It was a normal Monday morning in late April. I was standing on the sidewalk outside my apartment building, waiting for a taxi as I always do on weekday mornings. Unfortunately, however, the weather was quite nasty, and I had neither my overcoat nor an umbrella. A chilling, driving rain was being dumped upon New York City, and the sheets of falling water were so thick that I could barely see the other side of the street. Fog hung over the city, and a brisk wind tugged at my suit jacket. The sky was as gray as the concrete under my feet, and I was caught in a torrential downpour. By the time I was finally able to flag down a cab, my business suit was soaked, my trouser socks were wet from the leaking of my old wingtips, and my fluffy blond hair was plastered to my head.
This is horrible, I thought, stroking my hair with my hand. The time I had spent in the bathroom this morning in attempt to make my hair just right had been futile, so I was now attempting to correct the problem by smoothing my hair out. The rain had, by now, soaked through my suit jacket and into my cotton dress shirt, which was now sticking to my skin and making me quite uncomfortable. I tugged at it and wiggled around a bit, trying to reduce the stickiness, but it didn't work, and the squishing of my shoes was more than irritating.
When the taxi pulled up to the curb on Wall Street, I paid the fare, collected my belongings and stepped into the rain again. I hurried up the steps and into the building, and rode the elevator to the forty-fifth floor.
“Are you okay, Mr. Warner?” my secretary asked as I passed her desk.
“I’m fine,” I replied, “just a little wet.”
She gave me a look of sympathy, and I entered my office, closing the door behind me. I removed my suit jacket and hung it on the coat rack, then sighed and sat down at my desk, booting up my computer. My secretary came in a few minutes later and set a cup of coffee on my desk, then stepped back and stared at me.
“What’s up?” I asked, picking up my coffee mug without looking at her.
“Nothing, Mr. Warner. Are you sure you’re okay?”
I glanced at the stocky, dark-haired woman in front of me and leaned back in my chair.
“No, I’m not sure. I don’t feel like myself, Jackie. There’s something missing in my life. The problem is that I don’t know what I’m looking for. I can’t put my finger on it.”
Jackie merely shook her head, then looked back at me, concern and compassion in her dark eyes. “I wish I could help you, Mr. Warner,” she said. "If you need to talk, you can just call me, or come see me. Or, if you want, we can talk over lunch, too." And with that, she smiled at me and left the room.
I stared at the closed door for a moment, then turned back to my work. I finished up for the day around six-thirty, and I found that rush hour traffic had calmed down considerably. Typical of a Monday evening, I thought.
It wasn’t raining as hard now, so I wasn’t getting as wet, but unfortunately, my suit jacket hadn't recovered from this morning's soaking. I made my way down the building’s front stoop and stepped onto the sidewalk. My shoes made little splashing noises as I walked in the pools of water that had collected along the walkway. And just as I was heading toward the curb, my cell phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hey Blake! How are you, buddy?”
“Not too bad, Steve. Hey, listen—“
I glanced at the crosswalk and saw the cars stopped in front of it, so I walked forward, not paying attention to the ‘don’t walk’ sign across the street.
“—I just finished up with work, and I’m going to catch a cab back to my apartment. Did you eat yet? ‘Cause if you didn’t, we could grab a bite to eat together.”
“Hey, man. This had better not be your pathetic attempt at getting a date. I’m not a—“
“I’ve never met a homophobic psychologist until I met you, Steve. Look, I’ll just eat alone, dude.”
"Just kidding. I know you’re not gay.”
I laughed, and suddenly, I heard the loud honk of a bus horn to my left. The next few moments went by so quickly that I can hardly recall any of it. I looked to my left just in time to see a bus coming straight at me, and it wasn’t slowing down. The life I had reflected upon earlier now flashed before my eyes. But before I could cover my head and wait for the impact, I was grabbed from behind.
A pair of hands grasped my damp suit jacket, jerked me out of the street and threw me down onto the sidewalk. I felt the whoosh of the air as the bus nearly missed me, and I was so stunned that I couldn’t get my arms up fast enough to break my fall. I plowed into the ground headfirst, my right cheek scraping along the concrete. I lay there for a moment, just breathing and telling myself that I was still alive. And when reality finally sank in, I rolled onto my back and stared up at the evening sky and the city lights. Surprisingly enough, no one was standing over me like I had expected.
