Borne Back Ceaselessly

The streets of Manhattan are deserted, though that's because most people are concentrated in or around Times Square tonight. It's New Year's Eve yet again and, yet again, I find myself with nowhere to go. 

           Truth be told, the holiday's done little to excite me since what few friends I have have all moved away. Now, it's just like any other night to me, which is sad because I used to enjoy it. The camaraderie, the togetherness, counting down the final seconds before midnight...

           Bah, who needs it?, I think to myself.

           I enter the subway station at 53rd and Lexington. Checking my watch, I realize that it's 11:50. In ten minutes' time, it'll be 2020. Looks like I'll miss the countdown. For the briefest of moments, a pang of regret courses through my mind, but I once again wave it away. 

          The M Train comes speeding into the station. I board the last car, only to find that it, too, is completely empty. "Good," I say. "All the more room for me."

           Within a few seconds, we're off, back home to Queens. Going out tonight was a mistake, for it made me realize just how lonely I am. Funny how a city with eight million people can make you feel so small and insignificant.

           I stare up at the complicated web that is the subway map. The various colored lines make me feel ensnared, trapped, as if the only means of escape is through the mandibles of an unseen spider...

           At some point in time on the ride home, I must have dozed off, for someone's shaking me awake. 

           "Hey, bub. Wake up."

           A man stands over me, who I assume is the engineer. I don't think much of it at first until I realize that he's wearing the old subway uniform, complete with cap, which was standard issue nearly a hundred years ago. 

           Sitting up, I notice the interior of the train's also different. The seats are leather and leather straps hang from the ceiling. Gone is the sleek steel interior. No digital displays are in sight.

           "Wh--Where am I?," I manage to stammer. 

           "City Hall Station," the engineer answers. "Only been here a couple minutes, but I was checkin' the cars for stray passengers and found you passed out in here."

           Both my mind and my heart are racing. City Hall Station's been closed for years, I say to myself. None of this makes any sense.

           "I'd go further, but it's midnight and I'm off duty," he adds, tipping his cap. "I gotta get the train back to the depot. Happy New Year to ya." 

           New Year...Suddenly, it all comes back to me. I was heading home, back to Queens...So how the hell did I end up in Midtown Manhattan? 

           I get off the train, only to find myself within the glory and splendor of the old City Hall Station. My eyes widen as I realize that everything in it looks newer and cleaner. 

           I turn to get the engineer's attention, but he simply waves and drives the train out of the station. The clock on the platform reads 12:01. 

           Running up the stairs, I'm startled to find that the station's entrance is no longer sealed off. What's more, there are crowds of people staggering by on the sidewalks, wishing each other happy new year, but the way they're dressed...

           They're decked out from head to toe in 1920s fashions. The women wear flapper dresses, cloche hats, and long strands of beads beneath fur-lined coats. The men wear three-piece suits with watch chains. 

           The cars, too, are all vintage. Model A's and Model T's zip by on the streets, and they're all in pristine condition. 

           This can't be happening, I think as I take in the dazzling yet dizzying display that surrounds me. As if in response, a shop window nearby brandishes a handmade sign that reads "Welcome 1920" in highly stylized font. 

           My head starts to spin and the pavement rushes up to greet me...

When I come to, a beautiful young woman stands over me, dabbing at my brow with a wet kerchief. Her blonde hair is bobbed, and her green eyes regard me with concern.

           "Oh, thank God," she says. "He's waking up."

           Slowly, I rise from the relative comfort of a green chaise lounge. "Where am I?," I ask for the second time that night, massaging the side of my head. 

           "A penthouse suite at the Plaza," the young woman answers in a heavy Southern drawl. "You'd passed out on the sidewalk when we found you."

           "'We'?," I ask.

           "Yes, 'we.'"

           A debonair young man suddenly appears in the doorway. He holds a drink in his hand, a highball, based on the look of it. "How are you holding up, old sport? That's quite a fall you took back there." 

           As soon as he steps into my line of vision, my eyes widen in disbelief. It can't be, I say to myself. I'd recognize that face anywhere. It appeared a number of times throughout my high school English textbooks.

           "Y--You're...," I stutter. 

           "Do forgive me. Where are my manners?" He places the drink down on a Chinese end table and extends his hand. "The name's Scott. Scott Fitzgerald. Pleasure to meet you."

           I take his hand, but continue to gaze awestruck at him. 

           "Then, you must be...," I begin, returning my attention to the woman. 

           "Zelda Sayre," she says with a smile, extending her hand as well. "I'm not a Fitzgerald...," she adds, shooting Scott a mock hurt look. "...Yet."

