The goddamn car wouldn’t start yesterday—fucking Subaru batteries. Casey had to ride her seven-year-old’s bike to the train station. She didn’t mind the psychedelic blue chrome or spoke lights that flashed and spun, an erratic planet, with each go-round. She did mind that she couldn’t straighten her legs on the peddle down—a sneeze you can’t sneeze. No bike lock, so she hid the Prevelo under the curtain of honeysuckles trying to swallow the chain link fence at the back of the trainyard. The kind of spot she used to kiss boys—the ones she’d pretend she hadn’t, even decades later.
The train was late. The new suits—white sneaker guys, not oxford guys—just kept milling and texting and talk-shouting affirmations to whatever voice whispered in their ear buds. The train pulled in. The train was only going one stop. Passengers could take the bus from the next station. Casey boarded and decided she’d keep her ticket, so there, and dodged the conductor who was younger than she was by probably ten or 15 years, moving car to car. She whole hoped he’d suspect her. Her breath caught a little as she crossed the open-air couplings, hair covering her face, before being sucked into the next compartment. He didn’t notice.
No one grumbled as they poured onto the platform, streamed into lines to load the busses. Casey dragged her feet, floated to the back of the pack, stopped to notice the cloud that looked like a mouth eating a banana, or barfing. A driver, about to end his shift, rushed her to get on. Let’s go lady, let’s go, like those guys have said for literal ages. She looked him in the eye and pushed the words from her mind to his, you know your wife is going to secretly vote Blue when she leaves you in the voting booth, Asshole. She pulled herself onto the crowded bus, pushed to the back where she could stand and look out the rear window. The air brakes let go of their breath. Casey saw the almost-off-duty driver wave his hat to the departing bus and walk toward the curb when something happened.
The guy bent over, like he was tying his shoe. The bus lurched, and as it accelerated, Casey watched his figure get smaller but also transform—mouth open wider than it should go, body splay and contract, like a pupil confused about how much light to let in. A firework of red mist clouded this weird dance as Casey’s eyes trailed the blacktop to the hitch on the back bumper of the bus. Off-Duty Driver’s leg, torn off above the knee, was swinging on a line behind them—a morbid metronome keeping time on Harlem River Drive. Not a single passenger noticed. She watched, lulled into a quiet she hadn’t felt since she’d had kids. She didn’t say anything. People in passing cars gaped, picked up phones and waved their arms. A cop car sped up alongside the bus and motioned the driver to pull over.
Riders tumbled out both bus doors completely horrified. Casey kept quiet and let the police usher her to the sidewalk. Usually, she felt afraid of cops, and flirted in moderation while sweat stains formed under her bra line—notice me, but not too much. This time, she disappeared into the throng, pulled herself in like a wrong-side-out sleeve until she was out of the scene and walking up the ramp to the Willis Avenue Bridge.
The bridge was overflowing with pedestrians hanging over the sides of that least attractive East River crossing. Families and loners and groups of friends, frenemies and strangers. Three teens who spoke in unison told Casey, We’re here to watch the moon rise. Casey thought it was too early for that, can’t be earlier than 10am. But as soon as she thought it, the sky got dark. She looked down below the overpass and saw the leg being placed in a yellow plastic bag, and then even the police officers began to look up. She followed their gaze and turned toward the horizon. The glowing orb did not rise, it shot into the sky. Like it was thrown up from somewhere they couldn’t see and got stuck in the black Velcro of the atmosphere. People on the bridge and lining the highway clapped and whistled. This did not feel like the moon to Casey. It started spinning on its axis and grew rings. The crowd began filing out, ducking back into cars and disappearing down subway stairs. This is NOT the moon, Casey called to all of them and none of them. The not-moon spun and expanded and spun. It’s Saturn. It shouldn’t be, but it’s Saturn. The planet’s name pressed into her brow. She watched it turn and flash, and thought, somebody else’s car battery must have died, too.