The Fast Track

“The best samosas in Queens!” His eyes twinkled like the oily sheen on the pastries. “Hot and fresh!”

I believed him. Wisps of steam fogged up the glass display case. On any other day, I would have scarfed up enough to make me sick. But today, I was already nauseous.

“Can’t find ones like these in the freezer aisle,” he boasted. A beaming smile pushed the curls of his moustache into his rounded cheeks. Everything about him was round: his face, his midsection, his eyes, his vowels. He was a caricature of jollity. The type of man strangers’ kids called “Grandfather”. A beardless, tanned St. Nick. “But a smart man like you must know. That’s why you’re here!”

He dipped his chin toward my sweatshirt. It was shamelessly embroidered with “Columbia”. I always felt like an imposter when I wore it. With it over my lanky body, I was a conman, the prodigy masquerading under the skin of his dead dreams.

I remembered when the backpack on my shoulders had sagged with the weight of textbooks. I’d been sixteen my freshman year, wide-eyed and pimply, the youngest in my class. I was on the fast track to success. At least that was what people said. I was destined for greatness, to rise to the same ranks of affluence as the ones before me. But the fast track was always greased with Mom and Dad’s money. When that vanished, I skidded to a stop, three semesters shy of a degree.

That was over a decade ago. On any other day, I would have done whatever I could to keep my mind off it. But this sweatshirt had deep pockets.

I studied the walls and the ceiling. There was a TV in the corner, flickering with an old Bollywood film, but nothing else. The tinny whine of the music buzzed in my ear. A line of sweat formed on my upper lip. It was blazing outside, the hottest day New York had seen this year. A sputtering fan was all that cooled the cluttered confines of the grocery. But I would have been sweating no matter what.

“Would you like some to go?” the shopkeeper asked.

I shook my head.

He frowned. “Not a fan of samosas, eh?”

I stared at him blankly.

“No matter.” His grin cropped back up. “I have some pakoras over here, right out of the fryer!”

He turned to unwrap the foil off a massive tray.

My hand reached into my pocket. I took a wavering breath. On any other day, I would have thought twice and raced out the door. But not today.

My fingers wrapped around a metal grip.

“T-turn around,” I stammered.

The man looked over his shoulder. His eyes met the barrel of a gun. He blanched. “Okay, okay. No problem.” He turned to me and lifted his hands in the air. “No problem.”

I held out my backpack. “Put the money in here.” My voice cracked. The words were barely a whisper. “Now.”

“Yes. Okay.” He unlocked the cash register.

My heartbeat echoed in my ears. It sounded like a hammer to my skull. The seconds stretched out to eternity. I just wanted it to be over.

I jabbed the gun in his face. “Faster!”

“Yes, of course.” He yanked out the cash drawer and upended it over the bag. A few measly bills floated out. He shook the drawer and produced a quick shower of coins.

“All of it.” I wasn’t smart anymore, not like I had been, but I wasn’t stupid. I’d been watching him for weeks. I knew about the safe.

His brows slumped down. He gave a strained smile. “Right. Of course.”

He crouched down behind the register. I heard the turn of a dial. There was the click of a door unlatching. He came back up with his fists full of thick green wads. I gaped at them, my eyes bulging, my hands jittering. A single one of those rubber-band bound bank rolls would have kept me alive for a month.

He loaded up the backpack. Hundreds of Ben Franklins peered up at me in judgement. I clipped their glares with the zipper. I held the bag close to my chest.

And then I sprinted.

*

The haul was sprawled out over the coffee table. $20,000 from the safe plus the paltry spoils from the cash register. I counted the bills over and over again. The paper against my fingers elicited glee, then horror, then anger, then all three at once. The rusty pipes running through the walls of my apartment groaned accusingly. The unit above me was running their shower. The couple next door was shouting again. A reminder that there were eyes everywhere.

I rolled the bills back up into tight cylinders. I still hadn’t figured out where to stash them.

I flipped over the backpack. The last of the coins rolled out. Some straggling dollars fell to the floor. I checked the inside to make sure it was empty. The pouch was devoid of greens and silvers, but there was a little black square sitting at the bottom.

I pulled it out. It was a notebook, leather-bound with gilded edges, heavy for how small it was. What was it? A ledger of some kind?

I opened it. There was a name scribbled into the back of the cover. "Rajesh Chandra". I formed it on my lips and swallowed it down. Now he had a name. The man I’d held at gunpoint. The man I’d robbed. Rajesh.

I turned to the first page. It was a letter.

Dear Deepa,

This is strange. Back when I was a boy, they called people who talked to ghosts crazy. Now these psycho-doctors are saying it can be good for you? I don’t understand it! But if you can somehow read these, I hope you don’t mind the ramblings of an old man.