           In spite of myself, I smile. American literature's legendary power couple are standing right in front of me, and they're just as lively and vivacious as legend has it. I can scarcely believe my luck.

           "Zelda and I are throwing a little New Year's bash this evening," Scott says, retrieving his glass from the top of the end table. "Considering all you've been through tonight, we'd like to invite you to be our guest of honor." Zelda nods in approval. 

           I'm stunned. I began the evening in 2019 with no New Year's Eve prospects, and now, I find myself in 1920 being the Fitzgeralds' guest of honor. I'd pinch myself to see if I'm dreaming, but that would be awkward in front of company. 

           "If it isn't too much trouble...," I begin. 

           "Nonsense!," Zelda replies enthusiastically. "It'd be our pleasure." 

           As if on cue, the penthouse doorbell buzzes. "Looks like our guests have arrived," Scott says with a smile, opening the door with a flourish. 

The rest of the night is a blur. A who's-who of 1920s royalty passes through the Fitzgeralds' door. I unknowingly strike up a conversation with Ira and George Gershwin, hold court with Edmund Wilson on the state of "current" literature, and pass Dorothy Parker on my way to the bathroom. It's the happiest and most excited I've been in quite some time.

           But after a while, it doesn't feel right, me being there. Despite the luminaries I meet and the conversations I have, I'm merely a visitor from another era. This isn't my home, and it becomes more and more apparent with each passing minute. Knowing that I'll eventually have to return to my own time fills me with a great deal of sadness. 

           Before I know it, the sky begins to lighten outside the huge picture windows. I seat myself in front of one of them and watch New York slowly rise from its slumber. 

           It's Zelda who finds me first. "What's wrong?," she asks, placing her hand on my shoulder.

           I explain everything to her, from feeling lonely on New Year's Eve to my strange foray into the past. She listens intently. Scott soon joins us and we reiterate the entire story to him. He too listens with great interest, his expression unreadable. By the end, I'm surprised to find myself in tears. 

           "I know how this sounds," I say, wiping one away from the corner of my eye. "But I simply can't explain what happened."

           "Then you'll have to go back," Scott replies, firm in his conviction yet soft in his sentiment. "It's hard being alone. I'm a writer. I know exactly what it's like, but to stay here would only bring you misery." 

           I nod. He's absolutely right, of course, though I don't relish going back home, either.

           "But should you ever find yourself here again, please pay us a visit," Zelda adds reassuringly. "You're always welcome here." 

           Despite everything I'm feeling, I smile, and the two of us embrace.

"Here we are."

           We pull up in front of the entrance to City Hall Station, not far from where the Fitzgeralds found me. I step out of the car, a beautiful blue 1920 Cadillac, and feel the weight of the gift they've given me in the breast pocket of my coat.

           "I can't thank you enough for your kindness and hospitality," I say.

           "It was our pleasure having you," Zelda replies with a smile. "Everything will be alright. Trust me."

           "Good luck, old sport," Scott adds, extending his hand once more. We shake. "All the best to you, my friend."

           With that, I descend the stairs to City Hall Station, but not before giving them one last wave of farewell, which they return. Sure enough, the same old subway train is there waiting for me, as is the engineer behind the controls. He waves at me as I enter the first car.

           A lurch lets me know the train's in motion, and it isn't long before the steady rhythm lulls me to sleep...

I wake with a start.

           Rubbing my eyes, I come to the realization that I'm back on the M Train, en route to Queens. I look out the window only to find that hardly a minute has elapsed since I fell asleep. It was a dream?, I ask myself. It felt so real...

           An itch on my chest irritates me. I scratch through my coat only to hear the sound of paper rustling from my breast pocket. Reaching inside, I pull out a piece of paper folded in fours. Once I open it, the header atop the page reads "'The Ice Palace' by F. Scott Fitzgerald." It's the first page of the manuscript for one of his short stories. Beneath it is a little note that reads:

                       We all get lonely sometimes, but with friends, we're

                       never really alone, and you've certainly got one in me. 

                       Best of luck to you, old sport. Sincerely, F. Scott Fitz-

                       gerald.

           "Is that a signed F. Scott Fitzgerald manuscript?"

           A young woman passenger beside me eyes the gift with curiosity. She must have boarded the train at one of the stops along the way, after I fell asleep.

           "Why, yes it is," I reply, apprehensively. 

           "It looks pristine," she answers excitedly. "Where did you get it?"

           I smile, thinking back to the words Scott wrote to me and taking them to heart. "Well," I begin. "It's kind of a funny story..."