An anonymous young man sits in a lightly rusted iron chair outside a café. An anonymous city streams over the sidewalk and the street. He flips through the pages of a well-worn book, looking for a story he hasn't read. He sets the book down, takes a gulp of lukewarm coffee, surveys the street, then picks up the book again.
He opens it randomly and there it is. The Flash, by Italo Calvino.
It is a short, peculiar tale told by another anonymous man. This man is walking casually down a busy city street when he is struck by an invisible flash. Suddenly, nothing the man sees is as it should be.
The people's hurried movements, the way they stare straight ahead or glance about or nervously avert their eyes--it is all totally wrong and absurd and so plainly mistaken that he cannot contain himself and so he blurts something like:
"Stop! Hey! Everyone! What are we doing?? Can't you see how ridiculous we are? None of this is right. Look! Just look at us!"
The people turn toward the man skeptically. Their expressions are weary and annoyed.
"What are you talking about? Everything is fine. What's wrong with you?"
"I..."
But before he can explain, the flash is gone. The street is ordinary again. The people walk and stare ahead just the way they should.
"I... I'm sorry. Nevermind. You're right. I don't know what came over me. Everything is okay." He looks at the ground in shame.
The people glare a few moments longer, then shake their heads and mutter disapproval as they continue on their way.
The reader looks up, sets the book down, and takes another gulp of coffee as the story settles inside him. 'Huh,' he thinks.
The city scene in front him appears clearer somehow. It has more depth now. It's more like something he can peer into, less like something flat and hollow that moves across a screen.
*
A few days later, he is walking to the grocery store when he runs into a girl he knows. They grew up in the same town. They are pretty good friends, but he often feels uncomfortable when he's with her. He isn't sure if this is due to unacknowledged sexual tension.
"Hi," she says. She has a tendency to glance to the side or into the distance when she speaks.
"Hey." He isn't sure whether he shares this tendency. Who introduces the awkwardness? Who mirrors who?
"What are you doing?" She asks quickly and flatly.
"Going to the store. I don't have anything. Want to come?"
She briefly contemplates a distant skyscraper. "Yeah, okay."
They continue side by side, not saying much. He loves the strange intimacy of walking with someone through a large city.
They get to the store. Standing in front of the automatic doors, he says: "You know, I don't feel like shopping anymore. Want to walk to the park or something? It's a nice day."
"Um, okay. Wait, actually, I should probably get home. I have to work in a couple hours and I really need a nap."
"Ah, okay then."
"Walk with me to my bus?"
"Sure, okay."
He looks at her. Suddenly, her face begins a subtle transformation. The nervous barricade between them seems to vanish. He feels that they are very close, two of the closest people in the world, that he knows her very well.
A sarcastically raised eyebrow punctures the moment. He wonders if he's been looking at her strangely. She would likely raise an eyebrow sarcastically even if he looked at her in a perfectly ordinary way.
They walk to the bus stop. She gives him a warm, hurried hug when the bus arrives.
*
That night, he is alone and bored in his small apartment. He opens his laptop and goes to Al Jazeera Live. He watches a young Syrian man's entire lower jaw get blown apart by a shot from government security forces.
The grainy video was captured by a protester and uploaded to the web. "Allahu Akbar," wails the cameraman. "God is great!" He zooms in steadily on the mutilated face.
"Look what Assad has done! Fuck you Assad! Allahu Akbar! Fuck you Assad!"
He repeats these words again and again. The wounded man lies in the dirt amidst a swarm of distraught protesters and the intermittent crackle of gunshots. He is pale and disoriented. He raises a single fist, a plea for calm. The camera shot moves in, in, in, swaying gently, until all is mangled cartilage and dripping blood.
*
A few days later, the young man finds himself at the café again, in the same chair, reading The Flash for perhaps the tenth time. He can't seem to stop. Each time he finishes, he sets the book down, sips his cold coffee, and the something that he felt a week ago is there again, a bit stronger, a bit brighter, a bit more unsettling. He wonders if something has changed chemically in his brain. He wonders what a neurologist would say. He doesn't know a single neurologist.
*
That night, he's on a rooftop sipping a can of cheap beer and enjoying the lukewarm breeze. Several others chat and laugh around him. Someone softly and skillfully strums a guitar. He's trying to explain The Flash to a friend of his, hoping he doesn't sound crazy.
"No way man. It's not crazy at all. Or maybe it is, and that's the point. Either way, could I borrow that book? I'm intrigued."
"Um, I'd like to hold onto it. I could make copies."
"Sure, okay, or I'll grab it at the library."
The huge city night invigorates them. He imagines the swirling air as electrified helium seeping into their skulls. Just enough for them to hover a few feet off the concrete.
The young man says to his friend: "Something is changing. Something basic. The core, the fabric, the underlying formula. Know what I mean?"
The friend nods. "Everyone notices it. I can tell. Most people try to ignore it, but they know it's happening. What can we really do? Isn't it beyond us?"
"I don't know. I don't know whether to sing my heart out or scream my heart out in fear."
"SING!!!" someone shouts as loud as they can from behind them.
Drunken laughter resounds. It's a good party. They stay on the roof until dawn.
