I Have A Theory

Chapter One, Innoculation

Subways always stop in the most silly of places. Day after day, down to the minute, these massive tubes of metal roll through their concrete caverns, playing the role of the sole light in a darkness truer than the sun aboveground.

And then they stop, disgorge some humans, let some more humans in. Such a mystery why they would obey the whims of flesh-and-blood creepy-crawlies like us, who do nothing but defile them and coerce them into our service.

This one's my stop.

I want to circle back around another subway circuit, but I cannot... Medication for my apathy? I really wish such a thing were available. Stand up, pushing my legs through the blue denim tubes of my skinny, skinny jeans. Grab my purse, or leave it? I grab it. It has things inside.

Crossing the gap, walking out onto the platform, walking into the bright, white light. It feels jubilant, like there is a divine chorus playing just for me as I am divested from the metal beast.

I see the funny looks people give me and scratch my right bicep in reply. I am going to see my brother, which is cause enough to avoid confrontation, and it's not their fault that I appear so strange.

I smile very wide.

"Hi Kimberly." Cassius's face is handsome and brownish-toned, his eyes like warm nuts just toasted, his smile like the snap of mint. He is tall and lean and athletic, and looks very good in the gray prison jumpsuit. You'd never guess he was a genius--most people never do.

"Hi Cassius." I stare at him across the window, hold the black phone to my ear to catch his every exhalation. I scan his eyes carefully, looking for the wisdom which I know is meticulously folded into his perfectly calm composure.

"Kimmy," he says finally, after many moments of pointed silence, "I am pretty sure that visiting me is quite bad for your mental... for your health in general, if I'm being frank. You and I shouldn't have been born in the same family. How's your arm?"

"You know it's fine." He always worries for me. Always makes weird platitudes.

"Well," says Cassius, "in any case, you'd be wise to consider avoiding me. I took a piece from your arm, and did you a lot of wrong while growing up. I'm pretty sure you're into theology because of me."

"I'm doing what you showed me," I say, perpetually confused by his strange dialogue-- where's the wisdom in what he just said? I don't know--I have to find it later.

He sighs, puts his head in his hands. Mutters into the phone in a muffled voice, words tumbling like dominoes from his pouty lips, "What the fuck is it? What did I show you, by cutting your arm and putting a chunk of it into a kitchen pot? God Kimmy, sometimes I wonder if you're the one who needs prison."

"Don't say that," I reply softly.

He shakes his head and laughs. "You gotta do something with yourself, Kimberly."

"Like what?"

I've studied theology at Oxford, taken all the mathematics and science, too. I don't know what he's asking for, really--most people who look at my resume either shirk away, intimidated, or desperately beg to recruit my talent. I've published in five mainstream journals. I've mastered three languages.

I remind myself that I'm not the genius.

"Cassius, like what?" My voice is calm and steady.

He crinkles his brow in irritation, and I feel a flash of panic, like my heart has just beat into my skin. I'm scared he's about to tell the guard he's had enough of me--sometimes he just does that.