Slowly, I got to my feet and looked around. Everyone was casually walking by as if nothing had happened. It seemed more than a little strange to me that no one had noticed the incident that had just occurred. This sent a chill down my spine, and I suddenly remembered the phone in my hand.
“Steve? You still there?” I said in to the receiver. But the line had gone dead, and no one answered.
I stared blankly at my cell phone for a moment, then slowly punched in Steve's number. I listened to the receiver, but the phone only rang, and rang, and rang . . .
I hung up and quickly dialed Jackie’s desk number, knowing she would still be hard at work.
“Hello?”
“Jackie? It’s Blake. Did you happen to look out your window at all since I left?”
“Yeah, why? Are you okay? You sound panicky.”
“Uh, well … I just almost got run over by a bus, and someone saved me, but no one out here seems to have noticed anything. Did you hear a horn honk?”
Jackie only laughed. “Are you joking? Come on, Mr. Warner. It’s New York City. Horns honk all the time. Go home and get some rest. I think you need it.”
I stayed silent and Jackie hung up on me. After a moment or two, I snapped my phone shut, and feeling scared and panicked, I ran to every passerby I could see, asking them if they had seen the would-be accident. But not a single one of them had noticed anything unusual, and they all looked at me as though I were out of my mind.
Eventually, I gave up and returned to the curb, raising my hand for a taxi. I rode home in silence, trying hard not to let my fear and panic get the better of me. I couldn’t believe that my rescuer had neglected to stick around. Why hadn’t he or she paused to make sure I was okay? Or had I passed out for longer than I had thought? And if that was true, why hadn’t he or she called 911? None of this made sense to me, so I just stared out the window blankly.
After what seemed like an eternity, the taxi reached the apartment building, and I paid the fare and stepped out of the car. I darted up the steps and hurried into the sanctuary of the building.
“How was your day, Mr. Warner?” the receptionist asked as I came into the lobby.
My thoughts reflected back, once again, to my near-death experience. The memory of the bus's bright lights flooded my mind, and I shuddered. The receptionist must have seen this, because she raised her eyebrows and leaned forward a bit.
"Mr. Warner . . . ?"
“It … was fine,” I replied, my voice quavering slightly.
She gave me a questioning look, but then turned back to her computer and began to type something, her fingers quickly flicking over the keys.
I took my apartment key, waved at the receptionist and headed upstairs in the elevator. After unlocking the door to my apartment, I entered and closed the door, locking it behind me. I sighed and realized I had never felt so paranoid before.
I tossed my keys onto the kitchen counter, then went into my room and got dressed for bed. When I was finished getting ready, I stared out my window for a while, taking in the scenery of the city from the twelfth floor. I knew I wouldn’t sleep much, but I lay down anyway, deciding that I would be too tired to skip sleeping, even if my mind was trying to convince me otherwise.
* * * * *
Just as I had expected, I didn't sleep well, even though I had fallen asleep, and I didn't feel the least bit rested when I woke up. But when the alarm rang, I slapped at it and rolled out of bed, continuing about my morning routine as usual.
I took my shower, rejoicing in the hot streams that hit my face and chest. Unfortunately, however, it only brought me back to reality, and I remembered what had happened yesterday. It wasn't as bothersome today as it had been before, but I still felt uneasy, and it showed when I looked in the mirror as I was shaving. I sported dark circles under my eyes, and I looked less-than-healthy.
As I do every morning after taking a shower, I went into the living room and turned the television on to the local news station, then went to the kitchen to make some breakfast. I took out a frying pan and cracked a couple of eggs into it, listening to the news anchor.
“… Police are investigating a murder scene in the financial district of Manhattan. There is no word on the status of the stolen car or the murder weapon, and the victim’s name has not yet been released. More on this story at noon …”
I tuned the program out and turned around to get a plate out of the cupboard. But as I did this, something on the television caught my eye. It had nothing to do with the news, but instead, the anchorwoman grabbed my attention. Above the woman’s head was a series of bright, glowing orange numbers, and the ones on the right were quickly counting down.
