional apogee, and one second before his life will undergo a radical change administered through the agency of a barely conscious drunk driver, Zach is grinning like a maniac.

Freeze.

Zach’s left foot extended over a gutter running with spring rain from the Adriatic. Right foot still planted in the safety of the wet sidewalk but pushing forward, heel already lifting, propelling Zach into the crosswalk. An umbrella in one hand, shielding Zach from the pelting drops. And in the crook of his free arm, he cradles a loaf of crusty white bread, just purchased at the bakery up the street.

Go.

In the next second, Zach takes two-and-one-half steps. The street is empty of traffic, and then it isn’t. A black car appears from nowhere, speeding over the asphalt black with rain, no headlights, no windshield wipers, and no warning. The driver does not see the crosswalk or the man who is just stepping off the sidewalk.

The impact knocks Zach into the air. His body flies away through the darkness. The car speeds off without a glimmer of brake lights. The umbrella that had, a single heartbeat before, shielded Zach from the rain, spins in the swirling air above the empty crosswalk. Handle over canopy, once, twice, until gravity trumps loft. The umbrella sinks to an empty crosswalk. The bentwood handle taps the yellow-striped pavement. The umbrella balances upright, wavering, hesitating. Then the canopy tilts, falls, and settles to the asphalt beside a battered loaf of bread.

Wait.

Six weeks to the day before he is battered into the Croatian night by a driver blinded by drink, Zach Preston is in a sun-drenched office on another continent. The office is not his own. It is a modern, sterile room. Zach sits in a strangely uncomfortable ergonomic chair, facing a desk made from plate glass and sawhorses. On the far side of the desk, silhouetted by floor-to-ceiling windows, Zach’s team leader is speaking.

Words drift around the office, but Zach’s conscious mind does not hear them. Severance package, placement counseling, positive referral. His ears capture the sounds, but his brain refuses to pay attention. His thoughts are a tangle of fear, surprise, and worry. Then—Click! —his mind searches for a single bit of data.

How old is this pompous little prick? Ten years younger than me? Fifteen? I’m not even fifty and I’m being fired by a kid, a fucking millennial! I’m the guy who wrote the code this punk grew up with.

His angry thoughts can’t stop the babble that fills the room. More words that all sound the same: redundancy, restructuring, reduction, regrettable.

Later that same day, Zach threads his way through a labyrinth of cube farms, a cardboard box cradled in his arms. The cube occupants keep their heads down, not wanting to see another dead man walking. Zach feels a scream rising in his throat.

Go ahead, you stupid drones. Keep tapping out that precious code. That’s what I did and look where it got me. Better code, brighter code, pioneering the way to artificial intelligence. What a brilliant plan! Create a program that can create programs. What an idiot I was, helping to build a von Neumann machine, a self-replicating entity. Too bad, Zach. AI doesn’t take bathroom breaks, eat lunch, sleep, or complain to HR. Wake up, people!

But the scream does not erupt from Zach’s throat. It dies stillborn in his head as he crashes into a cube partition. The kid in the cube stares up at him, frightened. Zach mumbles an apology, hefts his jumbled box, and flees to the parking lot.

The first week of Zach’s idleness is bad. The second is worse. Half-empty pizza boxes stack up on the dirty kitchen counter. Zach drinks coffee, switches to beer, stares out the window. He does not open his laptop, update his résumé, or phone a headhunter. He is an old dog, expelled from the pack, no longer wanted or needed.

If it is early enough in the day, before too many beer bottles have been emptied, Zach can grasp the irony of his situation. The monster is still out there, the monster he helped create. AI slapped Zach aside, exiled him to this one-bedroom jail cell. And the bastard is still lurking just out of sight, waiting for Zach to poke his nose through the door. Then, Wham! Who needs that shit? Zach reaches for the church key and pops open his first beer of the morning.

The third week brings a change. It is not hope that drives Zach from his apartment, but the stench. The place reeks of molding pizza crusts, sour beer bottles, and his own personal funk.

Resigned to his fate, Zach shovels grease-stained boxes into a garbage bag. He collects the many bottles, empties the foul dregs, and totes the dead soldiers to the recycle bin. After a long shower, he shaves away two weeks of stubble. There, staring into the mirror, he sees his crossroads. He can kill himself or run screaming from the cage of his apartment.

Zach decides that maybe he needs a cup of coffee, an hour or so outside of his fetid apartment. Little does he know how this minor decision will change the course of his life.

At the café, Zach orders a double espresso. Coffee in hand, he finds an empty table. He hasn’t brought a laptop, a tablet, or even his phone. No way to demonstrate how connected and busy he is.

Zach sits, sips, hesitates, raises the demitasse to his nose. The espresso smells better, tastes richer. He wonders if the baristas have switched to a new roast.

A magazine lies atop the table, its pages splayed open. The images are upside, glossy photos of pretty people wearing expensive clothes posing in front of exotic locations. Zach reaches for the magazine and spins it around.

