Thelma Baker sat alone at a table for two at the Wet Noodle in Quaints. The time was 7:16 p.m. Her purported date, a balding human calculator from an investment bank in downtown Maninatinhat (or so he'd said) was late. It was raining outside. The fat raindrops splatted on the diner’s greasy windows like bugs on a car windshield on the highway, and slid down it like dead slugs. Thelma Baker knew the guy (purportedly named Larry) wasn't going to show. She knew she'd been stood up (—yet again. Sigh.) She ordered a child’s size* bowl of noodles, ate the noodles too quickly (still hot!) by herself, paid for them, paid a tip, and walked out into the rain.

(* The portion was the size a child would eat. It was not the size of a child.)

She opened her umbrella and was on the verge of crying when she realized even that was pointless because the weather was already crying for her. What were a few extra tears in the rain but excess gutterfeed. Her umbrella was therefore appropriately black, and she walked gracefully like a widow.

It is perhaps necessary here to describe Thelma Baker. She was in her thirties, had dark hair, which she wore in a single braid down her back, and brown eyes, one of which was lazy but not immediately noticeably so. She was neither slim nor plump, quite short and wore glasses. If she'd ever turned heads (she didn't remember) she no longer did. She liked sweaters and autumn, which is the best season for wearing them. And: I could go on, but what’s the point—other than padding the word count? The fact is that anyone can go out on the street and see a Thelma Baker. Not the Thelma Baker, but close enough, which is not to say that Thelma Baker is an unoriginal, merely that she seems to be an unoriginal at first glance, and in today's New Zork City that's regrettably the same thing, because who gives more than a first glance, surely not Larry the human fucking calculator. So if you want to picture Thelma Baker, there you go. If you want to get to know her, do it on your own time (and your own word count.)

Thelma Baker, walking down 111th street in the rain with nowhere to go, upset at having been stood up, looking at storefronts at commercial goods she can't afford and couples enjoying dates she's not on, with the city crying on her, decided to go into the nearest bar and tackle the most existential question of all: do I want to keep living?

The nearest bar was Van Dyke's, and she went in.

It was a lesbian bar.

Thelma Baker wasn't a lesbian, or even particularly bisexual, but she thought, What the hell? and ordered a drink and sat in the corner and drank while watching other women enter and exit. They mostly looked happy. She was on her third drink and daydreaming about the lives she could have led, when she heard somebody say, “Do you mind if I sit down?”

She looked up to see a thin woman with tousled hair and a cigarette hanging from her lips. The woman exuded a detached kind of relaxation to which Thelma Baker had once aspired. The cigarette moved up and down as she spoke. “If you're waiting for someone, tell me. If not, I'm Joan.”

“Hi, Joan,” said Thelma Baker. “My name's Thelma.”

Joan sat.

“I'm not a lesbian,” said Thelma Baker.

“OK.”

“I just thought you should know that,” said Thelma Baker.

“I appreciate it,” said Joan. “I'm not a lesbian either, but sometimes I sleep with women.”

“I've never done that.”

“I sleep with men too,” said Joan.

“I've done that, but not in a while,” said Thelma Baker, and Joan laughed and Thelma Baker felt a little joy.

“When was the last time?”

“Oh, it's been over a year. And that one wasn't good. Almost happened a few weeks ago. I met this cop on the subway, but when we got to my place and started—turned out he had pieces of another man’s head on him, which turned me off.”

“I can imagine,” said Joan. “Why did he have pieces of another man’s head on him?”

“Nostalgic explosion… —are you from around here?”

“No, I'm from out west. I'm here on business. I'm meeting my publisher tomorrow afternoon.”

“You're a writer,” said Thelma Baker.

Joan nodded.

“Do you write fiction? I read a lot of fiction. A lot of bad fiction.”

“A few novels, yes; but mostly I write essays. About the places I visit and people I meet.”

Joan smiled and Thelma Baker smiled too. “I got stood up earlier today—just a couple of hours ago.”

“That's unfortunate,” said Joan. “But it's because of how you say it.”

“How do I say it?”

“Like you're ashamed.”

“How should I say it then?” asked Thelma Baker.

“Say it like it's an accomplishment.”

Thelma Baker laughed.

“I'm serious.”

Thelma Baker blushed.

“Try it.”

“I got stood up earlier today,” said Thelma Baker like it was an accomplishment.

“Feel different?”

Thelma Baker admitted that it did.

“Who was the man?” asked Joan.

“Just some hairless accountant from Maninatinhat.”

“His loss.”

“Thanks,” said Thelma Baker.

“Now tell me, you mentioned before about nostalgic explosion. What is that?”

