Fifty-Fifty
by Susan Charkes

 

Midday, early spring, I'm still shaking off the winter doldrums. I look for a place on the subway platform to close my eyes for a quick forty winks - naah, more like twenty, before the downtown local arrives. Nope - my luck, all the seats are taken, even though there's hardly anyone else here. Who woulda figured? It's not like it's a peak travel time. Most honest working men and career women are at their desks this time of day. Me, I'm waltzing around the Bronx on this lovely day because that's where my dentist is - my gal put me on to him back when he had an office in the same building as mine, and once you find a good dentist, well, you've got to follow him wherever he goes, even if it's now two transfers and a six-block walk away.

I find a column to lean against, reach into my shirt pocket for a smoke, then think better of it - it'd be a shame to sully my teeth now that they're all shiny and polished. Prop the Trib in front of my face. Why they call it a newspaper I don't know - nothing's new, same old doom and gloom as yesterday and the day before and last year and ten years ago. Only the names are different. Last year Truman, this year Eisenhower. Today it's Communists we're scared of; seems like just a week ago it was the Japs and the Germans.

I feel a yawn coming on, just as a rush of air from the express tunnel rustles the newspaper, nearly grabbing out of my hands. Take the express to 59th then the uptown local? or wait for the downtown? Ahh, the eternal question. I reach into my pocket for a penny - heads I grab it, tails I hang around.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a boy, maybe 11 or 12, dart past me; he must have come down the stairs behind me at the other end of the platform. He's racing toward the platform, going to check and see how far away the train is - no wait, he's looking downtown, not uptown, away from the train - he's looking the wrong way - he's gonna get his head clonked if he doesn't move outta there! "Hey kid! Get back!" The roar of the train is drowning out my screams. If I can just - one, two, I leap toward him, still looking the wrong way, stupid kid, what's wrong with him? He must be deaf. Or from out of town. Just as the train pulls in he looks up, realizes his mistake, too late, a wide-eyed panic freezes him solid, as I grab his shirt and pull him back. He's so light, I pull so hard, that both of us vault backwards, fall in a heap on the filthy concrete. The train shrieks to a halt inches in front of our feet.

People are stepping over us in their hurry to get on the train. "Move it, willya?"

The kid untangles himself and sprints for the doors as they close, leaving me staring up at him from the platform. I catch his eyes through the window as the train pulls away. Dark, staring, expressionless. He coulda bought it right there. "Yeah, you're welcome," I say in disgust, as I unbend, clamber stiffly to my feet and brush off the pants, the jacket, uncrush the hat brim. Kids.

Well, that saved me making a decision. Have to wait for the local now. I look around on the platform for my paper, though it'll have been shredded by pounding feet.

Wham! A bulldozer, or a tornado, or a ton of bricks, slams me into a column so hard I feel the steel shudder. My spine feels like it's been replaced by a white-hot poker. My head's being squeezed flat against the column while my nose is being moved from my face to the back of my head straight thought my brain. I try to gasp, can't breathe. The wind must be knocked out of me.

What was that? As my eyes strain to focus on what attacked me I realize I'm surrounded by darkness. Scratchy, muffled darkness. I scrabble at it. Seems to contain something solid. An overcoat? My breath comes back in short gasps. I wheeze, "What the - hell ya - doin'? Get offa - me!"

Whatever - whoever - it is lifts off slightly, enough for me to breathe unobstructed by the cloth muffler, not enough for me to see. My head's pounding, nose dripping something warm and wet and sticky.

It growls.

OK, it's a bear. Escaped from the Zoo, slipped through the turnstile upstairs and tried to make the express. I understand now.

"Do you know who that was?"

A talking bear.

"Pal, I don't know who 'who' was, but you'd better step away real slow so's I can find a cop and have you arrested for assault."

He whips around, grabs my collar and slams me back against the column. His face - I can't see any face, just a shadow between his pulled-down hat and his pulled-up collar. But his breath is hot and fetid close against my forehead. He's got my ears yanked up so hard, the pain is nauseating.

"Lee Harvey Oswald, that's who it was. You saved his life, you stupid jerk."

