Ghost City Blues: Love and Death in the time of Corona Virus

Twenty-Four

New York City. April, 2020.

"Times Square," said Dylan as they stood in the middle of the empty intersection.

"You know what gets me about this place? It's not even a square."

"I think it was called that for the New York Times. They used to have their offices over there, at number one."

"I should know that." Plague shook her head. "The amount of times I've been here."

"A lot, huh?"

"Dude, I was here when it was New Amsterdam. And before."

They walked up Seventh Avenue, on the white lines in the middle of the street.

"So you sold your mom's soul, huh?" Plague whistled. "That's mean behaviour right there."

Dylan nodded. "They wanted someone I loved. I love her." He shrugged. "I mean, I'm not going to defend it. I've imagined her dead before, you know. She's quite distant, we're not very alike. It makes no difference to me that she's alive or dead, really, speaking honestly. I prefer you're here. And," he threw up his arms. "I really didn't have anyone else."

"Brutally cold, man."

"You never made a decision like that?"

"I don't make decisions. I'm like you – or like you wanna be – I'm a harbinger, you know. An observer. I kinda watch death. But – I mean, you've seen this, right, that death is just a change, just a change of place, really – well, you know, in the end it all kinda leaves you cold." She looked across at Dylan but he was looking down at his shoes. The city was quiet, the windows around them lit up. "You know, now the emotion of it all doesn't even move me. It just looks like a reaction, like something people do – like they're programmed to do." She started laughing. "That's why your sociopathic lack of empathy and cold-heartedness is kinda shocking – even after all these years."

"I think of it more as logic, but hey..."

"Well, I guess, using your weird, sick way of thinking, I'm kinda glad you decided to kill your mom for me."

"What happened to you, anyway?"

"I was taken back. Jumped."

"By who? For what?"

"I don't know. I didn't find out. It's happened before. I think I have some power, some value that I don't know about, you know. I'm important to someone or something." She threw up her hands. "I'm just part of the big scene, the big whatever this is."

"Is that Central Park?" There was a patch of darkness up ahead of them.

Plague had thought of something. "You know that's what kills everyone – gods, mortals, God, whatever – we're all part of something, all of us. Ideas in someone's head, I think. Bubbles in a bath. The aftershock of an explosion. I really think it's that – we're just bit part players in a big drama – but we only play the part because we're given motivation, you know. We feel like we're important. And I really think that's the prime driver, especially with all living things. Protaganism. Being the main character. I don't think we ever shake that because I don't think we can." She looked across at Dylan. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"It's a photo. A passport photo or," he was examining what he'd picked up from the gutter. "Something."

"Of who?"

"I don't know. I just collect them. Or, I used to. In my old life. One of 'em."

Plague shook her head. "You're weird."

"Yep. I'm weird. You have crow's wings and glittery eyes and don't care about death and freak people out but I'm weird."

They walked into an empty Central Park, entering through the locked, barred gate.