Read Online Endorphin Conspiracy, The by Fredric Stern - Free Book Online Page B

rotation at the end of Geoff’s first year at the NYTC. She’d pulled him out of the ER, away from the house staff lounge—fortunately Dr. Spiros wasn’t around—dragged him home for a candlelight dinner, made him watch a film, “The Doctor,” then, her lips soft and sensuous, the warm glow behind her hazel eyes, ripped off his scrubs and made passionate love to him on the living room couch. Sarah had always known, better than he, just when he needed her most. Their life together seemed like a dream to him now, a mirage evaporated into thin, desert air.
    “Lousy shvartze! ”
    Without warning, Geoff was yanked from his sweet daydream back to the grimy, cacophonous reality around him. A black teenager, boom box resting on his shoulder, untied Air Jordan’s on his feet, had just entered the subway car through the end door and turned up the volume. He danced around the car to the rap tune, timing his pirouettes to jive with the haphazard jolts of the train as much as with the music. A captive audience. Several of the passengers watched with curiosity, but most—Geoff included—looked downward or at their newspapers and avoided eye contact.
    Dumbrowski’s Rule Number One.
    The man sitting next to Geoff became more restive. He smacked his lips in disgust, grabbed his briefcase off the floor, placed it securely in his lap. His mumbling became a thunderous command. “Turn down that music!”
    The other passengers cringed. The youth turned up the volume full blast and continued his elbow-flailing, finger-snapping lip-synch.
    Those who had attempted to ignore the situation now glared at the teenager, hoping he’d walk through to the next car and make himself someone else’s problem, though most knew better. He was seeking disruption and recognition. He had achieved his goals here in this car.
    He continued his routine, meandering toward Geoff and his seat-mate. Geoff’s pulse began to race. A confrontation was brewing, and he had the unenviable ringside seat. Squat and soft in the middle, the Hasidic man was obviously no match for the brawny teenager with the box.
    The youth was barely two feet away now, music blasting. He sauntered forward, paused in front of Geoff and the Hasid, removed the boom box from his shoulder and thrust it in the older man’s face. “Hey, mutha’ fuckin’ Jew, don’t you dig rap?”
    Geoff looked at the man next to him. His face had turned a deep crimson, and the veins in his neck bulged so far they appeared ready to burst. His entire body quivered with something more than fear, and his hands clutched something inside his now partially open briefcase.
    Geoff caught the man’s eye. His gaze was maddened beyond mere anger, a frightening stare. Was Geoff sitting next to a lunatic, or was this just an irate citizen whose tolerance had reached flash point? Geoff knew the wisest thing for him to do now was to get up and walk through to the next car, but the man might need his help.
    “This is what I think of you and your rap, filth!” The man jumped up from his seat and fired an Uzi sub-machine gun at the black youth, propelling him to the opposite side of the car, splattering blood onto walls and nearby passengers. The teenager landed with a loud thud at the feet of the Italian woman with the shopping bag, who was now wailing and praying aloud.
    Shrieking men and women rushed to still-closed doors, knocking each other down, trampling those who had fallen. A five-year-old child, who had escaped her mother’s grasp, ran and hid under a bench, screamed wildly. Utter chaos.
    Pop-pop-pop. Another round of machine gun fire and loud howling. Geoff, behind the man, held onto a pole in the corner of the car. He looked about to see if anyone else had been hit. The sound of the automatic weapon pierced the air again, followed by more screams and crying. A goddamned war zone.
    “Everyone sit down!” yelled the man as he fired the machine gun over their heads, blowing out the windows and sending