Elliot Wythe-Pulk couldn’t feel anything, yet felt everything, numbly, from his intangible center up to the dark lids of his own universe.
He wasn’t sure how long it took him to adjust to his surroundings, to figure out the actualities of what his senses told him as they slowly, almost reluctantly, switched on and laboriously sent messages to his brain, giving him the best evaluation possible, given the circumstances and information received.
He was on his back. That was the first thing he was privy to. His breath came out in vapors, the warmth in a tango with the cold, floating up and disintegrating light years before they reached the stars. The sight of his breath told him it was cold before he even felt it, and reminded him it was winter before he registered it.
He hadn’t tried to move yet. It seemed immediately less important than trying to simultaneously slough off the lingering dreamlike fogginess he felt and page through his current memories, looking for a stray clue as to why he was (obviously) a. outside, b. at night, c. in the winter, d. on his back e. in some (as of yet) unknown location.
He moved his legs and arms, relieved that they functioned. Which made him ask himself why he thought they wouldn’t. His jacket, stiff with cold, crinkled with his movements. In his mind, Elliot saw the picture of a man—dirty, bedraggled, not-right-in-the-head. He didn’t know if it was the image of himself or someone else. He put his hands to his face. The wool gloves were cold, but not as cold as the air. He huffed out warm air into the gloves, which spread thru the material and engulfed his face for a warm moment. He repeated this a few times until he gathered up enuff personal initiative to sit up.
A big ‘C’. A gigantic capital letter ‘C’ was the first thing he saw. It was light blue and outlined in white and it was huge. He felt the distance between him and the majuscule C, the depth of air between him and the large chunk of rock it was painted on and the towering building, with a crux of its lights out, upon that rock. Elliot focused on the depth between himself and the C. Stretching out before him, a swatch of grass led to a river, on which large blooms of ice wiggled slowly downstream, barely moving, as thick veins of water coursed around them, peering up into the night.
Night?
Elliot lifted his watch to his face. Or, he meant to. His watch was gone. He looked to his left. Trees. Woods. Beyond that, a bridge. His neck was sore. He looked to his right. Tan-colored lines of dirt converged on one another. He followed these lines. They surrounded him. He glanced down to where he was sitting and it, too, was tan dirt, which was connected to one of the corners of the square he was in.
Of course, he thought.
A baseball field.
He sighed with accomplishment. He started putting it all together. Woods on a slope. A river. A baseball field. He looked around with more scrutiny. Foot paths. Iron lampposts. Beyond home plate, a metal cage, and beyond that, vacant bleachers and still further on, apartment buildings peeked over into the park—standing sentry, watching but not getting involved.
The big C, he knew, stood for Columbia. As in, University. Good, he thought to himself, I’m still in the city. Sporadic shushing sounds came from the bridge on his left. The latticed metalwork gave off a hushed luminance as if it imbibed light instead of echoing it. The clank and whine of subway brakes made their way from somewhere distant into his ears.
Elliot’s head filled with geographic maths. The subway must be an elevated one, he figured. That would put him, he pondered, maybe somewhere between 125th and 145th? Because, he blinked, the train comes above ground after 116th, and goes back underground before 137th. Although, no, probably not. He didn’t know of any parks around 125th, at least on the west side of Manhattan, which is where he was assuming he was. There was a park near 145th, right on the river. But hearing the train, underground as it was at 145th, would’ve been darn near imposs—
Or!
The train came up above ground around 200-and-somethingth Street, he rationalized. Which would place him in the Fort Tryon Park or Inwood area. Which would ultimately place him on the Bronx-bordered upper tip of Manhattan. Elliot looked again at the big C. Yes, it was definitely the Bronx lurking sleepily behind the giant rock and building at this hour.
This hour.
Elliot patted his pockets—first his jacket, then his pants. He felt the familiar rectangular block of his cell phone. His cold fingers dug hungrily into his pocket, both for the device and the warmth
Did I have gloves?, he asked himself, unsure.
He stared equally as blankly at the crack in the cellphone’s darkened face as the crack was staring back at him. He closed and reopened it a few times, pressed every button. Still nothing. He had to find out the time. He had to find out where he was. He had to figure out how he’d gotten there.
First things first, he told himself as he stood up. His legs were also sore. Pins and needles shot thru his left foot. He shook it to get the sleep out and the blood in. The cold air blew thru him. His limbs felt frozen, trapped in slumber. To clear his head, he filled his lungs with a huge helping of air. It only made him momentarily dizzy. He put his phone back into his pants pocket, then burrowed his hands into the warmish confines of his jacket pockets. He turned toward the apartment buildings and headed off the baseball diamond.