"You mean that kid? He's the stupid jerk. Didn't even thank me. What's your problem, anyway? Step back, goddammit." I work my hands in between us and try to shove him, but he's a mountainous piece of flesh; I succeed only in causing pain to streak through my wrists.

"He's gonna assassinate President Kennedy. He was about to be killed, don't you see. Now he's alive. He's alive and Kennedy's doomed. Him and fifty thousand American kids, killed in Vietnam; Kennedy wouldn't've escalated the way Johnson did, he woulda pulled out before it got too late. He didn't have a manhood problem, not like LBJ-"

I wriggle desperately to get out from under this madman, but he's got me pinned. "What are you talking about?" I say through gritted teeth. "Last time I looked, mister, the president was named Eisenhower, not Kennedy. Who's being killed in Vienna? The war's over, friend, you missed it. V-E Day. We had that." I'm getting the picture now. This guy's messed up in the head. A vet, maybe the Battle of the Bulge. My Uncle Bill, he's never been the same either. "Come on, leggo of me. I'll, I'll buy ya a drink. How 'bout that? Make you feel better right away."

He steps back. Not more than an inch. Not enough so I can see his face. "You think I'm cracked, don't you? Round the bend, right?"

"Of course not, pal," I protest. "Naah, it's a natural reaction when someone saves a kid's life to slam him against a post. I don't know what I was thinking. Should've let him go. Should've let him get ground into hamburger meat. In fact, it's a good thing you did that or - I would've had to do it to myself. Couldn't've lived with myself if I hadn't. Yep, I-"

He grabs me again, twists my collar tight under my Adam's apple. "Shuddup."

Frankly, it's not like I have much of a choice, not with that vise grip. I wonder if anyone's noticed I'm being beaten up. Whether they've gone to get some help. Or did everyone get on the express? Eventually someone's got to see us. It's the middle of the platform, for godsake.

It's like he's read my mind, because now he looks around, relaxes his grip around my throat, but hugs me around the shoulder like we're old friends. "Go over that way," he says gruffly, shoving me ahead of him.

I try to shake him off, but he grabs me tighter. He pushes me back to the wall formed by the staircase, then slips around the side so I'm facing the express tracks and he's behind and to my left. "In case you're thinking about making a break for it," he snarls, "don't. I've got a gun aimed at your left ear. You won't get any farther than the third rail."

"Look, whaddya want from me," I say wearily. "You want money? Take my wallet. There's enough in it to put down a two-buck bet at Belmont. There's more where that came from, but you'll have to wait a week till I get my next paycheck."

"I don't want your money," he says curtly. "I don't need it."

"My watch, then," I say, reaching for my wrist.

"No."

"Cufflinks? Unfortunately they're monogrammed, so unless your initials are -"

"Stop it!" he hisses. "I don't need your - your things." He spits out the last word with utter contempt.

"In that case," I say lightly, "You won't mind if I get on back to the office. They'll be wondering what happened to me." No, they won't. If anything, they'll be taking bets as to whether it's the horses or the dogs I'm watching.

"Fifty thousand lives," he mutters. "What am I going to do?"

"Look, it's not your fault," I say, in what I hope is a soothing tone. I try to remember how my mom talked to Uncle Bill. "It was Hitler. He started it, and we had to stop him. If we hadn't, it would've have been worse. You can't let bullies run the world. All those boys, all those lives lost, it wasn't in vain. They're in heaven now, at peace."

"Oh, are they?" he says, caustically. "Believe me, heaven's not all it's made out to be."

If I can keep him talking, maybe he'll be distracted when the local arrives and I can slip out around the stairs.

"What's it like, then?" I ask.

"Heaven? Pfft." He snorts. "They make ya do stuff. If you want to get into the good clubs, that is. You've gotta prove you're worthy. It's not good enough just to be there, you see. You've got to stay there."

"Doesn't sound like the heaven I've been told about. I thought it was, you know, eternal. You're sure you're not, in, umm, a way-station?"

"Purgatory, you mean? Ha!" He laughs, a short bark. "I'll tell you what it is. It's someone else's heaven. Not mine. Think about it. Millions of people in the world, they're all different, right? Some of 'em want this, some of 'em want that. Some of 'em want to end up lying on their back on a cloud gettin' fed grapes by a maiden. You think anyone wants to spend eternity as a maiden feedin' grapes to some lazy old geezer who can't be bothered to get up off his fat rump to get his own lunch?"

