A cop glares at Boone as the announcement crackles over the speakers:
Backpacks and other large containers are subject to random search by the New York City Police Department.
He focuses on his breathing—one hand on the pole, the other clamped to his laptop bag.
He tugs at his knotted tie, checks his watch: 1:50 p.m.
He rolls up his oxford sleeve, glances over his shoulder: the cop is still eyeing him.
He fixes on a subway ad: a dermatologist with a half-smile.
Now You Can Have… Beautiful Clear Skin.
He studies the before-and-after photos under the cop’s heavy gaze.
The train slows. Straphangers huddle by the doors.
A prerecorded voice chimes in:
This is Third Avenue.
The cop exits. The riders step off while he scans the platform.
New passengers board, the cop trailing after.
This is an 8th Avenue-bound L train.
The next stop is 14th Street—Union Square.
Boone slips into the shuffle.
Stand clear of the closing doors, please.
The train lurches forward. Boone keeps his eyes straight ahead. In the dark window, the cop’s reflection—indifference.
Boone rolls his neck, loosens his shoulders.
It’s all in your head, dude.
He catches a stray whiff of his bag and cringes.
This is 14th Street—Union Square.
Transfer available to the 4, 5, 6, N, Q, R and W.
Boone widens his stance as it screeches to a stop.
The doors open. Hot, thick air hits hard.
Then the music.
The distorted wah-wah of an electric guitar—a dreadlocked man in a motorcycle half-helmet shreds a Hendrix riff.
One flight up: a bald, sweaty maniac hammers open-palmed on a drum kit—stomping one leg, rattling a tambourine with the other.
On the mezzanine level, four men stand ready for war—the NYPD Counterterrorism Bureau. Dressed in black tactical gear, they hold assault rifles, observing, expressionless.
Above ground, Union Square is a circus—artists and farmers, grifters and drifters, preachers and skateboarders.
Chanting rises from the street: a group of about 50 anti-Iraq War protesters.
Bush lied.
Thousands died.
Bush lied.
Thousands died.
The protesters pass: there is a large banner carried by multiple people depicting Bush as a puppet, Cheney as the puppeteer—it reads: Cheney Pulls The Strings.
The smaller signs vary:
Bush is a War Criminal
Stop Cheney’s War Profiteers
9/11 Was an Inside Job
U.S. out of the Middle East
He lights a cigarette as he watches the roving protest move toward the Virgin Megastore.
The noise fades. He takes out his Nextel, uncertain:
Hello, hello, hello—
This is Pittsburgh.
I’m checking in.
The phone chirps: a female voice with a smooth, familiar cadence follows.
What’s up, Pittsburgh?
Welcome aboard, man.
A chirp.
Thanks.
A chirp.
I’m giving you Downtown and Williamsburg.
You ready for your first couple?
A chirp.
He takes a pad and pen from his bag, now ready to jot:
Lay ‘em on me.
A chirp.
Your first one is Estelle:
40 East 9th Street.
Apartment 1E.
A chirp.
Boone jots it down.
*****
The building has automatic sliding glass doors with gold etching across them—The Sheridan, 40 East 9th Street.
A uniformed doorman intercepts Boone.
How can I help you?
I’m here to see Estelle.
Apartment 1E.
Very well.
The doorman picks up the phone.
Who should I tell her is here?
Uh…
Pitt.
Mr. Pitt?
No—
Tell her it’s Mr. Burgh.
Mr. Burgh?
Yep…
That’s me.
The doorman eyes him skeptically as he lifts the phone. Boone can make out the rings.
An older woman cackles in a thick New York accent:
Hello?
Mr. Burgh is here to see you.
Oh great!
Send him back.
The doorman hangs up the phone.
Go ahead—
Right down the hall.
Thanks…
A tall, clean-shaven yuppie stands in the doorway.
Mr. Burgh, I presume…
That’s me.
I’m Ted.
Come on in.
Thanks.
Ted shuts the door behind him.
Estelle’s back here.
Boone’s voice cracks:
Okay.
You must be new.
I haven’t seen you around.
Boone clears his throat.
I am.
You want some water or anything?
No thanks.
I’m fine.
Ted leads him into the living room where a slovenly grandmother slumps on the couch, watching Doctor Who, a dachshund asleep beside her.
You must be Mr. Burgh—
You’re new.
Ted leans in:
Yes, Estelle.
We were just discussing that.
She studies Boone:
You’re dressed so professionally.
Looks like you have an office job.
That’s the point.
Ah…
Do you like dogs, Mr. Burgh?
Yeah—
I got a mutt.
Where is he?
With a sitter.
I can’t take him on the subway.
Cops’ll fuck with me.
That’s no fun.
You should bring him.
Stoners love dogs.
Ted speaks up, impatient:
Estelle—
He can’t.
The cops will hassle him.
Mr. Burgh doesn’t need that.
Oh…
She spaces out for a moment—then snaps back and nudges the dachshund awake.
Mr. Muttleberry—
We’ve got a visitor.
The dog opens its bleary eyes—unimpressed.
She throws up her arms:
Oh well…
He’s shy.
Ted corrects:
That dog is lazy,
not shy.
She marches over to the dining room table:
Lazy like her owner.
She pats the tabletop.
C’mon, Mr. Burgh—
break out the shit.
Boone flinches at her bluntness. He sets his bag on the table, opens it and removes the rubber-banded plastic cubes of marijuana, one-by-one. Her excitement builds as he lines them up:
This is Trainwreck.
This is Purple Kush.
This is NYC Diesel.
And this is Silver Haze.
She pounces on the cubes:
These look fresh.
Bands snap—sorting turns to fondling.
Ted joins:
Definitely these two.
The neat stacks collapse into chaos under greedy hands.
Such delicious salad, Teddy Bear.
You know it, Momma Bear.
Boone winces:
If you could just keep them where I can see them—
I’d appreciate it.
Estelle’s face tightens:
Of course—
I would never…
Ted’s smile steadies:
Nothing nefarious here, Mr. Burgh—
I assure you.
She hastily adds to the pile of keepers:
These too.
Now it’s just sloppiness—impossible to count.
Boone snaps:
Please.
A little respect.
I’m responsible for these.
Mr. Burgh—
No.
I don’t know you—
if you’re trying to get over or what.
Ted goes diplomatic:
We understand.
No disrespect meant.
We’re sorry.
Fine.
How many are you getting?
Ted adds a few more, trades a glance with her.
Estelle decides:
We’ll get these.
She turns to Ted:
How many is that?
Ted counts:
That’s twelve.
She looks to Boone:
So…
$600?
Correct.
She takes a bank envelope out of her velvet sweatpants and starts counting out $20 bills.
Boone gathers the unsold. Counts. She offers the cash.
Ma’am, please.
Hold on.
She backs off:
Okay, okay…
He finishes packing up.
All right.
We’re good here.
Now I’ll take your money.
She hands him the cash:
Thank you, Mr. Burgh.
I’m sorry if we caused you stress.
He ignores her. Counts the twenties. Thirty. Nods. Pockets the cash.
He echoes Jon’s words:
No need to be sorry.