An entity wishes for an average day throughout the events of tribulation. Yet, once this entity in question receives this "average day", in response to their hopes and dreams, they suddenly desire for something interesting to finally occur in their life. One of these entities was a human by the name of Concord Francis Speltzer. Like most creatures in their mid-evolution and mid-life crisis, he was intrigued and pulled in by the curiosity of the unknown, which in this case took the form of a man, a few years younger than himself, walking into the cheaply furnished train cabin and sitting down in front of him.
The man caught his eye, luring his gaze away from his newspaper. He didn't look unusual per se but something about his thick-framed tinted sunglasses gave way to a more foreign look. This determination was of course concluded before the event of them locking eyes. Concord felt as if the world and time itself slowed to a complete pause at that moment as the other returned a small, almost grimace-worthy, smile.
No words were exchanged on that train ride between the two of them: just glances and the murmurs of thoughts racing back and forth.
It had been a good decade or so since that previous encounter, leading to the question of if Speltzer had even remembered this experience. Of course, he had not, the same way a Brit remembers what their neighbor had complained to them about the day before and if it was something so important that it couldn't wait until after a quick stop at the local pub, claiming that maybe "a pint on the house" could re-jog their memory.
The year was 1969, a cold December morning in New York City. Concord was making his daily commute to the offices of the Daily News, frequently being slowed by the heavy traffic of feet on the congested subway cars. People all around were dressed from head to toe in warm puffy clothes, children uncomfortably tore and whined at their tight garments, and employees of large unnecessary companies filed complexly into the small and depressing transit lines. All of this effort was to get from one point to the next in a minute box of space, traveling at dangerously high speeds underground.
Concord, like many others, had fallen victim to his restless nights of hard work where he had become a slave to insomnia.
Riddled with exhaustion, his body managed to function just well enough to process the action of squeezing in between the jam-packed mass of people. The doors finally slid open, producing a satisfactory chime. People rushed out from all sides as he stepped out onto the frigid subway floor. Walking up the layers of stairs and around the sleeping homeless led to a white wonderland of snow and frost.
The sun, despite being hidden away by the cascading clouds, still shone blindingly bright through the shade. Traffic lights, Trees, Cars, and signs along the road had all frozen over from the intense gelidity of the previous night and soft snowflakes drifted their way downwards atop the street lamps and soaring skyscrapers. Distant trucks sounded their horns as nearby construction sites' scaffolding rattled and scraped against the polished buildings.
Concord admired the glow that emitted from the towering Chrysler building's crowning spire as it became engulfed by the intense blizzard that whipped around the city shortly before finally finding himself in front of the offices of the pristine building. Pushing past the revolving doors revealed an elegant floor, golden rails, and a magnificent rotating globe underneath a divine dome-like structure. The walls reflected the compass design that set itself around the glow of the sphere's indentation.
"Ah! Speltzer. Just the person I was looking for." Caught off guard, the man was pulled out of his dream-like trance and into an unsought-for conversation. Concord forced a smile as the other approached.
"Otis Barlowe. What a- pleasant surprise!"
Otis Barlowe. A fellow company employee whose presence Concord had never quite been a fan of. This could have been due to the combination of his absurd personality and extravagant appearance if it weren't for his absolutely erratic impression on people. If someone were to walk past him on the streets of New York one might think to themselves how odd it was that they'd seen so many crazy individuals in one day and how they'd just like to finally get home so they could curl up with a good book and ponder about how odd the day had gone, but not Speltzer. No, Speltzer avoided him at all costs not because he feared the anxiety of not knowing Barlowe's next spontaneous move but because he knew Otis all too well.
Mr. Barlowe wore his hair uncombed and untidy, out of character for a former FBI Agent. His closet tended to consist of tacky suits or age-ridden Hawaiian shirts, yet on rare occasions such as meeting with clients, Otis managed to pull off an expensive and dapper attire with a refined watch to top it all off. God knows how he managed to pay for it, he thought.
In his left hand laid an unfinished company birthday card with signatures and good tidings.
Birthdays are defined in the dictionary as; a day marking or commemorating the origin, founding, or beginning of something. What the dictionary fails to mention is how unbelievably absurd birthday celebrations and cards transpire to be and how the things being celebrated should never have been conceived in the first place.
Otis violently threw his arm around Concord's shoulder, shaking him vigorously from side to side. Suddenly he held out the brightly decorated folded paper along with a blue pen. "While I've got you here," the friendly side hug turned into a constricting grasp that held Concord in place, unable to leave or slip away from the cage built around him. "People around the office including myself figured we might as well all chip in and make a birthday card for Cynthia."
"Of course..." Perhaps it was his overtly sunny demeanor that masked the odd notion of something being off. As the grin faded from the man's face it became clear that he wasn't like anyone he had ever met. There was something outlandish about his behavior not to mention the effect he had on others. Just as quickly as Concord entered the daze he was pulled out of it and brought back to reality.
"Loosen up, Francis. I heard you were getting a promotion today!" He grinned a toothy, sinister smirk as he looked the warmly dressed man up and down. "Finally going to stick it to the big man, eh?"
Concord finished writing the small note before shaking his head to regain his orientation, grimacing and pressing the other away uncomfortably. Dusting himself off, he unexpectedly stopped.
"I haven't heard of any promotion."
"No? Well, you must have. There's an opening for a remote position in Nuremberg," Otis combed his hair back in an attempt to tame the frayed strands as he spoke. "Germany. It's that little old town in the middle-" Concord cut him off abruptly.
"I know Nuremberg. I live there." Thoughts of returning home raced through his mind.
He could finally see his family
His Friends
Eat the food. Oh, the food from his childhood.
Finally, start a family.
And now he could return to his place of origin. There were just a few small obstacles in his way.
YOU ARE READING
The Cosmopolitan Gazette -Apollo L. Price
Bilim Kurgu'War correspondent' is no one's dream job. Especially when home is over thirteen hyperspace jumps away and in the center of an active battlefront. With the fear of the only home you've ever known being destroyed, it's terribly difficult to focus on...
