INITIUM NOVUM: Part 1 Read Free

the madness in it all,
because there is nothing he can do to disobey the voice. The matter
is out of his hands. Still, he looks for a different channel,
different option. His endeavor is to no avail. Looking around the
subway cart, he takes notice of nothing which can help him invent a
name. The train begins to pull into the next station.
    “This is my stop, stranger. I have a sudden
detour before work.”
    “Can I have your number?” He blurts
out.
    No. Pull back.
    “You are so not my type. But, I don’t know,
fuck it, I guess,” she says, reaching into her purse and handing
him a pinkish-beige business card with a golden script font printed
on both sides. “When you remember your name, call me.”
    “Sure,” he says, taking the business card from
her.
    They smile at each other before she walks out
of the train car and across the platform smiling because she likes
him; but, in being quite frank with herself, does not understand –
for the life of her – why she likes him or what is it about him
that she likes. He just feels very familiar to her. Sure, he’s an
okay-looking guy, but that cannot be it. The girl is used to
model-caliber males fawning over her. And in all actuality, she
prefers a more thuggish look to her potential courters, piercings,
tattoos, and the like; he possesses none of these qualities.
However, she did like that he might have been high, as she has
never been able to help the fact that she is drawn to a certain
type: losers, derelicts, criminals, delinquents, and
etc.
    The girl’s business card reads:
     
    Laura Cohen
    Assistant to the District Attorney
    New York County
    (212) 114 1986
     
    Obviously, Laura is older than she appears to
be. However, the irony, which escapes the young man, is the fact
that Laura Cohen has a specific type, unbeknownst to the young man
with no name at the moment. That specific type happens to be the
very kind of people she has built a career upon, the dredges of
society. It is unclear whether her type is a result of
over-exposure to the certain men encountered in her work day or if
her career is a result of her gravitating towards her sexual
interest. More importantly than it being unclear is it being
unimportant. The fact that is of note is that, time after time, her
type has fallen to her will in the courtroom. As a general rule of
thumb, she usually has her way with men, whatever her way might be
at that moment. Men either love her, getting their hearts broken
along the way, or they hate her and she break their hearts in a
different fashion.
    Still at a lost over what his own name might
be, the young man ponders over the possibility that he had recently
ingested some memory impairing substance. A random series of
thoughts form a train and lead him to suspect that perhaps the lady
was right and he indeed is high.
    No… He shakes the thought from his head. If he
were high, he’d know it, he’s sure of that. Besides that, he was
most likely busy last night with something important. An instinct
buried deep inside of him reaffirms his belief that yesterday he
was surely preoccupied. With what exactly? He couldn’t say, even if
he wanted to.
    The downtown-bound train pulls into yet
another station. Rising from his seat, he steps out of the subway
car and ascends the staircase leading to the surface. Walking
absentmindedly, his feet take him to his yet to be discovered
destination. When he finally becomes conscious of where he is, he
figures that he has made some type of mistake. The sight before him
cannot be right. Logic dictates that there is no way he has an
interview there, at the location his feet had placed him at. What
position could he possibly hope to attain there at a newsstand? A
shabby little hut under the Brooklyn Bridge.
    “This is bullshit,” he says loud enough for
those passing by to hear him. In addition to his complaint, his
empty stomach growls. For the first time since the incident, he
thinks of the old lady. More specifically, he thinks