The Numbers

         I’ve always been able to see them. The numbers. They float, just a few inches, above everyone’s head. I didn’t know what they were so I ignored them, never bringing them up. Not even to my closest friends. As a child, I hardly ever saw them since everyone was so much taller than me. When I reached my later childhood years, around 10 or 11, I couldn’t ignore them anymore. When I asked my mother, told me to stop talking crazy and eat my supper. When I asked my father, he told me I was too old for “imaginary games” and wouldn’t answer me. The next day at school, I asked my friend if she knew what the numbers meant. She didn’t know what numbers I was talking about. Finally, I asked my teacher. Teachers know everything, so I was sure he would have an answer. The answer was sending me off and making a very worried call to my parents.

         I could only see them on other people, never on myself. I looked in more mirrors than any 13 year old boy ever has, seeing if they ever appeared. They never did. For a while, I tried to convince myself that they weren’t there for anyone. “Come on, Daniel,” I’d try to reason with myself, “there’s no numbers. You’re seeing things.” That plan didn’t last too long. But still, no one could tell me what the numbers were, and I quickly learned that the more people I asked, the more everyone thought I was crazy. Eventually I stopped talking about them entirely, trying to ignore them but not doing very well. Then, when I was 14, I watched my grandfather die. He closed his eyes, and a spilt second before the line on the heart monitor went flat, the number fell from .01 to zero. I had a feeling I knew what the numbers were then, but to be sure I waited until a month later when my older sister gave birth. The baby left her body, bloody and slimy, with a large 92.7 over her head. At that point, I was certain. I could see how long people had left to live.

         I didn’t know what to do with this knowledge, and it scared me to realize I knew something no one else did. Walking down the street, I’d see elderly men and women with ones and twos over their heads and babies and children with number usually in the 70’s and 80’s. One afternoon I saw a four year old with a 2.1 above his head, and I had to find a place to hide because I began to cry so hard. There was one man who, as I watched him, had his number change from 27 to 26. It was so horrifying that I nearly fainted right on the spot.

         The only thing I could thing to do was understand them, learn how the numbers worked. I watched people, everywhere and anywhere, and I began to piece it all together. The original format was years, a decimal point, months. When they reached their finals months it shifted to months, decimal point, days. When it reached their last days, it shifted again, this time to days, decimal point, hours. Then to hours, decimal point, minutes. Finally, to minutes, decimal point, seconds, until it finally hit zero. I armed myself with this understanding, and kept my strength up as best I could as I watched the numbers over everyone’s heads.

Today, at age 24, I feel I have finally come to terms with this ability of mine. I haven’t brought the numbers up to anyone for a little over a decade, and I’ve managed to find a way to get through life seeing the numbers without letting them control me.

         I wake up and dress in simple jeans and a t-shirt. I have a boring day of doing nothing ahead of me. I’m not even going out if I can help it. I just like being dressed. But as I begin preparing myself breakfast, a simple bowl of cold cereal, I realize I’m out of milk. Sighing, I throw on a jacket and a pair of sneakers and step out of my apartment. As I check my pockets for my key and my wallet, phone tight in hand, I shut the door and turn to run down the stairs. That’s when I first see her. A little girl, about five or six, with long red hair and huge green eyes, is staring at me from the bottom of the stairwell. She looks scared and confused, and I wonder where her mother or father is. She has an 87.11 above her head, and I can’t help a small smile. She will live to be very old, perhaps old enough to meet her great-grandchildren if her life goes down that path.

         “Hey sweetie,” I say as I reach the bottom. “Where are your parents?”

         “Inside. We live right there,” she points to a door a little down the hallway, “I just came out to play.” She holds up her hand and I see a little blue handball that I hadn’t noticed before. She’s still staring at me, and I run a hand through my hair, wondering if I look as messy as I feel. Those grassy eyes are starting to make me uncomfortable, so I take a step around her.

         “Alright, well, have fun.” I move towards the door.

         “Wait!” I turn to see her running after me. “Can I come with you? Mommy won’t mind. You’re her laundry friend. I’m sure of it.”

         “You’re Mrs. Fuller’s daughter?” Leslie has dark brown hair and blue eyes. How on earth did she end up with a redhead daughter? But sure enough, the girl nods.

         “My dad is from Scotland,” she says, and I wonder how she knew what I was thinking. I shrug it off, assuming she’s been asked so often about her looks that she knows to volunteer the information. As we leave the building, she reaches up and grabs my hand. I oblige, holding her tiny fingers in my own, and we walk down the block at a comfortable pace. “What are we doing?”

