The Upper West Side Express

Randall grunted and licked his lips. Barbequed dog hair? He exhaled. Ugh, no, that’s my own breath. Also, ow. He forced an eye open, and sat upright with a start, head throbbing. This was not his apartment.

Fuzzy memories clawed their way back to the surface. Drinks after work with Colin to celebrate their contract win. Hey, that two hundred dollar signing bonus wasn’t going to spend itself. Ill-advised clubbing. The girl who was still chatting with him at last call, promising she had two doses of Fun at her place. The dizzying capsule ride South to Soho, crammed together, getting more acquainted. The note left on the other pillow, stuffed in a teddy bear’s lap, explained a few loose ends.

Hey, Sleepyhead! Have a donut from the box on the counter, if you want. I have to go on ahead, or I’ll be late for my launch to work. Just lock the doorknob behind you on your way out. Call me!

He couldn’t make out the name scrawled at the end of the note, but she had written out her telesat number. He stuffed the note in his pocket, once he had found his pants. He yawned and looked out a window at a sea of unrecognized hi-rise apartment buildings. “Where am I? Shit!” He found his telesat handheld under the bed. Okay, it was late, but we’re only talking 8:03. His department meeting was at 9am, and his sat’s GPS placed him only two hops from work. Score! Randall grabbed the entire box of donuts and ran out the door.

Distracted by an absolute mother of a hangover, he jammed the down button at the hall elevator without thinking, stuffing one donut in his mouth. He bit down, pushing most of the strawberry filling out the opposite end. He watched as jelly splattered on both his left brown leather shoe, and a mouse that must have recently died next to the elevator. He spit out the donut with a squeal, and took the stairs. That was weird. An elevator with no transaction fee? Eliza/Alice’s condo fees must be insane. Colin was going to crap himself over this story at lunch.

He wandered outside, consuming the remaining donuts. Bright sunlight greeted him with a sharp needle of pain over both eyes. As he squinted, a sidewalk tree executed a perfect somersault and waved a jolly good morning. Residual Fun in his system meant that this was sure to be an entertaining work meeting, but he had to get there first. He took a deep breath and tried to focus. This sector’s transit departure station was right in front of him, but on the other side of the street. With no time to wait for a crosswalk signal, Randall decided to try his luck with jaywalking. He was nearly run over by three cyclists, trilling bells and goose honks of disapproval following him all the way across six lanes of bike traffic. He jogged into the transit lobby and chose a bank of elevators from the four Cardinal directions. Those crazy idiots! They should just use transit passes, like everyone else! He swiped his card to pay for the trip to the departure lobby, 150 floors above.

Scanning the departure board, rush hour for the morning commute winding down, it initially looked like Randall would be forced to travel through either Koreatown or Hell’s Kitchen to get back to the Upper West Side, where he lived and worked. With a stroke of luck, he managed to join the queue for the 8:42 Express, one hop from this terminal instead of two. A bored technician strapped Randall into his capsule seat and closed the hatch. A dim light illuminated the interior. A hiss indicated that interior air pressure checks had passed, but the air conditioning system was down. He immediately began sweating. The stifling interior slowly exposed the tell-tale light sour aroma of previous passengers. Though muffled booming meant he was close to the front of the queue, Randall now regretted his fifth donut.

His capsule rotated slightly, lining up his line of sight through the glass with the official set of rules and legal forfeits, many thanks for your continued patronage. A cartoon duo of kids in the corner, looking very happy to have arrived in one piece, admonished the passenger. Remember! Breath through your nose!

“Relax now!” A mechanical voice chirped from a battered speaker behind his head. “Traveling in, Three! Two!” A loud metallic clunk signaled the point of no return. Randall gripped the arms of his seat and closed his eyes. It had been a while since he had taken an Express, and he was beginning to remember why. The much higher vertical gain required a longer, more energetic stop at his destination. The chance to steal a few extra moments in his office, perhaps change into his emergency suit before the meeting, had sounded good a few minutes ago. He shouldn’t have declined the vitamin and motion sickness injections at check-in.

Metal scraped on metal, ending with a high-pitched clang as his capsule’s kinetic band released. Sudden and heavy pressure shoved Randall against the back of his safety chair, eyes still squeezed shut. He hated this part the most, and it felt prudent to ignore the outside world in his current state. He felt pressure slowly ease off a few moments later, and finally caught his breath. He opened his eyes to a commanding view stretched clear to the horizon, the selling point of modern commuting in style. The quarter moon hung in a clear blue sky, yellow sun clearly visible for once, a blanket of silver and blue clouds below. So puffy. The clouds slowly rushed up to greet him, briefly enveloped his capsule in a cushy hug, and quickly fell away above. Is that mid-town already? Miles of buildings reached hundreds of stories into the sky, broken by a small rectangular green park up ahead on his right, under its protective dome. Dozens of spheres, blinking safety lights at the North pole, filled the air. The capsules soared around and below him, fellow travelers in their own parabolic arcs over the city.

“Curse it all, why did they make these things transparent?” He found it impossible to clear his mind of a slow motion replay: the morning’s falling strawberry jelly.

Randall’s screams cut out briefly a few times, particularly after his capsule used its course-correction jets. The ride became very bumpy as the capsule shifted to intercept its intended choice from among his work tower’s series of different funnels. After he finished rolling to the terminal, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, heaving and panting. This was the last time he partied with Colin on a Tuesday night.

A series of piercing, high pitched beeps sang a little song behind his head. “Cleaning fee. Three hundred dollars.”


Reddit WritingPrompt [WP] In an effort to reduce their carbon footprint, a town replaces their public transport system with a complex network of catapults and trebuchets. Karma can strike like a bowling ball.


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