Triggers Excerpt

                                                 Chapter One

                                                        2018

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“New York buried a few subway stations such as the one at City Hall, its inaugural showpiece, in 1945. The transit authority decided against cremation; instead they sealed the street entrances of this mausoleum, induced this sleeping beauty’s coma and trapped her below a park.

That day in 2012, Manhattan wore what looked like a lace curtain draped over its eyes. The iconic skyline, the museums, and Central Park displayed themselves veiled with intricate, ivory designs. Victor pierced through the silence of the blizzard, even though the mayor told everyone to stay home. His boots desecrated the idyllic winter wonderland with brown mud.

Espresso-colored light cloaked the cavernous abandoned subway tunnels. Victor descended inside and waltzed into the cloistered station, a knife in his pocket. With a smile on his face, he imagined the sound of violins. Streams of sapphire-colored light flowed through the skylights of what looked like a jewelry box. The sound of his footsteps echoed off the toffee-painted walls.

The tall, arched ceilings and brass chandeliers bewitched Victor. A Danish-American sculptor and a Spanish architect, a contemporary of the famous artist Gaudí, created this work of art. There was a total absence of people pushing past Victor, competing for space. No neon signs shoved materialism and weight loss down his throat as a means to happiness. Down here, Victor couldn’t hear the sound of voices that demanded money, whether from business people in suits or beggars with signs in front of them and their heads bowed. He could listen to his thoughts as his breath moved in and out of his lungs. Victor was about to sit on the track, but when he saw the blood on his gloves, changed his mind. 

He glanced at his watch and sighed. To him, this clandestine time capsule was like a glass of 1945 Château Mouton Rothschild, with its seductive aromas of mocha, truffle, and incense. Victor lingered a moment longer to see the burgundy liquid, not wine, that he had uncorked and decanted along the track. He left the dead man inside and then made his way out of the station.”

The passage above is from Phillip Weatherly’s first novel. He wrote Subterranea in 2012. In 2013, he submitted the manuscript to literary agents and published it at the beginning of 2015. In 2016, the police department began its investigation of the murders that occurred that same year. In 2017, the NYPD arrested him on the charge of murder, even though he claimed he wasn’t guilty. Phillip suspended work on his second book and never wrote again.

                                                         ***

                                                         2012

Phillip Weatherly went out with his friends that night and took the 6 train back home. All of this happened before he met Anya, his wife. Phillip missed the announcement about Brooklyn Bridge/City Hall, which is the last stop. He didn’t notice when everyone walked out, and the subway car stood there in the station for a bit.

Phillip’s pupils expanded when he awoke. He noticed that he had fallen asleep and was the last one on the train. At that precise moment, the passenger car made a sort of U-turn to go back uptown.

Outside the windows, he saw a terminal that seemed nothing like the other ones. Where am I? he thought as he saw the vaulted tile ceiling and the chandeliers. Phillip managed to read the words City Hall on the wall.

When he arrived at his apartment, hunched over his laptop, he investigated the place. He read that subways hadn’t stopped there since the 1940s because the curvature of the platform couldn’t accommodate the newer trains. It was the first subway station in New York City, constructed in 1904.

A week later, after he had purchased a ticket through the New York Transit Museum, he went on a tour. Phillip gazed at the Romanesque Revival style architecture, bronze plaques, Guastavino tile ceilings and the natural light that escaped through the glass. He wondered what it would be like to sneak into City Hall station at night and explore that track. Back at his apartment, he took out a notebook and wrote down the title of what would be his first novel, Subterranea.

Later that month, in January of 2012, Phillip learned about urban exploration (the art of infiltrating forbidden, derelict places that are sometimes historical) when he broke into that dormant platform at night. A surge of adrenaline coursed through his veins and sent him into a hypnotic state of mind as he stepped into the past. What will I find? Phillip thought.

He did his research by learning about other urban explorers before he showed up. He even saw a short film about a man who had wandered through that particular station. Phillip took several notes while he watched the video on how to enter this secret place.

A few days later, at three a.m. on a weekday, he arrived at Fulton Street Station. Once he descended inside, Phillip walked onto the subway platform. When nobody was around, Phillip jumped to the subway track. After he examined the place for cameras, motion detectors and subway workers, he paced into the tunnel. No trains were around, so he proceeded.

Immersed in blue light, perspiration and his body odor, he proceeded with trembling feet. Little by little, Phillip made his way into City Hall station. Phillip paused to look at the plaques. He remembered reading that the same sculptor who created Mount Rushmore built them. He read the inscription: The First Municipal Rapid Transit Railroad of New York. His face beamed.

Bike gloves protected his hands so that he wouldn’t get callouses as he climbed his way onto the platform, from the track. Phillip took a notebook out of his backpack, sat down and began to write. It was in that subterranean escape that through his imagination, he met Victor, the murderer in his novel.

Phillip raced out of the station, a smile on his face, because the NYPD had not caught him trespassing. Once inside of his Brooklyn apartment, he wrote about his adventure. Propped up on his bed, he smiled as he turned the pages of his notebook. When he finished, he closed it and stood up with his fists pumped into the air, his eyes pointed toward the ceiling, and his back arched. “Yes!” he said aloud to himself. His smile grew wide.

