Caleb Flahey had always been a bookish man; this was told by thick spectacles and a ponderous slouch, by the crow’s feet at his eyes, or by the coffee stains from the spills of a late night read. Yet, today, he had slunk further into his maze of words, his back pressed deep into the spine of a leather chair. A coffee mug sat by his right arm. It was cold and stale.
It was raining outside -- droplets of water fell against a large window pane with a pitter - patter that spoke of tiny footsteps and soldier toys -- but Flahey’s eyes held only love for the computer set before him. Fetters, unchain the fetters, he thought. His elbow nudged the coffee, but there was a large enough distance between the him and the ceramic that it did not spill. Fetter, fetter, all the better. The machine beside him hummed lightly, and a fan whirred overhead. “No,” one said. “Yes,” said the other, and, for the life of him, Caleb Flahey could not decide which statement was more true.
“Stop that,” said Jayla Pinesfield. “You know I hate it when you smoke. I can smell tobacco through the doors.”
“Yes?” Flahey asked politely enough, but feared that Jayla might’ve seen his lack of care. He looked at her through the side of a fishbowl, not quite hearing and without fully seeing. Something about smoking, was it? He wondered how the cigarette had ended up lit and in his hand. He had promised to quit; it had been his only resolution for the new year.
“You’re smoking. Stop. Please. I have asthma,” she said, in a way that one might wave a get out of jail free card. But he snuffed his smoke against a damp wall and walked away.
It was still raining as he crossed the street from Mulberry to 47th. “Move your slow, white - collar ass,” the crossing guard told him. The neon sign opposite the sidewalk blinked, “twenty, nineteen, eighteen.” He reached it with ten seconds to spare. And why was he here? To buy another pack? He doubted it, even as he walked past three teens, each with a cigarette or paper bag in one hand. Screw the rain, damn it all, he thought angrily. Trees swayed above him, long and green and willowed, great leaves dripping water like sweat. Elsewhere their branches were bare, missing cloaks of brilliant shades or dappled brown come fall. It was winter, though, and a great gust had picked up along the side of the road. With it came a sheet of water and garbage and the hems of Flahey’s coat too.
The market straddled the top of a muddy hill, who bore one road that round thrice about its sides before coming to rest at the very top. It was not always this hard going, but mud sloughed off where the tree roots were weak, splattered the walkways with a coat of slick dirt. Here and there, small divots in the concrete had turned to large puddles. By the end, Caleb’s socks had become damp with wet. “Don’t forget it, don’t forget it,” said the wind. “Buy it, buy it.” But he gave in halfway through and headed back. He wondered why he hadn’t taken his car. And why not? It was at the forefront of his mind as he would his way down, through a dark tunnel where homeless slept, and past the three teens whose bottles were regrettably empty. The crossguard was absent when he came to cross 47th to Mulberry, and he gave his thanks for that.
“We’ve faced worse conditions than this,” Flahey said. A burly man stared back, padded in white - purple clothes, a lettered sigil displayed upon his left breast. The helmet and its bars blocked the response of “yes coach” from the first and those behind him. “A little rain, a little wind? The ball will fly straight and true.” But Flahey found himself quite wrong, for it was not just a little rain. There was quite a lot of it as they burst through the doors and found empty seats to cheer them on.
“Caleb Flahey?” An intern asked. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. Is there anything I can get you? A cup of coffee, a dry lab coat?”
He stood by his computer once more, staring at his cup of mostly filled coffee. A puddle of water had collected by his feet; his leather shoes would be ruined by now, but he found himself surprised that he didn’t care at all. The computer blinked, the machine hummed, the fan whirred. “Click yes,” one voice hissed. “It’s so simple. Just click the button.” Flahey’s finger hovered over the mouse. “Click no,” said the other. “There’s no coming back from what you’re about to do.” Finally, he said, “Some dry clothes would suit me best. And warm the coffee for me, would you?”
The intern left, but Flahey stayed with the hums and whirs and the voices he heard. Fetters, fetters, like the debtors. His fingers swayed once, twice, thrice, but in the end he clicked yes.
They walked together from the room, and through sliding doors and empty halls, down past locker - doors where the faint scents of axe - masked sweat came through. Near the final step, Caleb Flahey closed his eyes, for each and every turn had been graven on the backs of his lids. He prayed when he opened them that the seats would not be empty.
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