Page 39 of 72 Hours of You

“What white really is,” Peter goes on, looking me in the eyes, “is misunderstood. But the most interesting things in life usually are.”

I can tell what he’s doing. He’s trying to sell me on the idea that I am somehow misunderstood and therefore interesting and unique and whatever. But the thing is, I’m not misunderstood. I’m messed up. There’s a big fucking difference.

“Listen, Peter, I think—” But the words die in my throat because at that exact moment, a bright pink neon clock lights up down the street.

Seventeen

I GRIP THE COLD STONE STAIRS. I knew this would happen. I knew it. It already happened once at Grand Central, and I knew the odds were that it would happen again. It’s fine, I tell myself. I do this all the time. Sure, not so many times in one day or even one month. But whatever. What’s one more, right?

“Sydney?” Peter says. His eyes follow mine. “Is … Is one of those things happening?”

“One of those things? Like where I see that someone is about to fucking die? Yeah. One of those things is happening.” I try to keep my breathing steady. Be cool. Be fucking cool.

By all accounts, this clock situation is a best-case scenario. It’s not a kid. It’s not a mom pushing a stroller full of cherub-cheeked little crotch goblins. It’s not one half of a set of lovers holding hands and smiling like they’re owed the world. It’s just … a random white guy. Late middle-aged, probably. He’s wearing khakis and a T-shirt with a graphic I can’t make out, and given his age and style, I can reasonably assume that this Boomer is at least indirectly responsible for climate change and the economy and probably multiple housing market collapses. He probably won’t even be missed.

“That guy?” Peter says.

I nod.

“How much time does he have left?”

“A full seventy-two,” I say, my eyes still on his Doom Scroll. “He just clocked in.”

“‘Clocked in,’” Peter repeats, like he’s trying out the words.

A surge of embarrassment snakes through my chest. This is so fucking weird. This macabre lexicon I made up for myself—clocking in, clocking out, Clockers, Zero Hour, the Doom Scroll—it’s all been inside my own mind for so long. But now I’m saying this shit out loud. To another person.

I steel myself and wait for him to say something about the term. To suggest something more sensitive or human or whatever. But he just says, “Damn. He looks like a guy who sends wholesome SpongeBob memes and Good morning! messages to the family group chat.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Him?” Maybe Peter’s color blindness is making him see things, because that guy looks like a dick. In fact, he has a full scowl going on right now. He doesn’t exactly seem like someone you’d fight to sit next to at Thanksgiving.

“Aw, come on,” Peter says, “look at him, he’s such a cinnamon roll.”

A cinnamon roll? Really? I look back at the Clocker. He looks like your average middle-aged asshole to me. He keeps walking in our direction, all fast and clenched, like he’s pissed Whole Foods stopped carrying his preferred milk alternative. But then he stops mid-stride. And scratches his chin. And pushes up his thick black glasses. And starts patting himself down like he’s forgotten something important. And if I try hard enough I can kind of see what Peter sees.

Maybe he wasn’t actually scowling. Maybe he was, like, pouting. Because now that I’m really watching, he doesn’t actually look frustrated or pissed, just kind of … helpless? Even his hair is rumpled, like he’s the lead in a romantic comedy geared at forty-year-old women. Like Oh, look at Thomas, he cannot keep mustard off his tie but he volunteers at a soup kitchen every Wednesday! Goddamn it. Now I can’t unsee it and part of me wants to go up to Probably Thomas and ask him if he needs directions or something even though I actually have no fucking idea where I am.

Peter pulls his eyes away from Probably Thomas, who is now sitting down on a stoop himself, going through his crossbody man-purse looking for whatever it is he’s lost. “Tell me what it’s like.”

I clear my throat and look across the street to the flower stand. “It’s fine,” I say. “I mean, it’s not, like, particularly awesome knowing when people are going to kick it, but it’s fine. We all die. I just happen to have some extra information other people don’t. Like insider trading with Death.” I force a laugh. “It’s weird but it’s not that bad.”

I wait for Peter to laugh with me. Or at least chuckle. He doesn’t.

“No,” he says. “I want to know what it’s really like for you.”

“It’s honestly fine.”

“Sydney.”

“Peter,” I say back. A woman across the street picks up a bouquet of flowers, smells them, then puts them back. She smiles at the person manning the stand outside the bodega. When the person heads back inside, she looks around, plucks a big yellow flower out of the bouquet, hides it in her oversized jean jacket, and speed-walks away. Goddamn people.

“You can tell me,” Peter says, his eyes still on me.

“Tell you what?” I say, unable to keep the edge out of my voice. “What do you want to hear?”

“The truth.”

I scoff. “No one in the history of anything has ever actually wanted to hear the truth.”