High Rising Terminal

Myra could feel herself rambling, her mouth on full walkabout from her mind, “…and this used to be a really good bar anyway. I don’t know why the hell they decided to change it. Like this block needs another seven-dollar-a-cup coffee shop-“

The police officer in front of her, rubbed his eyes before rolling them, “Ma’am? That’s fine, but, y’know, try to focus. I need more detail about the driver.”

Myra blinked once…twice… as details began to resolve around her – people clustered in crowds at every corner of the intersection,  the chorus of digital click of dozens of smartphone camera apps, glass shards blanketing the sidewalk…her eyes finally settled on the grill of the upended slate-grey SUV jutting out of The Sprig’s front entrance. Hmm, she thought, Tennessee? Waaay the fuck out of town...

“Oh, I didn’t really see him. He was…just some guy?” Myra answered.

The police officer kept on, asking more questions about the driver in what he probably thought was a gentle, administrative tone. Myra absently answered one question after another, hoping the words coming out of her mouth were beginning to make some kind of sense. Officer Officious suggested she walk over to the EMT a few feet away. Myra made too much of a show of her hurried “No, no I’m good” to live down her eventual walk over to the ambulance. A female EMT faced the open doors of the transport bay.

        “Uh, hi?” Myra squeaked.

Really, little mouse? Myra wondered as she drew herself to her full height, adjusted her backpack, and cleared her throat.

“The guy-the police officer over there said maybe I should get checked out?” Myra said, increasing her volume a bit. The EMT leaned her head out from behind the door, gave Myra a once-over. A couple of slow blinks, magnified by thick eyeglasses, marked the technician’s annoyance as she went back to what she was doing, clearing her own throat.

        “Do you know what the date is today?” She asked in a bored, perfunctory manner.

        “What? Oh, May 16^th…?” Right? Myra asked herself.

        “Do you know where you are?” continued the EMT. Shit, Myra thought, Is this a test? Is this what a concussion feels like?

        “Um, Brooklyn? Fort Greene?” Myra answered tentatively. “…Ashton and Fulton…?”

        “Ok, well you seem pretty with it. Mind waiting until I finish here?”

        “Oh sorry…” Myra peeked around to see the EMT’s current patient and met narrowed hazel eyes looking right at her. The EMT finished applying the bandage to the woman’s forehead and moved back, allowing Myra to see a whole face.

        The woman’s eyes widened in immediate recognition before they narrowed, her mouth pinching tight in anger.

        Myra quickly turned her face away from the woman. “Shit,” she whispered under her breath. She turned the rest of her body away from the ambulance and began beating a hasty retreat to safety, on the other side of the police cordon.

        “Hey!” she heard the EMT’s patient call after her. Myra picked up pace as she lifted the barricade tape, dipping swiftly under the makeshift arch and barely avoiding shoulder-checking an elderly woman as she tried to make her way through the crowd.

        “Sorry. C-could you move, please?” she implored frantically. She was almost through the crowd when the hazel-eyed woman from the ambulance forcefully tapped her on the shoulder. Myra kept walking but turned around, clutching her backpack close.

        “YES?!” Myra didn’t mean to hiss out the word – she certainly didn’t feel like she had the right to – but she tucked her chin and pivoted away from the woman all the same, expecting a fist to connect at any moment. The woman couldn’t hide her smirk at Myra’s shudder when she grabbed Myra’s trembling wrist.

        “One, two dollars…”The woman clapped down two wadded bills into Myra’s open hand. She said it with the cheerful, practiced cadence of a service-industry veteran. “…and seventy-three cents…Oh..”A cloud of drywall dust emanated from the woman’s barista apron as she patted it down for effect. Myra gritted her teeth, waiting for the punchline. “I think I…dropped it when I dove to avoid a flying fucking SUV. You’ll have to find it inside the shop. If and when they let you back in.”

With an oh well shrug that might as well have been two middle fingers, the barista turned to walk across the street.