Yours,

Mr. Chandra

I flipped through the rest of the pages. He’d written her dozens of letters. Maybe hundreds.

Dear Deepa,

Your little granddaughter turned eight today! Can you believe it? Do you remember how small she was when she was born? Well, she is a big girl now. Big enough even to bake herself her own birthday cake! It was not good. But her Dadaji still ate it with a smile.

Yours,

Mr. Chandra

Dear Deepa,

Today was a long day. It would have been nice to come home to your spinach dal.

Yours,

Mr. Chandra

Eh, Deepa! What is this?

It has been snowing for four days now! You know I don’t get any customers when it snows. You better do something to fix this. Otherwise, your old husband will be out on the streets!

Mr. Chandra

Dear Deepa,

Thank you for the sunshine. Hope all is well.

Yours,

Mr. Chandra

And it went on and on.

My eyes were stinging. Tears dripped off my chin. My ignorance was shattered, and I would never be able to piece it together again. I closed the notebook and flung it into the backpack.

There was a cavern growing in my chest. It was eating me whole, gnawing away at my insides until all that would be left was emptiness. And I didn’t know how to stop it.

*

The subway car rocked from side to side on a neglected stretch of track. It was crowded today, there was barely any standing room let alone a seat. I was squeezed between two men. They were locked onto their phones, earbuds wedged into their heads, sweating through expensive suits. I kept a white-knuckled grip on the pole we shared to avoid knocking the whole cabin down like a row of dominoes. I sighed and wiped my brow against my shoulder. A hellish ride to a hellish job. Everything was hell. But I wouldn’t have to put up with it for much longer. My escape was waiting for me on the coffee table. It was enough to quit this job. It was enough to start over.

The train slowed. I hadn’t been paying attention. A garbled announcement hissed through the speakers. It was my stop. An impatient crowd flocked to the doors. I watched them file out. But I didn’t move. My feet were locked in place. The train sped away from the platform. Why hadn’t I gotten out?

I inched closer to the door. It was okay. I’d get off at the next one.

But the next stop came and went. I didn’t leave.

More stations passed by. I watched the names pass by in blur. We’d be at the end of the line soon. I clutched the straps of my backpack and readied myself. I swore I would get off this time.

But there was a weight hoisted on my back. It was a pocketful of stones, shackles around my ankles. The corner of a notebook dug into my flesh. I couldn’t ignore it.

An announcement came on. We were entering Queens.

*

“New Krishna Market”. Even from a distance, I recognized the brightly colored sign.

This was insane. I wasn’t denying that. Every rational part of me knew that I should turn around. But, then again, what was rational about any of this?

I would leave the notebook at the door. That was it.

I approached the store halfway between a skulk and a sprint. I had to be fast but covert. I clutched the notebook in my hand, ready to toss it. But then a bell chimed. The door opened.

I froze in my tracks. My breath caught it my throat. He’d recognize me the moment he saw me.

But it wasn’t Rajesh who came out.

It was a woman. Her face was somber, round like a saucer. His daughter?

“We’re closed,” she said flatly.

I rubbed the back of my neck. Should I run? I hid the notebook behind me. “I-I was just dropping something off.”

“For my father?”

I gulped. “Yes.”

“He’s not here.”

I felt a rush of relief. “Could you give it to him?”

She studied me with narrow eyes. “Who are you?”

“I, uh, work with him...for the store, I mean.”

“I’ve never seen you before.”

“Um, I’m…” What could I say?

“A supplier?”

I nodded.

Her jaw clenched. “Unbelievable.” There were tears welling up in her eyes. “The man’s not even dead ten hours and you lot are already here sniffing around for your money.”

Dead?

Panic bubbled in my stomach. My head was spinning. I felt like toppling over. “Wh-what happened?”

Her chest rose and fell. She sniffed. “Heart attack.”

No.

I’d swore I wouldn’t hurt him. My gun hadn’t even been loaded.

How could he be dead?

“Who are you?” she asked again, the suspicious edge of her voice was a knife against my throat.

I didn’t answer. I shoved the notebook into her hands.

“What is-” She flipped it open. Her jaw fell. “How did you get this?”

But I was already gone. I ran as fast as I could and then even faster than that.

My lungs started burning. Before long, my legs refused to cooperate. I came to a stop at the end of the next block. I buckled over, gasping. On any other day, I could have kept going for miles. But today, there was a dead man dragging me down.

I couldn’t run from this.

I ambled over to the intersection. I stood at the corner and inhaled deeply. There was the smell of fried dough in the air. Hot and fresh.

Minutes went by. Then hours. Cars crawled past me. A cacophony of horns buzzed in the air. I watched the traffic lights blink on and off.

From behind me, I heard sirens.