< A short story >
I
can feel my palms getting sweaty.
Standing in the long line at the teleport station this Friday afternoon,
my discomfort rises.
I
hate teleporting. Which, I know, sounds
weird. But it’s true. It’s not the concept I find problematic. Shooting from New York to L.A. or Paris or
Zimbabwe or Tokyo in the few minutes it takes to deconstruct and reassemble
every single atom in your body is great.
You can go anywhere in the world in 2-3 minutes.
I
just get sick every time I do it. So
that puts a damper on my worldwide travel.
It’s
called telo-sickness. And I’m a part of
the lucky 10% of the population that’s affected. It starts with tingling across your entire
body, then comes dizziness that dissolves into nausea that lasts for
hours. No amount of Dramamine
helps. I’ve tried.
But
sometimes it’s worth it. As long as it’s
not too short of a trip. I’ve been to
Venice for Mardi Gras and four different cities for the past four New Years.
I
had a week’s worth of vacation for those trips.
For this one I’ve only got the weekend.
The
entire line moves up a step. I move with
them, rolling my bag behind me. Closing
my eyes I try some deep breathing.
But
after 5 breaths, I can’t sense a slowing in my pulse, so I stop.
I
know it’s not just the teleporting that has me worked up. It’s why I’m traveling from home in Seattle
back to where I grew up in Cedar Rapids.
To bury my father.
It
was unexpected. But then most heart
attacks are. I am surprised we don’t
have a cure for this yet. We can travel
the globe in an instant, but stopping plaque buildup in coronary arteries is
too much of a stretch for science.
While
they’re at it, couldn’t scientists find a cure for telo-sickness too?
Movement
disrupts my thoughts. The portly man in
front of me hands his ticket to the clerk.
“ID?”
the clerk asks.
The
man fumbles for his wallet. I roll my
eyes. Technology can get sophisticated as it wants, but it never fails that we
get stuck in lines. Like herded cattle.
“Joshua
Browning.” The clerk reads, comparing
ticket and ID.
Portly
man nods.
The
clerk stamps his ticket and waves him toward the cylindrical chamber embedded
in the wall. It’s identical to the
others along the wall.
The
frosted glass door slides open automatically.
The man just barely fits into the opening with his suitcase. The door closes. And he could be in Costa Rica right now.
A
wave of emotion barrels into me. I wish
I was headed anywhere else in the world.
“Next,”
says the clerk.
I
reach into my jacket for ticket and ID.
“Marin
Starling,” he says. Checking that my
ticket, ID and face match, he appears satisfied and stamps my ticket.
“Thanks,”
I say.
My
small suitcase trundles along behind me as I approach the opening in the wall.
Right
after I enter, the frosted glass slides shut.
It’s a good thing I’m not claustrophobic.
A
robotic female voice instructs me to “Insert ticket into the cyan slot.” It takes me a couple times to insert, since
my hands aren’t very steady.
The
vaguely British voice says, “Thank you, you will be arriving in Cedar Rapids
momentarily.”
Bluish
numbers above the ticket slot illuminate the otherwise white walls.
3
2
1
I
sharply inhale the last breath of Seattle air and dissolve.
< >
