2008 Woodie Awards
Sixteen Minutes: Part I
Stephen Outten
Issue date: 1/23/07 Section: Arts & Entertainment
- Page 1 of 1
I really shouldn't be telling this story. Not to you, anyway. You don't care about the circumstances of people you've never met, of people who just happened to get in way over their heads.
I only care about this story because I care about Anna, the girl in one of these operating rooms who may or may not make it out of here alive. I don't know if she's conscious, or if she's breathing, or if she even knows that we made it to the hospital. What I do know is that her exquisitely frail ninety-five pound body is fighting to stick around, fighting to expel the substances that she herself put into it. I don't want Anna to stick around long enough to say goodbye to me.
I want her to stick around long enough to tell you this story herself, to show you snapshots of her life from last year, before she left Tennessee for New York. They say that every good story has a beginning. Well this is a bad story, a story that probably shouldn't be told, a story that won't appeal to most people. I guess the thing to remember is that bad stories have to start somewhere, too. Either way, I have some time on my hands, and if you're not going anywhere for a while, I could use the company.
I'll never forget the day I met her. She was running through Grand Central Station. As I was heaving my luggage up onto the train, a blur-of-a young woman ran into me headfirst, knocking my suitcase into the conductor. Through her tangled mass of brown hair, she peered up at me. "Let me on with you."
"Excuse me?"
Speaking at a near-yell, she said, "Of course I sent my luggage ahead! Now come on, or we'll be late." She threw her arm into mine and pushed me onto the train.
"You're going to need a ticket, you know," I whispered as we took the first available seats. "They'll throw you off."
"I'll just tell them it's at Will Call at the next station. That's where I'm getting off anyway."
"Do you know what the next station is?"
She shook her head.
"Do you care?"
"The only thing I care about is getting out of here." She rocked forward, willing the train to move.
It worked. With a loud blast, we began chugging forward, the heads of the people below starting to blend together.
"Why are you in such a hurry to leave?" I asked. "What did you do?"
"It's not what I'm running from," she said, glancing out the window. "It's who I'm running from."
I threw my gaze in the direction of her slender hand. Mouthing some inaudible message was a young man in Uncle Sam's Fight Club, dressed in his army greens. "Who is that?" I was afraid of the answer, scared that maybe she had committed some international crime.
She looked at me with a smile I would come to find endearing and said with no sense of remorse, "My fiancé."
I only care about this story because I care about Anna, the girl in one of these operating rooms who may or may not make it out of here alive. I don't know if she's conscious, or if she's breathing, or if she even knows that we made it to the hospital. What I do know is that her exquisitely frail ninety-five pound body is fighting to stick around, fighting to expel the substances that she herself put into it. I don't want Anna to stick around long enough to say goodbye to me.
I want her to stick around long enough to tell you this story herself, to show you snapshots of her life from last year, before she left Tennessee for New York. They say that every good story has a beginning. Well this is a bad story, a story that probably shouldn't be told, a story that won't appeal to most people. I guess the thing to remember is that bad stories have to start somewhere, too. Either way, I have some time on my hands, and if you're not going anywhere for a while, I could use the company.
I'll never forget the day I met her. She was running through Grand Central Station. As I was heaving my luggage up onto the train, a blur-of-a young woman ran into me headfirst, knocking my suitcase into the conductor. Through her tangled mass of brown hair, she peered up at me. "Let me on with you."
"Excuse me?"
Speaking at a near-yell, she said, "Of course I sent my luggage ahead! Now come on, or we'll be late." She threw her arm into mine and pushed me onto the train.
"You're going to need a ticket, you know," I whispered as we took the first available seats. "They'll throw you off."
"I'll just tell them it's at Will Call at the next station. That's where I'm getting off anyway."
"Do you know what the next station is?"
She shook her head.
"Do you care?"
"The only thing I care about is getting out of here." She rocked forward, willing the train to move.
It worked. With a loud blast, we began chugging forward, the heads of the people below starting to blend together.
"Why are you in such a hurry to leave?" I asked. "What did you do?"
"It's not what I'm running from," she said, glancing out the window. "It's who I'm running from."
I threw my gaze in the direction of her slender hand. Mouthing some inaudible message was a young man in Uncle Sam's Fight Club, dressed in his army greens. "Who is that?" I was afraid of the answer, scared that maybe she had committed some international crime.
She looked at me with a smile I would come to find endearing and said with no sense of remorse, "My fiancé."
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