"You got a point," I say. "But thank the Lord some people want to go through life as dental hygienists. Like you say, everybody's different."

"Whoever's heaven I ended up in, they like to be in charge, see? And you've got to have somebody to be in charge of, and that's where I fit in. Tryin' to climb the ladder. Tryin' to prove I'm worthy. They've got a list of good deeds you can do back on Earth. Sign up for one, do it right, you're in like Flynn. But there's a high price for failure. I mean, real consequences, you see."

During his monologue I've started to inch over gradually to my right. Hoping not to attract attention, hoping to slip around the side - . His hand shoots out and grabs my ear. It feels like he's pulling it off. "You'll be wantin' that ear where you're goin', pal."

This is getting irritating. "Look, friend," I say, "I'm sorry I messed up your, whatever it is, fraternity hazing, but I've got to make an appearance back at the office. Let me take you upstairs. I'll call you a cab." Maybe I can get a cop to transport the guy back to Bellevue.

No answer. I try again. "How 'bout that, huh? We'll take it nice and easy." At least he's let go of my ear; that's progress. I peer around the staircase to my left. There's nothing but a vacant space. What the - ? Then I hear the sobs. Down below. The guy's on the ground, for cripessake. Curled up in a ball, a great big lug in a mohair overcoat, bawling like a baby.

A draft of air streams in from the local side of the tracks. Salvation! Just a hop, skip and a jump -

No, I can't leave him like this.

I crouch down next to him, lean in close to his hat brim. I can't see his ears, but they must be nearby. "Hey, it's all right, pal. You tried hard. I got in the way, that's all. They can't hold that against you, can they?"

The local pulls in with a roar and a screech. Terrific. Now I have to wait another twenty minutes for the next one. I shake him gently. "Come on, get up. Face the music."

He mumbles something. The train's pulling out, groaning as it gains speed.

"What's that? Can't hear you."

He sits up abruptly, so fast I come close to losing a couple of newly- cleaned teeth. His head is still sunk into his heaving chest. He blubbers, "Fifty thousand! They're going to hold it against me! Each and every one of them!"

What I really want to say is "get a hold of yourself mister!" But that wouldn't've worked for Uncle Bill, so it probably wouldn't for this guy either. As if he's a house of cards, I oh-so-gingerly put an arm around his shoulders. Don't want to startle him. What if he still has (ever had) a gun? "There, there," I say. "It'll be all right. You can make it up to them."

"Make it up? You don't realize, do you? Of course you don't. I have to stay here. Stay until I've put it right."

"Here - you mean, on the platform?"

He shakes his head impatiently. "No. Here, on Earth. I can't go back. Not till I've fixed it."

"Well, there's worse fates than that. We're, everyone else, condemned to live out our lives on this planet too. I mean, I'm kind of used to it by now. I must admit I'm not really looking forward to it being over too soon, you know what I mean."

"Exactly," he says, sighing deeply. "So you see, don't you. They deserve to live. I was supposed to have saved them."

Maybe the best thing to do is play along. "All right, then, just back up. Do it over. Can't you do that? I promise I'll stay out of the way this time."

"I told you, I can't go back. I'm stuck in your time."

"So, can't you go out and find this kid again? Chase him into another train?"

"No."

"No?"

"There was this one window of opportunity. I don't know why you showed up. You were supposed to be in the crowd getting on that train, not loitering around reading the paper."

I think back to that moment. "It could have happened the other way. There was a fifty-fifty chance. Right before I noticed the kid, I flipped a coin to decide whether to get on or wait for the local." I shrug. "Heads I win, tails you lose."

"You - flipped - a - coin?" he says. "The fate of the Free World determined by - by chance?"

"Yeah, what're the odds of that?" I say, smirking.

"Let me see it."

"See what?"

"The coin. The one you used."

"Fine," I say, amused. If this is a scam, he's got a long way to go before he gets cabfare. I pull a handful of change out of my trouser pocket. "Hmm, let's see, which one was it?" I say. "I know it was a penny, but there's two of 'em; could have been either one that I used. Should I flip to see which one you get?"