His eyes roam over the photo spread. He ignores the perfect smiles, and the sweaters knotted just so around arching necks. It’s the settings that arrest his eyes. Turquoise water laps against rocky shores, crumbling stone walls bake under a golden sun, cobblestoned passageways lead to shadowed treasures.

Words leap from the thick pages. Croatia, the Dalmatian Coast, Jewel of the Adriatic. Zach sifts through fractured memories. Dislocated questions pop through his brain.

Where is Croatia? It’s got to be across from Italy. When was the last time I was in Europe? Twenty-five years ago. Is that possible? Forget Europe, when was the last time I went anywhere? What the hell happened to me?

He tosses off the rest of his espresso in one gulp. The demitasse rattles in its saucer, knocking the miniature sugar spoon to the table. Zach Preston stands so quickly he upsets his chair, catching it just before it topples to the floor. Other patrons raise their eyes from glowing screens to stare at the commotion. Ignoring them, he hurries to the door of the café.

Back at his apartment, Zach ransacks the drawers of his cluttered desk. He finds his passport, flips open the cover. A minor miracle, the damn thing is valid for two more years and change. He has no memory of renewing it, but he must have done so. Another forgotten task accomplished between long bouts of writing code.

He tosses the passport on the desk, opens his laptop, and keys it to life. Search query, flights to Europe. He checks the calendar, enters a range of dates, an open return flight. The results cascade down the screen. He chooses the first flight listed as a last-minute deal, clicks the buy button, and reaches for his wallet. Time to spend some of that severance pay.

Buzzing from the adrenaline of what he has just done and the caffeine of a gulped double espresso, Zach gathers up piles of discarded underwear and socks. He stuffs the dirty clothes into the washer and sets the machine to work. Then he heads down to the basement of the apartment building. Somewhere in his storage locker is a dusty suitcase.

Jump.

Six days later, Zach Preston is thirty-five thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean. Most of his fellow passengers are trying to sleep, but Zach is wide awake. He stares out into the endless blackness.

Schiphol Airport, Amsterdam, standing in the passport control queue. The young woman behind the glass stamps his passport for ninety days, gives him a nod, and motions for the next person. Zach steps beyond the barrier and into the swirling throngs of travelers.

The concourse is clean and bustling. Zach stops at the first café he sees. The barista greets him in Dutch, then switches to English. Zach orders espresso and a pastry. He sits at a small table, sips his espresso, hears the many different languages drifting past his ears.

Another flight to Split, Croatia. No passport control this time. It is raining when he arrives, heavy squalls blowing in from the Adriatic. The cab driver is friendly, speaks English. Zach hands the driver an index card bearing the address of a rental apartment in Split. The driver nods, tells him it is no problem. Stows Zach’s suitcase in the trunk. Doors slam and then they are off, windshield wipers slapping away the rain.

The rental is outside the Old City. The driver tells Zach he has chosen well. Lovret, a good neighborhood. When the rains end, the tourists will show up, the cruise ships, crowds of people. A good time for making money, but too many people. For now, it is quiet. He wishes Zach a pleasant stay.

The suitcase hits the floor and Zach hits the bed. He wakes in time for a late dinner, sets out on foot, and finds a restaurant. He tries out his first words in Croatian: Dobar dan. The woman offers a smiling correction. Dobra večer, good evening. Zach repeats the phrase three times. He smiles. She smiles and shows him to a table.

The wine is dry, the bread is crusty, and the food is delicious. As he eats, Zach tries to remember every small detail, soaking up each new taste and smell. When he cannot eat another bite, Zach drinks one last glass of wine, then settles his tab and tip. The server seems happy with the result.

Zach spends the next hour searching for his new apartment. The restaurant is no more than five or six blocks from the rental, but the building has disappeared into thin air. It begins to rain, and Zach is astonished when he begins to laugh. By the time he recognizes the street, then the doorway to his new building, he is soaked to the skin and still laughing at himself.

After a long, hot shower, Zach slips into bed. The noises of Split street life drift up to his third-floor apartment. He listens for all of five minutes, then falls into the sleep of the dead.

The following morning, Zach prepares himself before leaving the apartment. He has a map inked with an arrow marking home. And words, Zach has words: Dobro jutro, good morning. Molim, please. Hvala, thank you. Doviđenja, goodbye.

He finds a café, eats breakfast, drinks coffee, practices his few words. Zach ranges further through his new neighborhood, making mental notes of the closest bakery, the nearest market. He wanders down to the Old City, loses himself in the maze of cobbled passageways. Turning yet another corner, Zach stumbles onto the tiny coffee bar that will become his short-lived regular hangout.

The owner is older than Zach by a good ten years, plays classic rock in the bar, and loves Pink Floyd. When there are no orders to fill, the man steps just outside the door to watch the morning and smoke hand-rolled cigarettes. On the fourth day, Zach’s coffee appears at his table before he can shake the rain from his umbrella.

