The Measure(94)

It started a minute past nine a.m. in New York—it was morning in the Americas, afternoon in Europe and Africa, and evening in the Asia-Pacific. All the screens in Times Square went black, before flashing the words “Strung Together” across their digital faces. The crowd erupted in cheers.

As Ben watched the display commence in Manhattan, he wondered, fleetingly, about the other countries, unaware that the very same video was being viewed by all. Playing across the LED billboards of London’s Piccadilly Circus, and Tokyo’s Shibuya Crossing, and Toronto’s Yonge-Dundas Square. Projected onto screens and building facades in Mexico City’s Zócalo, and Cape Town’s Greenmarket Square, and Paris’s Place de la Bastille. Streaming live, with no delays, on Facebook and YouTube and Twitter. Even the Google home page had been taken over in that instant, the letters of its rainbow logo linked by two twisting threads.

“Today, around the world, we honor the contributions of those with short strings,” the video began, the stark white words like stars on a midnight screen. “These are just a few.”

“Saved two hundred lives in surgery.”

“Raised three children on her own.”

“Directed an Oscar-winning film.”

“Earned two Ph.D.s.”

“Built an iPhone app.”

With each tribute, each triumph, the applause grew louder.

“Married his high school sweetheart.”

“Wrote a novel.”

“Defended our country.”

“Ran for president.”

Ben looked around at the members of his group and wondered what the video might say for each of them. Nihal had been valedictorian, Maura was newly married, Carl was an uncle, Lea was carrying her brother’s babies, Terrell was producing a Broadway show, and Chelsea made everyone laugh. Hank, of course, had been a healer. And there were a million other things, as well, that Ben still didn’t know about these people, despite all the time they had spent together, sitting in Room 204. They had each fallen in and out of love, held jobs both dull and fulfilling. They were sons and daughters and brothers and sisters. They were friends.

“We love you!” someone shouted near Ben.

“Strung Together!” yelled another.

This wasn’t what Ben had expected.

He assumed that he would hear platitudes from government leaders or actors. He assumed they would plead for tolerance. He assumed they might show photos of short-stringers already lost. He assumed the day would feel heavy and sad, a prolonged moment of silence. Like one massive memorial service.

But it wasn’t like that at all.

It was boisterous and raucous and joyful. A celebration of life. An hour of untouched unity. In every location, every country, every public square, people leaned out of windows and stepped onto balconies and climbed up to rooftops, clapping and hollering and banging the rails.

For a nation—for a world—with no trouble starting wars, and stoking fears, and standing apart, they hadn’t forgotten how to come together.





Maura




Later, by the next morning, Maura would realize that it was perfectly, almost laughably, well timed. That something, fate perhaps, had allowed them to enjoy that moment in Times Square, blissfully and without disruption, before the panic set in.

The video had ended mere minutes before, and the people in the street and the windows above were still screaming and cheering, riding the currents of revelry, when Lea’s face went ashen.

“Are you okay?” Maura asked her.

“I think my water just broke.”

Within seconds Maura had rallied the group, forming a circular shield around Lea and pushing their way through the thicket of people. But the crowd was dense and the celebrants oblivious and the pace unbearably slow. Ben was hurriedly dialing Lea’s brother and parents, and Maura glanced at her poor pregnant friend, who was trying to hold it together while contractions started pulsing through her body.

“Please get me out of here!” Lea begged. “I don’t want to give birth in the Hard Rock Café!”

“Everybody move!” Maura shouted. “She’s in labor!”

After an agonizing, indefinite number of minutes—the group would argue, that night, over how long they had actually been stuck in Times Square—they reached the edge of the mob and Carl hailed a cab.

When it stopped, Ben and Terrell gently loaded Lea into the back of the taxi.

“I can’t go alone!” she shouted.

The members of the group exchanged rapid glances before Maura, seeing the squeamish faces and terrified eyes of her friends, quickly slid into the back of the cab, giving directions to the driver.

Lea spent most of the ride attempting to stifle her screams, strands of hair already sticking to the sweat on her forehead. Without any makeup, her cheeks pink and flushed, Lea looked so young, Maura thought. Only a girl. It seemed almost unfair to put her through such pain.

“Just keep breathing,” Maura said calmly, not quite sure if that was right.

“Did someone call my . . . aghhh,” Lea’s words crumbled into groans.

“Your whole family’s on their way,” Maura answered, rubbing the top of Lea’s white-knuckled hand, which seemed permanently fused to her seat belt.

“It’ll all be worth it, once they’re born,” Lea moaned, placing her hands on her belly. “And we’re all going to love them so much.”