        “I-“ Myra bit her lip. Leave it alone, warned a voice in her head. Too late, another sighed with resignation as the barista turned around. Myra cleared her throat. “I just want to say I’m sorry? For what I said in there?” The barista nodded her head with forceful affirmation, her appetite whetted by the apology but hungry for a bit more of Myra’s contrition.

        “Are you asking me to review it with you or admitting to me that you said some fucked up shit in there?” Myra gave the woman a puzzled stare. “W-what?”

        “Your apology? You stated it as a question? Which is confusing? Because it’s pretty cut and dry that you took your bad morning out on me?” Every forced upshift in pitch – every bit of the barista’s mocking upspeak – hit its mark, setting Myra’s teeth on edge. Well, goddamn Myra thought, everywhere I turn… She immediately regretted extending anything close to an apology to the woman, quickly forgetting the personal insults she spewed at the counter…and the dispute over her order that led to the insults…and the text message from Dr. Berg that triggered her latest bout of self-loathing and kicked off the whole party of a shitty morning with its surgical strikes of passive-aggression: Let me know when you get this. I just read your latest draft…” Did she have her frowny-face emoji as a frequently used character or… “Is this really the best you could do?? Lit review, documentation need BIG rework before your-“

        “Defense?” the barista asked, gingerly touching the fresh bandage on her own forehead. For a moment, Myra had forgotten the barista was there. “…sorry?” The way the woman made fun of her speaking voice had achieved what Myra could only imagine was its desired effect, the heady mix of humiliation and rage still clouding her vision.

        “Thesis defense? Dissertation?” the barista continued. Myra leaned back and locked eyes with the woman. How did she-?

        “I saw your citation list when I was bussing. Sociology?”

        “…Geography?” Myra closed her eyes, cursing her response and willing herself to be more declarative. “I’m a Ph.D. candidate in Geography.”

        The barista studied her for a long while before nodding. “Interesting, interesting. Human-Environment Interaction? Movement? Place?”

        Huh, Myra’s thought. Her turn to study the barista silently. Either she’s in my program – shit, did I forget her name…? – or-

“I had a lot of friends in geography programs. Plus, I saw Demangeon and Sorre in your citations, so I figured…” Surprise, surprise, Myra marveled. The barista’s eyes twinkled with mischief that Myra hated herself for kind of liking.

        “Ok. Yeah, social geography? I mean, I’m working on my defense in social geography. Of groups leveraging flows of political action within urban built environments?”

        “Asking or telling?” the barista asked with that smirk again. Myra decided she’d had enough. It was enough that Doctor Berg made it a point to harp on her inflection at every chance, even in front of other grad students, but for a stranger to do it…

        “Ok, well…” Myra moved to announce a relatively polite goodbye. Maybe the ballsy barista deserved that much?

        “High Rise - hmm, damn. High Rise-something…” The barista quickly reached into her pocket and fished out her smartphone. She quickly typed something and waited a moment before slapping in thigh in realization. “Yeah, ‘High Rising Terminal’ That’s what it is? That’s…what you’re doing?”

        Myra stared daggers at the barista. The woman’s tacked-on uptalk – every sentence she said egregiously turned into a question – drove the point home. “Well, I’m very glad there is a name for it. Thank you for being so informative. And I guess I deserved that. You have a nice day…?”

        “Mmm, Charlotte. Call me Char.” I’m not calling you shit because I’m going to make sure we never run into each other again “Great. Goodbye, Char. I’m… sorry I was such a piece of shit before.” Myra turned to leave.

        “Wait, that’s all?” Myra looked up to see Char bearing her now-characteristic amused smile. “…’that’s all’ what?” Myra asked with exhausted politeness. Char scoffed, “I can’t believe you’re not going to tell me to shut up or fuck off or…something.” Myra looked around - does she want to fight me? – before quietly asking, “Do you want me to tell you fuck off or something?”

