Zero

Seven, three, forty-two. Twenty, six, eleven. One hundred and ninety-seven. Zero. A woman stared. A man scooted away, never looking up from his newspaper. Three hundred and four, twelve, seventeen, sixty-one, two. Zero.

The bus jerked all over the road, dodging between lanes and ignoring red lights. I sat amoung a throng of passengers talking on cellphones, reading from electronic books, checking watches. Sixteen, seventy-seven, one hundred and thirty, nine. A man boarded the bus and took a seat across the aisle, and pulled out his cellphone. Four an a quarter minutes passed, and the man got off. Four, six, nine. Zero.

A woman was next to board. She thanked the driver and, looking flustered, took a seat right beside me.

"Hello," she breathed, adjusting her bag on her lap. I smiled at her. "On my way to pick up the little one," she told me, "Today is her third birthday, and she's so excited. Having the folks over for a little party. Should be fun." I nodded, and smiled again. She grinned at me, and sighed.

"I must look a mess," she lamented, trying desperately to fix her fly away hair. I shook my head. She laughed. "Just got off work a few minutes ago. You wouldn't believe the storm out there." I turned and looked out the window. Rain ravaged the windows and the wind whipped through the coats of pedestrians on the sidewalk. Facing back around, I felt the bus stop.

"Well," the woman huffed, "this is my stop. Have a nice evening." I watched as she squeezed through the crowd to the door. The doors slid closed behind her.

Twenty-seven, three, twelve. One.
*

My apartment was cold. Odd. I dropped my coat on the pile in front of the door. On the counter of the kitchen a stack of envelopes was collecting dust. I sifted through the stack until I found an official-looking letter about my rent. Hm.

In the next room over I laid down on the bare mattress on the hardwood floor, and went to sleep.
*

Seventy-three, thirteen, eight. One. The old man stood, picked up his grocery bag, and made his way carefully off the bus. The woman that he had been sitting with was still laughing at an old story he told her about noodles. Thirty, seventy-four, five. One.

I felt a tap on my knee. A man, sitting beside me was looking at me curiously. Twelve, seventeen, two hundred and one.

"Excuse me?" I stared at him blankly. "Sir, can you hear me?" I nodded. "Sir, I have been riding this bus for three years, and everyday I see you. You're always muttering to your self. What do those numbers mean?"

One.

"Yes, sometimes you say 'one'. What does it mean? What about 'zero' and 'twelve, seventeen' and 'two hundred and one'?"

You hear me?

"Yes, sir, I hear you. We all do. You are speaking, clear as day." My section of the bus was silent, all staring at me. I smiled.

"You hear me," I say, smiling wider. "You're listening now, aren't you? You've always been able to hear me? Even better. You people - no, not people. You are nothing but husks of what used to be a person." The passengers stared at me in disbelief. "You want to know what Zero means? Just look at yourselves! You are Zero. You are nothing, non-existant. You could all disappear and the only way we'd know is that there would be one less smelly body to stand next to on the bus. All day long tak-tak-tak on your devices, talking to other Zero. Ever notice the shaky old man trying to board the train, or the exausted mother with too many groceries to get up to her apartment? Ever seen how your children notice the bird-shaped cloud or the brightest blue bouncy ball they've ever seen, sitting in the snow on the way home from your office. Those are people, my dear Zeros, you are nothing." I stood, staggering around at all the passengers. A woman screamed and a man reached out to restrain me.

"Twenty-eight, forty-six, twenty-eight. Zero." I shouted. Police sirens blared, lights flashed. I smiled.
*

"Now how about these numbers." I smiled as she held up the card.

"Twenty-eight, forty-six, twenty-eight."

"Yes," the woman said. "Now, one of the witnesses said you never repeat numbers. But this time, you said twenty eight twice."

"That man had ridden my bus for seven years. He never spoke a word to anyone. I once heard him yelling at his wife for making spaghetti rather than fettuccini. That man didn't deserve to live another day."

"And who are you to decide who deserves to live?"

"God, I suppose." I laughed at my joke. The woman didn't laugh.

"The police found what you were doing threatening and potentially dangerous to society. Do you remember the tests."

"Ah, yes. Given to me by the husk of a doctor. Do you know what he asked me?"

"What did he ask you?" I leaned over and whispered in her ear. She blushed. Straightening her skirt, she cleared her throat.

"He did not ask you that." I giggled wildly at her embarrassment.

"I told him yes."

"Mr White," she interjected amid my fit of giggles, "would you like to know the outcome of your test. Composing myself, I nodded. "The doctors have decided that you are unfit to be a part of society. You are unable to think clearly for a variety of reasons, though you are still well enough to attend our," she examined the sheet of paper she held, "weekly sessions." I clapped gleefully.

Thirty-four, sixty-nine, fourteen. One. The woman raised an eyebrow. "So you are saying I'm crazy? Bonkers? Mad? Loopy? 'Round the bend? Insane?"

"If you wish to put it that way, yes."

"Good," I said, "because, you know, one must be sane to think clearly, but one can think deeply and be quite insane."