King Tut's Keys

Your husband peeks into your Pickwick backpack, standing open on a chair in the kitchen.

"You've got the contents of King Tut's tomb in there," he says, and he's not wrong.

One thing you don't have in that bag? The keys to Redbeard Bikes. And not because you've returned them to the landlord, that day is still in the future, more foreseeable than ever, but still future.

No, you don't have the keys in your bag, because you hardly go to the shop anymore. You have a new job, a badge, a desk, a drawer of shoe, a coffee cup just for the office. When you do find yourself in DUMBO, it feels like going back in time, and even though Jay Street has been re-cobbled you can still feel your footfalls from ten years ago, running down to the coffee shop for last call at five to seven, a mug in each hand. Dubious habit, essential habit.

So when, on Friday night, after work, you have extra energy and decide to zip down to DUMBO to work on emptying the shop, it's only in the tunnel between East Broadway and York that you realize you do not have your shop keys.

Old you would have cried. New you starts laughing. New you gets out at York and waits for the train back to Manhattan. New you is relieved.

*

Some things don't change. New you, just like old new, now launches into a private algorithm that compares possible routes home to Jersey, Penn vs. Hoboken, and if Hoboken, which PATH line will it be? What errands can you run? What boxes can you check? Is there time to call a friend? To see a friend?

You choose Penn, there's just enough time to pick up sandwiches at Sophie's for dinner. You could get off at 23rd and walk south a few blocks, or get off at 34th and walk north a few blocks, you choose 34th. You order as you walk, directly from Sophie's, which they prefer, and the order is ready mere moments after you arrive. You almost add a cafe con leche, then abstain.

Now off to Penn. On the way you fall for coffee after all, and make your train, but the coffee is disappointing and you regret it. The private algorithm often forgets to account for regret.

Out there in the burbs, once the train has escaped Manhattan and Newark, the conductor instructs people sitting in the first and last cars to walk forward to exit, and later first car and last two cars, and later last three cars.

"The train gets shorter and shorter," you say.

"The train stays the same," he says, "the platforms get shorter."

"Is that new?"

"Yes. People complained the train was packed, so they added cars."

And it's nice to know that you're not so new anymore. You remember a time before.

"Before" grows and grows, and "after" becomes more and more foreseeable.

If you've read "Junco and Wolf" in issue No. 33 of A Public Space magazine, I would love to know what you thought of the story! Just hit reply to this email or email kasia.nikhamina (at) gmail (dot) com

Divinity School • a letter every Sunday at sunset • if you’re always looking, after some time you’ll have seen