        Char shrugged. “You didn’t have a problem doing it inside. Before it started raining SUVs.” Myra smiled, in spite of herself. Char took a step toward her. Myra hadn’t really taken a good look at her before – tiny crow’s feet crinkled at the corners of her eyes when she smiled, wide shoulders and wiry arms. She would definitely kick my ass in a fair fight, Myra though offhand. If she had to guess, Myra would say the woman was about ten years older than her, somewhere in her mid-thirties.

        “Myra.” Myra extended her hand.

        “I know. Remember?” She cupped a hand over her mouth and shouted, “Large Red Eye for Myra!”

        “Right.” Myra said quickly, as much to answer as to stop the woman from shouting her name in public again.

        “Right.” Char affirmed. Myra adjusted her backpack and sighed. “Look, I…I really am sorry. For what I said in there?” Not a question, girl Myra told herself. “I mean… for what I said in there. I’ve been under an unprecedented, ungodly amount of stress in my program. My advisor-“

        “Is an asshole?”

        Myra chuckles and shrugs. “She texted me. While I was working on the proposal. Any time she texts, I- I short-circuit. It’s never good news. It always cuts.”

        Char nods knowingly. “And now I wish I’d just given you the damn Red Eye.” Myra laughed lightly. “No whip this time. Just the drink for unprecedented, ungodly mornings.” Char corrected herself. Myra sighed, “Yeah, like that would have rescued it…actually it would have.” They both laughed more heartily. “At least, until the-“

        “Until a drunk driver decided to park in the café?” Char offered. “Until the drunk driver parked in the café, exactly.” Myra confirmed with another laugh. Char smiled again and leaned against doorway in an alcove next door to the café.

        The crowds were beginning to dissipate, the shock of the vehicle stuck in a store entrance wearing off – all in a spring afternoon for Brooklyn. Char offered Myra a cigarette, which she almost took. Remembering and despising her vow to kick cigarettes until after defense, Myra somehow managed to decline. Char tucked the cigarette into her shirt pocket. “Well, if you’re being good…” She pulled her phone out again and tapped quickly.

Myra gave her privacy, taking a moment to look back at the café. The city was continuing to enfold the scene of chaos into its daily rhythm: two lingering police leaned against their patrol car, laughing over a joke or something else as absurd as the SUV driver’s parking job. Passerby stopped in front of the scene, some posing for pictures of the shattered storefront before continuing their day.

A 40-something man hopped out of a cab and rushed over to the café entrance, letting out a stream of expletives, and sweeping back the fringe of his expensively coiffed hair in frustration. When the cops walked over to him, he engaged them in animated conversation; from the snippets Myra could hear - “…well, did anyone see the guy that was driving?...” and “…even with insurance, how’m I supposed to pay for this?...” – it stood to reason that he was-

“Reed. The owner.” Char said, shaking her head from side-to-side. Hard to tell if it was pity or schadenfreude. “How much you wanna bet he got the news at the salon and waited to finish the haircut?” Even if Myra felt a little bad for making fun of Reed, she had to laugh. After all she knew the type – how many times had Dr. Berg given her reams of one-sided feedback and then cut meetings short to meet with a colleague at one tony restaurant or another? Even when you get to this level, boundaries are important and self-care is essential, Myra. “I’d bet…that tip jar I saw on the counter.”

Char snorted, “Mmm, I like a high roller…” Her voice switcher to a brighter tone “Hey, Reed.”

Reed had wandered over to them, red-faced. He laughed bitterly, momentarily at a loss for words. Instead, he extended his arm as if displaying the crash site to Char and Myra for the first time, declaring himself master of the destruction.

Char raised her eyebrows and nodded in agreement with Reed’s unspoken appeal for commiseration. “Yep. What a mess.”

“Yeah, I’ll have to call the insurance company, my investors, and my bank. Figure this out…” Reed uttered, somehow managing to humble-brag the broken remains of his business. Char twisted her mouth to the side and closed her eyes, working overtime to dredge up some sympathy, “Hopefully…everything will be taken care of soon.”