Confused and distracted, I left my breakfast on the table and walked over to the TV. I stooped down and peered at the screen, mesmerized by this strange occurrence. The numbers above her head read: 64.321.14.35 and the next set of numbers after that was ticking down as each second passed by. The ones to the right of that were moving so fast that I assumed they were counting milliseconds.
What does it mean? I wondered.
Figuring that it was just some new way to indicate air-time, I turned the television off and ate my breakfast, then buttoned my shirt and tucked it in. After donning my jacket, I put my shoes on and grabbed my briefcase, then left my apartment. I headed down to the lobby and handed my key to the receptionist, but as I did this, I was once again confronted with a series of numbers.
I was forced to do somewhat of a ridiculous-looking cartoon character double-take as I noticed the bright orange digits floated above the receptionist’s head, ticking away and moving as she moved. Hers read: 79.142.21.53, I couldn’t help but stare. Apparently, the numbers hadn’t been relevant to just the news station.
The receptionist noticed me staring and said, “Is something the matter, Mr. Warner? Are you all right?”
I shook my head fell back to reality. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for asking. See you later.”
She smiled and nodded, then turned back to her work.
Nervous and feeling quite disturbed, I hurried outside, but I was disappointed to find that my mental disturbance had grown. The neon orange numbers were now everywhere! They glowed ominously above pedestrians’ heads, revealed themselves over the drivers and passengers in vehicles, and winked at me faintly through apartment and office windows.
I swallowed and took a deep breath, trying hard not to panic. This didn’t make any sense to me. I had no idea why I was seeing these things, which led me to doubt my sanity. What did these numbers mean, and why could I see them? It didn’t seem like anyone else saw anything unusual. What was happening to me?
Finally, after the shock had run its course, I called a cab and climbed inside. Not to my surprise, the cab driver had numbers over his head as well. They read: 12.138.20.49. Suddenly curious, I glanced in the rearview mirror to see if I had digits of my own, but as it had been this morning, my reflection remained the same. I had no numbers. Now worrying why I had no figures above my head, I just wanted to get to work.
Traffic was backed up on Wall Street because of the police investigation, but I got out of the cab and paid the fare, then walked the rest of the way to the office building. I made my way up to the forty-fifth floor and said hello to Jackie. She, too, sported orange numbers above her head. The digits 74.258.10.05 glowed brightly at me, and I stared at them once again, as if it would get rid of them.
“Hello, Mr. Warner. Are you feeling well today? Did you get some rest?”
“Yes, I did. Thank you,” I said in a dazed monotone.
I don’t know what compelled me to do it, but I reached out and waved my hand above Jackie’s head, not sure whether I was trying to catch the numbers or wipe them away. Jackie ducked and gave me a look.
“Hey, what are you doing?!” she cried.
“Oh! N, nothing … There, uh, there was a, um. . . a fly above your head.”
Jackie sat up and shook her head, laughing. “Okay, Mr. Warner. Get to your office before I have to call the looney bin to come pick you up.”
I chuckled dryly, then scurried into my office, shutting the door behind me. I forced myself not to look out the window, and after loading my computer, I decided I had to know more about this phenomenon. I researched it on the Internet, but nothing relevant came up, so I turned to my pile of work to complete. I started to sort through it, but when I was halfway finished, I decided that I couldn’t concentrate. Then, my brain hatched an idea.
I whipped out my cell phone and dialed Steve’s office number. His secretary put me through to his desk phone, and after a couple of rings, he answered.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Steve. It’s Blake.”
“Oh, hey there. What happened yesterday, man? I heard a horn, and the line went dead.”
“About that. I almost got run over, but someone saved me. They didn’t stick around though, and apparently, no one saw the incident.”
“No way. Someone had to have seen it.”
“Nope, no one. I asked everyone around, and they all said they hadn’t seen anything. But that isn’t even the weirdest part.”
“No? Well tell me fast, ‘cause I have a patient coming in at eleven.”
“Okay, well, today I woke up and I see numbers over people’s heads. I don’t have numbers, but everyone else does. I don’t know what it means, and I have no idea where they came from. No one’s acting any different. Have they been there all along, or am I just going nuts?”