“You haven't heard?”

“No. It's my first time in New Zork.”

“For whatever reason, if you think nostalgically about the city while in the city, your head explodes. Or is at risk of explosion, because some people claim they've done it and their heads are still intact.”

Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

“I guess you can never know for sure,” said Joan.

“Maybe you can get away with it if the city is asleep,” said Thelma Baker.

“I thought this is the city that never sleeps.”

“It sure sweats and cries sometimes, so I bet it sleeps too,” said Thelma Baker. “By the way, where out west are you from?”

“Lost Angeles.”

“A writer from Lost Angeles. That's exotic to me.” She hesitated, then asked: “Is it really as bad out there as they say?”

“How bad do they say it is?”

“I read an article in the New Zork Times about how half the population is reanimated undead—like, zombies—zoned out all the time, just meaninglessly shuffling around.”

“That's true,” said Joan.

“Isn't it depressing?”

“What concerns me more is you can't tell the undead from the living, especially in Hollywood.”

“You know, Joan. I'm starting to feel a real connection with you.”

“Do you believe in fate, Thelma?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Do you smoke?”

Thelma Baker said she didn’t, but said she’d try it for the first time and after Joan handed her an authentic west coast cigarette, she put it in her mouth and Joan lit it, and Thelma Baker just about coughed her lungs out.

“You ought to try believing in fate once too,” said Joan. “The pull’s a lot smoother.”

“Maybe I will. Feels like a good night for first times.”

Then they went outside, the pair of them, where the skies had darkened but the rain had stopped. The wet streets reflected the city streetlights and neons. The architecture’s canted angles made Thelma Baker feel like she was falling and flying at the same time in a way that was both wonderful and new. For a while, they wandered and talked. Joan asked questions and Thelma Baker answered them, telling Joan all about her life, from as far back as she could remember. “The hotel I’m staying at is just around the corner. My publisher’s paying for the room. It’s a big room. Do you want to come up?” asked Joan.

Thelma Baker bit her lip. She wasn’t into women, but there was something about Joan, about tonight. “Yes!” she said.

The interior was glamorous.

The elevator had a person dedicated to running it.

(Good evening, misses,” he’d said.)

The door to Joan’s room opened and—”Oh my God!—it was absolutely splendid. Joan kept the lights off, but there was enough moonlight streaming in from the giant windows to paint every intricate detail in midnight blue. Thelma Baker was swooning. Romance had gripped her. Joan tapped something on the wall and music started playing: Selim Savid’s Sketches of Pain. “Do you like jazz?” asked Joan.

“Oh, I don’t know much about music, but this—this is wonderfully perfect.”

“I saw him play once in Lost Angeles. Years ago now…”

“Was he good?”

“Wonderfully perfect,” said Joan.

To Thelma Baker, she was a silhouette against the nighttime panorama of New Zork City, and when Joan moved, Thelma Baker felt the shifting shape of her presence.

Joan went to a desk and picked up a notebook. “Sorry,” she said. “Writer’s habit. Do you mind?”

“No.”

Joan began writing.

Every once in a while she looked up at Thelma Baker, who wished time could stop and stretch forever. She felt exposed and seen. Understood and acknowledged. Finally, someone had looked past her surface to her true self.

When she was done writing, Joan excused herself and went into the bathroom. When she came back out she was nude—and Thelma Baker was breathless. “You’re beautiful,” she said.

“I want to see every detail of you,” said Joan.

Thelma Baker undressed, and they got into the large bed together.

“Tell me about the last book you wrote,” said Thelma Baker, staring at the ornate hotel room ceiling.

“It was a book of essays.”

“Tell me about one of the essays—the last one.”

“It’s called ‘Waves of Mutilation,” said Joan. “It’s about… have you ever heard of Terminus Point?”

“No.”

“It’s a place outside Los Angeles, a strip of land that extends a long way into the Pacific Ocean. When you go out there you can barely see the shore. It’s where the undead go to die—or die again. One of the ways in which the undead differ from the living is that the undead can’t commit suicide. But some of them don’t want to live anymore. Terminus Point is where they meet living who want to kill. So you have two groups: suicidal undead and killer living. I interviewed individuals from both groups, spent time with them. I wanted to understand what makes an undead want to re-die; a living want to kill. Terminus Point is where this beautiful, destructive symbiosis takes place.”

“Were you afraid?”

“Of whom, the living or the undead?”

“Both,” said Thelma Baker.