Before he could do anything else, however, his cell phone beeped. Ugh! I forgot to place my Outlook Out-of-Office notification that indicates that I’m sleeping! Phillip thought. The time flashed on the screen of his device: 04:30 am. Phillip pressed his thumb against the mail icon on his screen, and when it popped open, he saw ten emails, all marked urgent.

As he sat back down on his bed, he opened his work laptop and exhaled. He moved the mouse around so that his employer’s company logo would disappear. When he opened the first email from his telecommunications client, he cursed. His fingertips pressed to his forehead, he thought about how to respond to the client’s question about why it had taken him so long to answer. Phillip knew it had only been an hour since they sent their first email, and it wasn’t even regular business hours.

Phillip’s eyes then darted to his English literature diploma on the wall of his room. Even though it hung right next to the marketing diploma, he never looked in that direction.

Then he remembered his father’s voice on the day of his college graduation. “Do you want to get married someday, son? How much do you think houses in the New York City suburbs cost?”

“Why are you telling me this, Dad?” Phillip said, raising his voice. He was wearing a black cap and gown.

“About $1,000,000 dollars, on the lower side of the spectrum,” his father said. He wore a red tie and a navy pinstriped jacket that matched his pants. Phillip had never seen him in anything but a suit, every single day, except on Sundays. 

“Okay…why are you telling me this?”

“Because I know that you’re debating between taking that job in marketing and becoming a writer.”

After he remembered that speech, Phillip blinked and tried to concentrate again on his client’s questions, which appeared on his laptop. However, his eyes whizzed away to his bookshelf, and he eyed The Metamorphosis, by Kafka. I’m just like Gregor Samsa before he becomes an insect. Just a cog in the capitalist system, whose only purpose in life is to make money until my body decomposes in a grave, Phillip thought.

Phillip stayed up until six a.m. due to all of the emails from his client. When he finished working, he napped for half an hour and then stepped into the shower. Right before he was about to turn on the knob, he walked out and crawled back into bed. Phillip woke up to the sound of his alarm and changed into his work clothes.

He stopped by a grocery store near his job, bought an energy drink and chugged most of it as he walked into his office. Phillip gazed at how the open floor plan was not empty that day, even though it was Martin Luther King Jr. Day. Phillip put his energy drink on his part of the desk and turned on his computer. When his Outlook synchronized, there were twenty more emails that his client had marked urgent. He chose to ignore the email from his boss that said he had received a complaint from Phillip’s client because it had taken Phillip too long to answer the emails from earlier that morning.

“Good morning, Phillip,” Brian, his coworker, said.

“Good morning,” Phillip replied. He flashed Brian a smile that Phillip imagined looked like those of women who had a fresh batch of Botox applied.

“Rough night, huh?” Brian asked as he eyed the energy drink.

“Listen, I’ve got a lot of work to do,” Phillip answered. He hoped that Brian couldn’t smell his body odor and figure out that he hadn’t showered that morning. 

“Okay, okay. I just wanted to ask if you’re going to that work happy hour tomorrow.”

“Uh…” With his hands, he smoothed out his hair, which he had seen reflected on the computer screen.

“You know we have to go, right?”

Phillip gave him another similar smile. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

Phillip almost jumped at the sound of his phone. Without thinking, he nearly answered using his previous company’s name. Luckily, however, the energy drink had done its trick and he didn’t. After hanging up, he drew in a deep breath, and in his mind, he counted the number of job changes in the past few years. The advertising technology industry was so volatile that bigger corporations were always acquiring the company he wound up working at. Layoffs were the only constant.

Several months later, during Thanksgiving, he was in Massachusetts with his family. His parents were busy with the rest of his relatives, who had arrived from different parts of the country. As his family ate turkey and mashed potatoes, at the dining room table, Phillip answered emails with several red exclamation marks. He found himself having trouble breathing. It never ends, Phillip thought.  He walked into the dining room, but nobody was there anymore. His family wasn’t in the living room, either. In the kitchen, he heard the water whooshing through the dishwasher.

Phillip knocked on his parents’ bedroom door and found them asleep in bed. He returned to his old room and was about to doze off when he heard multiple beeps on his phone. It was his telecommunications client. When he answered the phone, somebody high up in the company confronted him, saying he’d seen an ad on The New York Times website that Phillip’s company wasn’t supposed to release until Cyber Monday. The client cursed him out. Phillip called his coworkers to find the underlying cause of what had occurred. Even though he resolved the situation, the client still yelled at him.

Phillip went to bed, but he couldn’t sleep because his mind was on the laundry list of things due in a few hours. What’s this all for? If I die right now, the only thing I’ll have accomplished is getting people to buy the latest cell phone, he thought. Phillip didn’t sleep at all that night, and in the morning his first thought was I’m done being Gregor Samsa. He burst into his parents’ bedroom and announced to his family that he was going to quit his job and become a writer. Before his father could say anything, Phillip said, “Yes, I know how much houses cost in the New York City suburbs. I don’t care if I have to live in a hut! I’m quitting! I’m thirty-nine years old, and I’m finally taking control of my life!”

When Phillip’s father found out that his son had decided to become a crime fiction writer, his eyes widened. He told Phillip that would be inappropriate considering his past. However, Phillip chose to ignore him…