Steve was silent for a moment, and then he said, “Look, Blake. I don’t know what’s going on, but come see me after work and we’ll try to sort it out okay? I gotta go now.”
“All right. Bye.”
I shut my phone and turned to the windows. People were already flooding onto the streets for lunch, but all I could notice were the annoying orange numbers. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to last through the afternoon to get to my meeting with Steve. I was afraid that I would go crazy, if it hadn’t already happened.
Eventually, I finished my work and left the building at ten after eight. Steve’s clinic was only four blocks away, so I decided to walk. It took me about fifteen minutes, and I soon found myself standing outside another concrete building. It wasn’t as tall as most others, but it was prettier, and it sported a large sign above the entrance that read: Dr. Steven M. Burdick, Clinical Psychologist.
I entered the building and walked to the receptionist’s desk. She also had bright orange numbers, but I forced myself to ignore them this time. I cleared my throat and she looked up.
“Can I help you, sir?” she asked politely.
“I’m here to see Dr. Burdick. I don’t have an appointment, but he’s expecting me.”
“Okay, let me just check his schedule … Okay, yup. Go right in. He’s probably in his office now. It’s the third door on the right, straight back.”
“Thanks.”
I made my way down the hallway, then knocked on the door labeled: PRIVATE, Doctor’s Office. Steve’s voice came from inside. “Come on in!” I opened the door and stepped into the office, receiving a warm greeting from my friend.
“Nice to see you, Blake,” Steve said, offering me his hand. I shook it and we both sat down.
“So, what’s been bothering you?” Steve asked. “You mentioned something about orange numbers.”
I sighed and glanced around the room. The west wall was completely taken up by windows, through which the bright sunset could be seen. I then turned my attention to the man before me. He looked the same. He had a mass of curly, auburn hair, and his style was very laid-back and casual. Today, he wore a pair of navy blue trousers, an emerald green dress shirt, and a cream-colored blazer. He adjusted the pair of amber-tinted sunglasses which rested upon his head, and scrutinized me.
“Well, Steve, it’s like I said. I had a near-death experience last night, and now I can see numbers above people’s heads.”
Steve raised his eyebrows. “Do I have numbers?” His tone was half amused, half serious, and I detected a touch of sarcasm as well.
“Yes, you do,” I replied. “Yours are 68.119.02.34.”
“Sounds like a lottery ticket … or a football play.”
“Come on, man! This isn’t funny!”
“Relax, Blake. This could be due to post-traumatic stress disorder, and I can get you a fix for that.”
“No, I have this strange feeling that they’re there for a reason, but I don’t know what they mean. And I don’t have any numbers.”
“Blake, I can’t trust you because I don’t see any numbers. You’re just like another mental patient to me right now. You think you’re sound of mind, but I can tell that you’re not. You sound like you might be having hallucinations related to dimensia or schizophrenia. Have you been taking any drugs lately?”
I frowned and said, "Be serious. I don't do drugs."
Steve rolled his eyes, sighed and flung an arm over the back of his chair, then leaned back and crossed his legs. “Tell me about the numbers. Are they different for every person?” he asked.
“Of course. Every person has a different number, and some peoples’ glow brighter.”
“What do the numbers do?”
“They count down, I guess. Like yours now reads: 68.119.01.31.”
Steve removed his sunglasses, which he rarely did, and I could tell by the look on his face that he was interested now. “So are the numbers functioning as some sort of timer that counts down each person’s time?”
“I don’t know. That’s sort of morbid, isn’t it?”
“Hey, life isn’t all fun and games. Death happens sooner or later.”
“Then, if it is true, why am I seeing it?”
Steve only raised his eyebrows and shrugged, then stared out the window for a long period of time. Suddenly, he leapt out of his chair and turned to me.
“Wait … I think I’ve heard of something like this from one of my colleagues. Hold on.”
Steve ran to his computer, scanned some files, documents and e-mails and then sat back down.