“The undead don’t scare me. You can’t live in Lost Angeles and not be used to them. The living didn’t scare me either. I thought they would. I thought I would meet living monsters, but the people I met were samaritans, wanting to help, or simply broken, hoping that an act of extreme violence would somehow free them of past trauma. Somebody whose loved one had been murdered—wanting to understand what it felt like to kill (and maybe therefore be killed). Someone desperate and angry at the world, wanting to explode their rage—but wanting to do it in a way that didn’t perpetuate it. Terminus Point is a marketplace for intense feeling. A slaughterhouse for pain.”

“And the police just let it happen?”

“Everyone lets it happen. It’s in no one’s interest to stop it.”

“I wish places like that didn’t need to exist.”

“But Terminus Point isn’t what my essay is about. Not primarily. It’s what I intended it to be about, but while spending time there I learned there was a third group involved, made up of both the living and the undead. Surfers."

“Surfers?”

“After someone living kills an undead on Terminus Point, they dump the body, what’s left of it, into the ocean. Given the geography of the area, the undead bodies and remains decompose in the water. The water turns purple, pink and green. Thickens. But every once in a while, when the winds are right and currents change, the zombie sludge gets pulled away from the land, deeper into the ocean—before being returned violently to the shore as waves. These hit always at a nearby beach. There’s a group of surfers called the Mutilants who’ve figured out when these waves will appear, and when they happen they swim out and ride them in. It’s spiritual to them. Ritualistic.”

“So your essay is about the surfers?”

“Yes,” said Joan.

“I’ve never met anyone like you before,” said Thelma Baker.

“What’s so special about me?”

“You’re a searcher. You search for life off the beaten path. Bizarre life. Me, I’ve always stayed on the sidewalks, paid attention to the lights at the intersection. I don’t cross when I’m not supposed to cross. Not usually.”

“All life’s bizarre,” said Joan. “Even though the people I interview may be unusual, I—myself—am a boring person.”

“Hardly.”

“We disagree. Regardless, I do hope the subject of my essay didn’t put you off.”

“No, it didn’t,” said Thelma Baker, edging closer to Joan under the magnificent covers, and they made love while New Zork City watched through the hotel windows. The stars sparkled. The neons shone. The rain started again and stopped. Selim Savid’s Sketches of Pain played, and then another album played, and another. And when Thelma Baker awoke—

//

“Ms. Deadion?” said the receptionist.

“Yes,” said Joan.

“Mr. Soth will see you now.”

She continued past the reception desk and into the elevator, then up to the top floor, where Laszlo Soth, of the great publishing house Soth & Soth, had his office.

“Good morning, my star,” he said upon seeing her.

“Good morning, L.”

“The new book is splendid. Absolutely splendid—as you know. Modesty has no place here; only truth. Talent recognizes talent, even its own. Especially its own!”

“What kind words, L. Thank you.”

“Let’s get business out of the way. We have a few appearances for you to make, of course. A few signings, a radio interview. Daria will give you the particulars. But not too many! Not so many you can’t enjoy the city. How are you finding New Zork, Joan?”

Joan smiled. “Fascinating.”

“Have you had a chance to… collect?”

“Laszlo…”

“I’m not pressuring you, my star. No pressure from me at all. Pure curiosity.”

“In that case, yes. In fact, I collected my first one last night.”

“Do tell… —or don’t. It’s better you don’t. It’s better that they all come out in the writing. And in the book.” When Joan didn’t respond, he added: “...if there is a book. Her first (of many) New Zork books. A compendium of New Zork stories by the brilliant Joan Deadion!”

//

—it was morning, and although the room remained as regal as before, Thelma Baker was alone in it. Joan was gone.

Thelma Baker got out of the empty bed and noticed something odd.

In her head, the little voice that would have said, I got out of bed, instead said: She got out of bed. The voice itself was still the same, still her voice, but the point-of-view was different. She was no longer existing in the first person.

At first, Thelma Baker thought it might be the hangover. She’d had a lot to drink. Much more than usual. Once she’s got her wits back, it’ll all go back to normal, she thought—again startled by the third person point-of-view. It’s just temporary and she’ll be back to herself in no time.

Thelma Baker was starting to panic.

What’s wrong with her? She should get out of here!

She threw on her clothes, grabbed her few personal items and was about to leave when she remembered the notebook Joan had written in. Something compelled her to look at it—to look inside. Even through the dense alcoholic (and erotic) haze, she knew Joan had been writing in it last night. But when she opened the notebook, all the pages were empty. The ones that Joan had seemingly written on had been ripped out. Every other page was blank. In fact, there was no writing anywhere on the notebook except for a single word on the front cover, written in beautiful freehand: “Collections.”

Thelma Baker exited the hotel and ran desperately home in resoundingly third person point-of-view.