Zach’s first week slips away. The sun shines, or rain squalls sweep in from the Adriatic. He walks, eats, drinks, and sleeps. He reads books printed on paper instead of displayed on a screen. With each passing day, he feels lighter, slower.

The second week passes. Zach leaves his map at home, takes random turnings, gets lost on purpose. The arc of time loses its gravity. The past falls away. The future blurs, obscured by Zach’s next footstep, next discovery, next meal. He is amazed at the change; amazed and happy.

And.

Zach stands on the balcony. Sheets of rain dance under the streetlights three floors below. He has forgotten to buy bread. Laughing at himself, he steps back into the apartment, slips on his coat, and grabs an umbrella.

Down the stairs, up the sidewalk, and across the busy street. Passing a sidewalk café, Zach sees a couple sheltered under a dripping awning. A black dog sits close at their feet. The dog looks up at Zach, its tongue lolling over a canine grin. Zach smiles back, splashes on toward the bakery.

He queues with the other patrons, selects his bread, pays with small coin. Then he is back on the wet sidewalk, his bread tucked in the crook of his arm, the warm scent of yeast and oven filling the canopy of his umbrella.

In that moment of rain pelting down, shoes squelching on a foreign sidewalk, the smell of fresh bread in his head, Zach Preston is overwhelmed. It comes in a flash, like a brilliant fork of lightning.

I have never been this happy.

Zach is grinning like a maniac. Three seconds later, he steps into a rain-swept crosswalk. Then he is flying through the air.

Now.

He is a bird of the night, a streaking comet, a superhero. His body flies through darkness and bright raindrops. Then gravity regains its domain.

The first thing Zach smashes into is a thick hedge of star jasmine. The impact breeds an explosion of water pellets and fragrant snow-white petals. Plowing a jagged hole through the tangled hedge, Zach’s tumbling body soars over a concrete sidewalk.

The second smash, a dull thud, as Zach’s body plows into rain-soaked turf. He lands hard, digging a furrow through mud and dogshit, flips, rolls, and comes to rest on his back. Raindrops patter out of the night, splattering in his wide-open eyes.

Then the raindrops slow, stop, hang motionless. Zach rockets up into the darkness, shooting past the silver drops. Up and up he soars, higher and higher. He is laughing like a maniac, the diamond rain mixing with his tears.

The rain ceases. A darker shadow blots out the night sky. He is no longer flying. Zach feels the press of earth against his back. His body is cushioned in a bed of mud and crushed grass. And a cool touch against the wet flesh of his cheek, soothing fingers, the caress of an angel.

A soft voice speaking words in a language he does not know, yet Zach understands.

Wait. I am here. Stay with me. All will be well.

More shadows above him, then lights. More voices; loud, insistent. Hands reaching under his body, lifting him. The angel’s touch slips from his face. Flashing lights, rattling wheels, the clank of metal, lurching motion, a wailing siren.  

And then.

A light grows bright beyond his closed eyelids. A warm glow. Zach blinks, sees white walls, closes his eyes, opens them again. A white room. A bed. His body, arms resting on a sheet, tubes taped to his skin.

He shifts his gaze. A woman sitting beside him, pale, young, smiling. Zach feels a cool touch against his cheek, soothing fingers, the caress of a single moment. Then she is gone, vanishing through a doorway.

Before the door closes, a man steps into the white room. He wears a white coat. A stethoscope hangs from his neck. Then the man is standing beside the bed. He lays a hand on Zach’s shoulder. His mouth moves, but Zach cannot hear his words.

A long pause. The room spins, goes dark. Two seconds, or two hours later, Zach opens his eyes. The man is still standing over his bed. He is smiling. Zach hears a voice from very far away.

“Mister Preston, good to have you with us again. Can you hear me?”

Zach struggles to speak and fails. He tries a nod, but he cannot move his head. Giving up, he blinks his eyes and smiles.

“Very good. Your neck is immobilized for now, but I don’t want you to worry. It’s just a precaution. You’ll probably feel groggy for a few more days. You’ve taken a serious battering, but we are hopeful for a full recovery.”

Zach smiles again. The room begins to drift. A squeeze on his shoulder, then the doctor’s hand lifts away.

“Get some rest, Mister Preston. You’re a very lucky man.”

Lucky. The word fills his brain, flashing like a neon sign.

You got that right, Doc. I’m the luckiest man alive. The luckiest man on the planet. And the happiest.

The doctor glides across the room as sleep pulls Zach away. The door opens. The white coat disappears. And just before the world fades to warm cotton, Zach thinks he sees a pale young woman slip into the room, but he can’t be sure.





 

Marco Etheridge is a writer of prose, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in more than eighty reviews and journals across Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. “The Wrong Name” is Marco’s latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco is a contributing editor for a new ‘Zine called Hotch Potch.

Author website:  https://www.marcoetheridgefiction.com/