"Just give 'em both here," he growls, holding a hand out. He's still sitting on the platform.

I let the coins fall into his outstretched palm below me. "Here's my two cents," I chortle.

He turns them over several times. "They look legit," he grunts. "Are you sure you didn't use another one?"

I dig deep into my pocket. "Nobody here but us match-heads," I say in falsetto. He hasn't laughed yet. The guy just doesn't seem to be in a mood for humor.

He flips one of them up, catches it on the back of his hand. "Heads." Then he does it again. "Heads." A few more times. "Keeps coming up heads," he says excitedly. "It's fixed, isn't it?"

"The odds are still the same every time," I say. "Fifty-fifty. It has nothing to do with how many times you flip the coin. That's a basic rule of probability."

"Yeah, like you know about probability," he sneers.

"As a matter of fact," I say, "that's what I do for a living."

He looks up at me. At least I think he does...his face is still in shadow. "You're a mathematician?"

"Well, kind of. I'm an actuary. Work for an insurance company. I compute the odds of all kinds of insurable events. Earthquake toppling the Empire State Building. Construction worker jackhammering a water main and flooding the bank vault. A sixty-year- old woman getting hit by a bicycle while wearing a mink coat. That sort of thing. I calculate the risks, which determines the rates the company charges to provide insurance. Which, sometimes, affects what people do. Making sure buildings in a fault zone are earthquake- proof, for example."

"Help me up, will you?"

I grab his elbow and lift while he laboriously gets to his knees, then, groaning, stands up straight. He weighs a ton. "They must feed you pretty well in heaven."

Surprise. That gets a laugh out of him. "Yeah, we get more than grapes. Steak and lobster every day; chocolate layer cake for dessert."

"Well, now that's something to aspire to."

"If that's what you want, you'd better work with me. The alternative ain't fun."

"Back to that, are we? Look, I told you. It's not my fault."

"What're the odds of a kid getting hit by a subway train, anyway?"

"I have no idea. I'd have to do research. We get statistics from the city on accidents, from the insurers on claims, population bureau on the demographics.... Then I put it together in a table."

"Exciting work," he says dryly.

"It pays the rent. What do you do for a living, anyway?"

He turns and grabs my chin. "I told you, I'm here on a mission -"

"OK, OK, back off," I say through squeezed cheeks.

"What are your odds of getting hit by a train, smart guy?" he says.

"Well - look, can you let go?"

He relents, arms dropping down to his sides.

"The thing is," I say, "it's not what an individual's chances are. It's the group. The group of insured persons. So part of what I do is figure out how to group people together who have similar circumstances, so that the company can assess the risk. The usual factors would include age, occupation, and where you live. Your average New Yorker has a higher risk of being hit by a subway train than your average Iowan. But your average Iowan is more likely to get his arm mangled in a grain thresher. So for actuarial purposes, I'm interchangeable with the next guy - with that guy down the platform." I've finally spotted someone close by. A potential rescuer, should my nutcase friend snap again. So, all right, the scrawny little bald guy doesn't look like he could take down anybody younger than my grandma, but maybe he's enrolled in the Charles Atlas program. At least it might give my friend pause the next time he's thinking about slamming me against a metal post.

"You're interchangeable with him, huh?" he says, nodding over at the other guy. "One life's as good as the next, then?"

"If we're both buying accident insurance, yeah, sure."

"So..." he says slowly, raising his index finger. If I could see his face I'm sure there'd be a glimmer in his eyes. "Fifty thousand lives...are interchangeable with any other fifty thousand. Right?"

"Not any other. Depends on how you define the group."

"I'm defining the group. Anyone and everyone who could get killed in the next war. 1959-1975."

"What next war? How do you - No, don't tell me. Look, that's a huge group, men of draftable age."

"Women, too. They got killed."

"What? You mean nurses? All right, add a smaller number on."

"But it doesn't matter," he points out. "They're interchangeable."

"It's your group. Do what you want with 'em."

He starts pacing back and forth. "Now, look," he says, "you said you collect data, assess risks, put it into a table. What if you get new data, do you change those tables? Pass them on to the higher-ups?"