“Okay. A psychologist from Brooklyn e-mailed me the other day, describing a patient who was afflicted with something strange. This patient had a near-death experience, and all of a sudden, she claimed that she could tell if people were Christians or not. She hadn’t been a believer in God before the incident, but it turned her around or something. She was able to turn a non-believer to God, and when she did that, her superhuman power went away. I think it’s a bunch of bullshit, but whatever. You can believe what you want.”
“You’re still an atheist, then?”
“Not an atheist. I'm an agnostic. I don’t see how one little experience can change a person’s opinion forever. It doesn’t add up.”
I was silent for a moment, and then said, “Is this a sign of the apocalypse?”
“I don’t know, Blake. It could be, if that's what you believe. I don’t know much about Christianity, but from what I know, it sounds like God is desperate for your support. Maybe, if He is real, He’s calling you to be a follower or whatever. It’s almost like you and this lady are seeing the world through the eyes of God … But, go home and mull it over. Maybe you’ll figure something out.”
I shook my head, confused and lost. This proposition made a little more sense to me, but the whole deal was still sort of fuzzy. Then, as I was leaving Steve’s office, something came to me.
I remembered that I had been feeling oddly earlier in the week. I had felt like my life was missing something. What if what I was missing was actually God’s forgiveness? I thought. I had never really gone to church as a kid, and I still didn’t. What if this was God’s message to me to stop being an un-believer?
I suddenly felt as though I had found the answer to end all problems. I felt like rejoicing, and I had the uncontrollable urge to pray. So, I made my way out of the office building and walked as briskly as I could to the nearest church.
God, I prayed, I know I haven’t ever gone to church or listened to Your Word. I’ve even ignored Your call for many years, and I ask that You forgive me for my sins and wash me clean. Help me to open my heart and welcome the Holy Spirit and Jesus Christ into my life. Help me to become a better person, and aid me in figuring this dilemma out. I need Your assistance, God. Amen.
I stood up. I breathed a sigh, and looked across the street, hoping to catch a taxi back home. I could still see the numbers, but somehow, it didn’t really bother me now because I had God’s love as encouragement. However, while looking for a taxi, I noticed that an ambulance was parked next to the curb about a half a block down the street. Curious, I walked over and I saw paramedics wheel an old woman out of a building on a stretcher. They all had numbers, but I was most interested in the woman. Her face was pale and her eyes were bleak, but she looked somehow peaceful. I glanced at the digits above her head and my heart sank.
They read: 01 and the numbers furthest to the right of that were ticking down the seconds. The woman’s numbers were extremely bright, and I somehow knew that she was going to go to heaven. I watched the paramedics load her into the ambulance, and as they did, the woman’s digits ran out, flickered and then died. She was dead.
A chill ran down my spine as they shut the doors to the ambulance, and I turned away from the scene, knowing what I now had to do. In order to get rid of the ominous orange numbers, I would have to save someone’s life. I would have to return the favor that had been bestowed upon me only a day earlier.
I went home that night and thought things over as I fell asleep, and in the morning, my routine went smoothly. I left the apartment as always, and headed downtown in a cab. I got out of the taxi at Wall Street, then walked the rest of the way to the office building. But as I did, I caught sight of something. A young woman was walking along the sidewalk toward her car, and above the woman’s head were yet another series of orange numbers, and they read: 01. Startled, I looked up and saw that a crane was above us, holding a large concrete beam for the building repairs that were being made nearby.
Thinking quickly, I realized what was going to happen. The woman walked to her car and put a key into the lock just as I heard the tension cable on the crane snap. I jumped forward in a panic and put my arms around the woman’s middle. I jerked her away, and both of us tumbled onto the sidewalk. The concrete beam fell from the sky and landed directly on the woman’s car, completely smashing it.
Slowly, the woman and I got to our feet, and she stared at her car in amazement. She then turned to me, her mouth hanging agape.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her eyes full of tears.
I smiled and nodded, then walked away. The woman’s numbers now read: 72.024.13.57. Even though I could still see the orange numbers now, I knew that I would wake up tomorrow and wouldn’t see them.
When I went home later that night, I looked in the mirror and discovered that I now had digits of my own. I didn’t bother to see what they were, but I did recognize something else. God had wanted me to live, and by his grace, he had sent an angel to save me. There were angels in the city. . .