         I smile at how quickly we’ve become a team in her eyes. “We’re getting milk. Maybe some ice cream. Does that sound good to you?” She nods and falls silent. As we walk, I see her glancing up at me every few seconds, and I wonder what’s going through her mind. She doesn’t speak, so I don’t ask, and we walk in comfortable silence, the sounds of birds and cars filling the warm summer air around us.

         We reach a corner across the street from the grocery store, and I look down at her. “Are you allowed to cross the streets with someone other than your mother?”

         She shakes her head, looking glum. “No, I can’t leave the block without her. But I can wait here for you if you want!”

         I nod my head and warn her to stay on the corner before crossing the street. The store is unusually busy for 10AM on a Tuesday morning and the numbers are all over the place, huge and distracting, but I ignore them. I’ve made this milk run so many times that my feet carry me automatically to the chilly refrigerated items aisle and I grab the closest carton of milk that I can see. Not a smart practice, my mother always warns me. She says one day I’m going to buy a carton of milk that expires that day and drink myself to sickness. She’s probably right, but for now I take my chances. I reach the checkout, wishing for the millionth time that they had a self-checkout, and wait my turn to pay.

         “Hey, Kevin, back again?” The cashier is an older woman who’s been working there for years. The first time I ever bought alcohol, I was 15 and had a fake ID with the name Kevin Marks next to my picture. She was the one who rang me up, checking and rechecking my ID so many times that I was sure I was going to be arrested on the spot. She never did, but since then she’s know me by the name of Kevin and I’ve never bothered to correct her.

         “That’s right, Gertrude, back again. I never buy milk unless I need it.” We have this conversation about once a week, sometime less often depending on how much milk I drink in the week. It’s a comfortable habit. I wonder who I’ll talk to when her number hits zero. I make a show of looking at an overhead advertisement so I can watch her number without it being obvious. 22.10. She’ll be a little over 70. I’m glad her sons married young, she’s already a grandparent. Such a kind woman. I’ll be sad to see her go.

         The beeping of the cash register draws me back into the world. I hand Gertrude the two dollars and fifty-seven cents that I know she needs, and she hands me my receipt and a plastic bag with the container of milk. “Be a good boy, now. Don’t drink that too fast.” She says the same thing every time. I wonder if she knew I was underage all those years ago and she decided to warn me instead of calling my parents on me. I smile and nod and step out of the store, looking across the street.

         The girl isn’t on the corner.

         My face gets hot and my toes get cold. I open my mouth to shout her name just to realize I don’t know it. I look left and right, spinning in circles like an extremely active top as I look for bright red hair. I wish I knew her name!

         Finally, I spot her. She’s across the street in the other direction, and I wonder how she got there. “What are you doing?! I thought you couldn’t cross the street without your mother!” She says nothing. She doesn’t even look guilty. She’s just staring at me again, that same wide-eyed stare she’s had all day. “Stay there, I’m coming to get you!” I run out into the street, my eyes on her red hair, hoping that I can stare her into being still.

         “Look out!” I hear rubber skidding, a horn blaring. Suddenly I’m flying through the air. The ground is rushing up to meet me. What about my milk? Everything goes black.

         I sit up, dizzy. There are blaring sirens and flashing lights. It takes me a second to figure out where I am, but then I remember. A car hit me. The girl. Where’s the girl? I look around wildly before spotting her, next to her mother. Aw crap, her mom must hate me by now. I should go over and apologize. I stand, holding my head, surprised at how little pain I really feel. Maybe I just hit my head, that would certainly be lucky. I walk over to them, my eyes down in shame, focusing on the black tar and my beige sneakers. When I see the pale gray cement of the sidewalk, I look up. Both the girl and Leslie are looking to their left. “Hey, Leslie.” She doesn’t look at me. “Leslie, listen, I’m so sorry. She wanted to walk with me, I told her not to leave the block. I should have stayed with her, or sent her back.” She still won’t look at me. “I understand if you’re mad, you have every right to be. I won’t go near your daughter again. I promise.” Nothing. “Leslie, please, look at me! I’m sorry!”

         “Why did you go with him, honey?” She looks down at her daughter, both of them still ignoring me. “You know you’re not supposed to leave the house without me or daddy.”

         “I know mommy, I’m sorry. But his number was very tiny. I wanted to be his friend before it was all gone.”

         My number? My head swims, and I turn, praying that I won’t see what I’m sure I will. Unfortunately, if there is anyone or anything listening, they don’t answer. My body lays in the middle of the street, still and bloody. My legs are at an odd angle and the carton of milk has burst open, the white drink mixing with red blood to create a sickly pink puddle around my head and face. I swallow hard, not wanting to look but not being able to stop my eyes from moving up ever so slightly, just a few inches above my head, to focus on a large zero floating in the air, just a few inches above me.