"That's what keeps me in business. We're always on the lookout for new information. Otherwise I would've pawned my adding machine long ago for a set of porcelain choppers, 'cause I wouldn't be able to afford to get my teeth cleaned." I flash him a dazzling grin as he paces by be and turns on his heel. "Basically the company's always looking to limit its risks. If that means encouraging people to change what they do, they do it. They fund scientific studies, testify before Congress, work with industry... anything to reduce the likelihood they actually have to pay out under a policy."

"So all I need to do is..." He stops and shakes his head. "No, wait," he mutters. "I'm stuck here in the present; I can't retrieve anything from the future and bring it back. I can only use it if it's here already."

He's raving.

I say, "Whatever it is, you'd better make it fast. I plan to hop on the next local."

"Not the express? You just missed the last one."

I shrug. "There are more locals than expresses. Usually."

"So, you can predict which is more likely to be the next train? It's not fifty-fifty?"

"If I had perfect information about the schedule, how the time between stops varies with, say, the weather, the time of day, whether there's a lingerie sale going on at Macy's, et cetera, I could predict with accuracy greater than random." Yeah, and if I had perfect information about today's stakes race, I wouldn't be standing here talking to a sap who broke my nose. "As it is, well, I'm going with my gut instinct - based on experience."

The twerp down the platform is leaning over, looking down the local track. Is it my imagination or is the one remaining lock of hair on his head wafting in a breeze? "Yessir, I am close to certain that the next train to arrive will be the local." Wait - is that a squeal far down the express tracks? "Er-unless it's the express."

The guy starts pacing again. "Local - express - local - express..." He stops, whirls around. "Got it!"

"You do." I hope he keeps it. Whatever it is I don't want it. Not till they've discovered a cure for it.

"Perfect information - it's out there. Just takes a while for it to arrive at the right place. It's like it's on the local." He steps forward and grabs my collar again. "All I have to do is put it on the express!"

I shove him away - gently.

Funny, he doesn't seem to mind. "It's all out there," he muses half to himself. "Crash data, patents, lab testing. Just need for someone to put it together so people can see the big picture, get excited about it." He nods. "Yeah, yeah," he says softly, "They'll buy this. It'll make up for this slip-up. Enough at least to get me off the hook."

Good, he's feeling better. Now I won't feel so bad leaving him on his own. There's another draft of air from the local side. At the same time I hear a shriek, steel wheels on steel rails, from the express side.

"I gotta go now, pal. That OK with you? You can make it on your own?"

"Sure, sure. Only - hey, you have a card? So's I can get in touch with you?

I dig in my jacket pocket. The boss gave me ten cards when I started, just for moments like this. On the other hand - the guy's off his nut, what if he comes after me? I hesitate.

He gestures impatiently. "Come on, come on!" His voice has that nasty edge to it I heard at first. He'd better not come unglued again.

"Keep your pants on, mac. Just got stuck or something. Here." I slip one off the top of the deck and drop it into his outstretched hand, just as the local enters the station. I can see the light way down at the end of the platform.

"Now be on the lookout for a small package in the mail," he says quickly.

"A package."

"An envelope. With data and reports."

"I don't have to be on the lookout; we get those kinds of mailings all the time. My stock in trade." Now the express train is coming in, faster. I hear feet pounding down the stairs over our heads.

"Good, then you'll know what to do with it."

Both trains pull up at the same time. "I'm going," I say, slipping around the stairs. He's close behind. "Good luck to you."

We're in the middle of the platform. Both trains have their doors open. Which one? He still has my coins. Well, I'll have to do it mentally. I close my eyes, spiral a penny into the air and watch it land, Abe side up. Okey-dokey. Local it is. I dash over, get on board just as the doors close behind me. He's just leaped onto the other train. He lowers the window next to the door, and calls out something.

"What?" I stick my head halfway out the open window as the train pulls out with a lurch. "What'd you say?"

I strain to catch his words over the double roar of the trains. Just as the platform ends and we pull into the tunnel, I withdraw my head into the train, avoiding sure decapitation, and spin into my seat.

"What'd he say?" asks the guy next to me.

I shake my head.

"I could've sworn he said - 'Buckle up.' " Poor guy. Maybe I should've taken the express.

 

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