Reed nodded absently. “Yeah…” An afterthought brought him back, “Geez, are you girls ok?” He looked over to Myra and smiled “I didn’t even check in with the people on shift. I mean, I didn’t get a chance to.”

Myra opened her mouth to correct Reed, but Char got there first. “We’re fine, actually. Betsy here…“ Char gestured at Myra, “…just missed the flying truck. I caught a shard of glass or two, but the EMT patched me up and sent me on my way.”

Reed gave a small smile at the news before pulling out his vibrating smartphone. “Shit, that’s the insurance company, let me take this. Betsy, Charmaine, so glad you two are ok. Really.” With that, he turned and walked away, answering his call.

Myra and Char did their best to stifle their laughter until Reed was out of earshot. Char was the first to guffaw. Myra held her hands palm up, petitioning the universe for answers. “CharMAINE?!” Char went deadpan for a moment, “Wait, no – don’t knock that. That’s honestly the closest he’s ever come to getting it right. I’m so proud of him.”

Myra smiled and shrugged. “Well, I’m just grateful to him – or to you, I guess – for my new alias. Betsy is a survivor. A fighter. She would never say terrible things to baristas. BETSY is my clean slate.”

“I love it. You know what? Here’s to Betsy.” She pulled the loose cigarette from her shirt pocket. “Fuck it, I’m smoking this. Do you mind?”

“No, go for it.”

Char popped the cigarette between her lips. She was about to light it when she exclaimed “Mmm! That’s what I was going to show you!” She pulled her smartphone out and opened the voice recorder app. She held up her finger and then pointed to the phone, pressing play. Myra listened as a female voice cleared her throat and began speaking – Char’s voice.

“Ok so…my research is a quantitative analysis of the… redistricting trends? Fuck- My research is a quantitative analysis of redistricting trends mapped along socioeconomically disadvantaged populations within the…southern? No. Dammit-“

As Myra listened to the voice repeat this pattern – upspeak, groaning expletive, correction, repeat – she looked at Char. Char looked back, eyebrows raised – her face betrayed a curious mix of embarrassment and pride. “My advisor very plainly told me that I sounded like a ditzy teenager when I spoke. First of all, fuck him. Second, of all, thanks for making it all I could think about, dude.”

Myra looked at Char as if seeing her for the first time, “When was this?”

Char checked the timestamp on the recording. “Eight months ago?” She shook her head with mock annoyance and repeated herself, trimming the question off every word, “Eight. Fucking. Months. Ago.”

Myra cackled. “And no guidance on how to fix it, huh?”

“Ha!” Char gave her a sidelong glance, “That would be too helpful. I had to look things up for myself.”

“And recording yourself works?”

“It helped me realize what I sound like. For better or worse, that was a good thing – actually hearing my own voice. And, y’know, I realized it’s a pretty excellent voice…”

“Yeah, I like it.” Myra and Char smiled at each other before looking away. The midday sun beat down and the French restaurant across the street opened its pivot-hinge doors to the street. Two employees began setting up tables on the sidewalk, adjusting the linens with the requisite attention to detail.

Unsure of what to say, Myra looked down the sidewalk begrudgingly. “Well…I should-“

“Celebrate?” Char interjected. Myra cocked her head, unsure if she heard correctly, “Celebrate?!” Char tucked her still-unlit cigarette back in her shirt pocket. “Yeah, c’mon! Betsy and Charmaine, striking out on their own, getting a midday drink!”

Myra gave a short, nervous laugh “But it’s, like, what? Twelve-thirty?”

“Midweek brunch. Besides, we survived the Great Cataclysm of Falling Four-Wheel-Drives. C’mon, there’s a cool spot up the street.”

Myra felt her pocket for her phone, moved to pull it out, but thought better of it. She shrugged and adjusted her backpack.

“Lead the way.”

They walked slowly down the block.

        “You know…” Char cocked her head back towards the shattered café storefront, “That place actually used to be damn good bar…”