Like always, I am falling asleep on the train — lulled to a place where the squeaking of the train on the tracks becomes a mother’s arms, the sparks flying, burning, metal scraping metal. Today I am sitting next to a woman who has spread her legs too far, pushing me against the metal rail in some misplaced retaliation against all of the men who take up too much space on the morning commute.
And then, something familiar. I see it. I always see it on the train, but only in the mornings on the F or the A train. A small flyer, maybe the size of a post card, jammed in between an advertisement for a mattress and chipped, smudged plastic. It’s white today but sometimes pink, and in big, black letters reads: KEANO, SPIRITUAL CONSULTANT.
I always found the word “consultant” to be somewhat strange next to “spiritual.” But still, I want to call. It’s a Brooklyn area code, so I know they’re local. And the flyer promises that the moon and the stars could be mine.
I’ve done some preliminary research on Keano, but nothing comes up: no address, no reviews. I can only find pictures of the flyer itself. Why are these ads seemingly everywhere, but no one is speaking of it?
The other day, while struggling to keep my eyes open on a Manhattan-bound F train, I began to have what I would deem a lucid daydream. I was fully aware that it was a dream; however, it felt so real and so terribly unsettling.
My eyes are fixated on the flyer and I memorize its words and repeat them back to myself over and over. Keano promises that the moon and stars could be mine. Suddenly, I am outside and it’s raining. Not the downpour-type rain, but it’s misting and the fog is so thick I can barely see in front of me. It reminds me of the Pacific Northwest, save for the scenery, which is most clearly Midtown Manhattan.
Suddenly, it’s night, and I’m walking — not aimlessly, but with purpose — and I’m not sure where I’m going. The women on the train elbows me. There is a man cackling in the corner. A baby is crying. A dog in a canvas bag moans.
The nighttime scene is playing through my head, although I am fully aware I am on the train. Next stop 34 St – Penn Station. My stop.
In the scene, I am still walking with speed through what now appears to be a dystopian Midtown. There are less and less people on the streets as I make my way to Times Square. And then, I see the flyer, which is not a flyer anymore, but a billboard and it’s huge and there are people gathered around it, looking upwards, admiring. I now realize that’s where everyone went.
The train halts at Penn Station, jerking me out of my daydream. I eye the flyer warily and decide not to call.
Julia
For what it's worth 