You've Been Warned

I awake the next morning to everything repeating itself. Well, actually, that’s not accurate.

This time I open my eyes to total darkness. Not the darkness of a room in the middle of the night. Like— nothingness. Blackness.

With a sound track—that unidentified song playing in my head.

Then comes picture—the dream—the four gurneys, the hand emerging from that body bag... and I’m jolting up in bed, screaming, sweating, trembling.

I hear a loud banging, only it’s not at my door.

This time it’s coming from my ceiling, or rather, from the apartment above me. Apparently it’s not only Mrs. and Mr. Herbert Rosencrantz I’m waking up at the crack of dawn.

“Sorry!” I shout out. I truly am.

Double sorry because it’s Saturday.

I hope my upstairs neighbor will be able to get back to sleep. As for me, I know I can’t. Or won’t. As exhausted as I am from being out last night with Connie and Beth, I’m not about to close my eyes again. It doesn’t matter that I’ve got the weekend off. My dream—this nightmare—doesn’t.

Besides, how could I sleep with this music in my head?

It’s still there—the mystery song. Worse, I think it’s getting louder.

Or is that just my head throbbing? Yesterday was Michael’s turn to have the hangover; today it’s mine.

Slowly, I will myself out of bed and into the bathroom, where I shake a couple of aspirin into my hand, washing them down with some New York tap.

Then it’s straight to the kitchen to make some coffee.

I’m not much of a java junkie and usually only drink the stuff for “medicinal purposes.” Like now. A while back, though, Michael turned me on to Kona coffee from Hawaii, and I’ve been loving it. I get it over at Oren’s Daily Roast on 58th Street.

Michael’s particular about his coffee but not really in a snobbish way. The only reason he doesn’t like Starbucks, he says, is due to the “laptop losers” who treat the place like their own personal office and hog all the seating. One morning I saw him go a little nuclear on a guy who was using two chairs for just his knapsack.

Sipping a cup of Kona in my kitchen, I try to get a handle on the growing weirdness of the past few days. Is that even the right word for it, I wonder? Weirdness?

Maybe there’s more to this than I realize. Or maybe it’s the opposite, and I’m overreacting.

Or maybe I’m simply thinking about it too much. It’s not as if I have a solution to make it stop.

I’m weighing that last possibility when the phone rings.

It’s awfully early for someone to be calling. The caller ID says “Operator.” Strange.

I pick up. “Hello?”

The operator sounds close to being a recording without actually being one. “I have a collect call from Kristin Burns. Will you accept the charges?”

Clearly the coffee hasn’t kicked in yet because I could’ve sworn she said a collect call from Kristin Burns.

“I’m sorry, who’s calling?”

“This is the operator.”

That part I got.

“No, I mean, who’s trying to call me?” I ask.

“Hold on a second, please.” There’s a click on the line, and she’s gone for a few seconds before returning. “It’s Kristin Burns,” she says.

Is this some type of joke?

“Michael, is that you?” I ask.

There’s another click, and I wait.

But the operator doesn’t come back.

No one does.

The line goes dead.

I guess Kristin Burns doesn’t want to talk to me after all.

Chapter 29

I’M NOT SURE WHAT to think after that phone call except that I really don’t feel like hanging around my apartment. Maybe because I’m shaking and I can’t make it stop.

As for the word weirdness to describe what’s going on, it’s officially far too mild a term.

At times like this, as if there’s ever been a time like this before in my life, I try to think of a bigger picture. For example. One second the whole universe was smaller than the head of a pin. The next second it was billions of times larger than the Earth. And the lesson to be learned from the big picture is exactly what?

Thankfully, there’s an errand I have to run. Errands are good when you think you might be going stark-raving mad. So after showering and getting dressed, I hail a cab for Gotham Photo over in Chelsea. I’ve got a camera that needs a new lens.

“Hi. Is Javier here today?” I ask, walking up to the counter at Gotham. I notice that my shaking has finally stopped. Hey, the song in my head is gone too.

“He’s in the back,” says the clerk. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to wait for him.”

“Sure, I’ll let him know,” he says. “You’re Kristin, right?”

“Yep. Hi.”

The entire staff at Gotham Photo is friendly and they all know their stuff, but Javier’s my favorite. He’s always able to explain some of the more technical aspects of lenses and film without making me feel like an amateur. Truly, he’s as nice as can be.

“How are you, Kristin? It’s good to see you,” he greets me, smiling. He’s tall and thin and cultured, with a very gentle way about him.

We chat for a bit about anything and everything—so long as it has to do with photography. This isn’t merely a job for Javier; it’s more like a calling. He loves cameras that much. “My mother bought me my first, a Rollei Thirty- five when I was six years old,” he once told me.

I believe it.

“So when am I going to read about you in Blind Spot?” he asks. That’s the hip magazine that covers the famous as well as up-and-coming photographers.

“Just as soon as I get a new lens,” I answer.

I tell him about breaking mine, and we get busy choosing a replacement. After discussing a few, we settle on the latest Leica, which he highly recommends.

“It’s lighter and shoots cleaner,” he says. “And the best part is that I can give it to you for over a hundred dollars less than the one you had.”

Twist my arm, Javier.

As he writes up the sales slip, I casually tell him about the transparent-like effect happening with the pictures I developed from the hotel. Unfortunately, I didn’t think to bring the shots with me. I do my best to describe the glitch, but without Javier’s being able to see it, he can offer only educated guesses. Most I’ve thought of, a few I haven’t.

“Of course, if it had anything to do with your old lens,” he says with a grin, “your problem is solved.”

I’m anxious to find out, so I start taking pics the moment I leave the store. I want a full roll to develop when I get home later.

After snapping a few shots of a meticulously groomed Lhasa apso being walked by a woman who looks like Nancy Reagan, I head north and come upon two block-shaped movers struggling to load a huge armoire onto their truck. Both their faces twist and contort so horribly that it’s absolutely beautiful.

Click, click, click.

I smile to myself. I never feel more comfortable, more at home, than I do behind a camera. It’s so relaxing