Tagger by Cliff Gunsallus

Tagger steps from the platform into the T, a cold, damp, windy darkness. Holy Q, thinks Tagger, as his eyes adjust to the darkness of the warped space-time continuum. It is clearly winter and feels like Christmas on the Charles; he realizes he is standing in a small rowboat, on an ice-filled waterway, beside a tall, white haired man, who, oddly enough, is staring at him with a small, beatific grin. Others in the rowboat-T are rowing and/or fending off ice. The icy wind whips a flag relentlessly. The T's translucent outline rock and lurch synchronously with the rowboat, weird realities interposing.

"Name's George--where you headed, young fella?" Guy's a weirdness pro, thought Tagger (taking one to know one, that is), based on George's nonplussed demeanor "Thought I was headed downtown," offered Tagger. "Not likely to get therelessin' it's downtown Trenton you're after. Here, we're coming to shore--grab that rifle and let's go alter some Hessian reality."

It is about this time that Tagger hears, wee back inside his head and through the howling wind, the T announce "Next stop, Willoby." As he steps toward the translucent T door, he grabs his red paint and rapidly freshens the stripes on the hanging flag, it having just then miraculously (and momentarily) stopped blowing. The rowboat deliquesces as he exits to the jarring, hard, reality of the T stop.

 

Tagger Crosses the Delaware

Tagger steps from the platform into the T, a cold, damp, windy darkness. Holy Q, thinks Tagger, as his eyes adjust to the darkness of the warped space-time continuum. It is clearly winter and feels like Christmas on the Charles; he realizes he is standing in a small rowboat, on an ice-filled waterway, beside a tall, white haired man who, oddly enough, is staring at him with a small, beatific grin. Others in the rowboat-T are rowing and/or fending off ice. The icy wind whips a flag relentlessly. The T's translucent outline rocks and lurchs synchronously with the rowboat, weird realities interposing.

"Name's General George Washington--where you headed, young fella?" General George is a weirdness pro, too, thought Tagger (taking one to know one, that is), based on George's nonplussed demeanor "Thought I was headed downtown," offered Tagger. "Not likely to get therelessin' it's downtown Trenton you're after. Here, we're coming to shore--grab that rifle and let's go alter some Hessian reality."

It is about this time that Tagger hears, wee back inside his head and through the howling wind, the T announce "Next stop, Willoby." As he steps toward the ephemeral T door, he grabs his red paint and rapidly freshens the stripes on the hanging flag, it having just then miraculously (and momentarily) stopped blowing. The rowboat deliquesces as he exits to the jarring, hard, reality of the T stop.