Big O Box Set

“Is something wrong?” I ask, hoping she’ll reveal whatever it is that seems to be drawing everyone’s attention.

She’s a cute girl, also twenty something, with a pixie haircut and upturned nose. I remember when she first got the job here, fumbling with the foam machines and messing up everyone’s orders. She’s a manager now and makes the coolest leaf patterns out of milk on the lattes.

She shakes her head, glancing at her co-worker who hides her smile behind her hand just like the L.L. Bean kids had. “Nope, not at all. Can I get you anything else?”

I was going to order a muffin, but now I just want to get the hell out of here.

“No, thank you.”

I sit down at an empty table, looking down at my phone and ignoring everyone.

“Callista,” the barista calls out.

When I go to grab it, I look at the cup, but it’s not my name that’s written on it. Instead she wrote, in messy cursive writing, ‘The No-O.’

I wait for the barista to finish up with her customer, then ask, “Is this mine? It says ‘The No-O’ on it.”

Two of the other girls at the counter snort out a laugh.

“It’s definitely yours,” she says.

I look at them, confused and pissed off. I’ve been coming to this coffee shop long enough to where I would think the baristas would tell me if something were wrong with me. I’m an amazing tipper, for fuck sake—well over the twenty percent line. Never again. In fact, I don’t know if I ever want to step foot through these doors. I guess I’ll just have to deal with the burnt taste of coffee at the big chains.

Instead of confronting them like I want, I take my coffee and go outside. Should I even drink it? What if they put something in it and that’s why they’re laughing? Despite my caffeine deprived brain, I decide not to take any chances and toss it in the nearest trash bin.

Once I’m a few stores down from the coffee shop, I sit on a bench in front of a lingerie store and google ‘The No-O.’ At first I don’t think anything will show up, assuming it’s some kind of inside joke with the baristas. Kind of like the game Stephanie likes to play when we’re at the mall, pointing at all the people she thinks are ‘basic.’

I’m not that lucky, though. Plenty of things pop up on my screen. Including a photo of me. At first I’m not sure what I’m looking at until I see a screen shot of my Twitter post. My guts twist until I feel like I might throw up. I lean over, waiting for the nausea to dissipate. When the sick sensation finally passes my thoughts begin to race. If the entire internet knows, and it’s already spread to my favorite coffee shop, how many other people know?

Then I realize that screen shot of my post is on the local Twitter forum website. People go on there to sell items, look for missing pets, etc. It’s like Craig’s List but less creepy. It’s a popular site for people at the local college when looking for roommates or when they need help finding affordable furniture. Chances are, everyone who knows me has seen this by now. And with my face plastered all over the internet, if they didn’t know me before, they will now.

Sonofabitch.

Instantly, I’m on my phone, trying to freeze my Twitter and Instagram accounts so people will stop taking my photos and sharing my post, only I can’t do it from my phone. I delete the post, but I have to do the rest from my computer. I stand up to leave, slipping on the ice and nearly falling before catching myself on the bench. I look around to make sure no one saw. Could this day get any worse?

Once I get my footing, I hobble as fast as I can, practically ice skating on the sidewalk, to get to the subway.

Once I get there, it’s standing room only. The juxtaposition of unwashed human scent and perfume makes my head swim. I’ve always hated the subway, the clank of rails, the rocking motion, the cramped, claustrophobic feeling it gives.

There’s no place to sit, only standing room in the train. But I don’t care. I’m too concerned about my status as No-O than the horde of bacteria colonizing the pole I hold onto to keep my balance as the train starts to move. I make a mental note to use hand sanitizer when I get home.

No one is looking at me, which is a good sign. Everyone looks as miserable as I feel. Heads down, eyes glued to a book or their phones. I think I’ve finally dodged the madness and start to let myself relax and try to think of how to get away from the stigma of my Twitter post, when a man comes up to me.

“Hey, do I know you?” he asks.

His breath is hot on my face, smelling of mustard and pastrami—foul, like when someone burps and the smell lingers.

He’s in his thirties, sweaty brow despite the chill, thick eyebrows and an Italian complexion. He’s a bit overweight and has to squeeze between two other travelers in order to reach me. I lean back to keep his breath off of me. I’ve never seen this man in my life.

“No, I don’t think so,” I say, and turn my head away from him, hoping he’ll get the hint.

But instead of walking away or just going on with his business, he inserts himself into my personal space and says, “Are you sure? Because you look really familiar.”

I glance out the dirt-streaked window, my vision trying to keep up with the graffiti tagged on the walls that blur by. My stop isn’t for a while now. I hope there’s one coming up soon. I don’t care where it leads as long as it gets me away from this man. My hackles are raised and I’m losing my patience. I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone right now, let alone some deli-scented creeper with no sense of appropriate distance.

I decide to try a lie. “I’m not from here. I just arrived in town yesterday.”

“Where you from?” He gets closer, his chest pressed against my left arm. I have nowhere to go. If I move any further forward, I’ll bump into a different guy standing to my right. I’m halfway tempted to. Maybe pissing him off will be enough of a distraction for this guy to lose interest.

“New York,” I say.

“Where at in New York.”

With an irritated sigh, I turn to face him, everything about my body language telling him to back off.

I’m about to say just as much when he says, “Oh, hey, I know who you are.” He smiles and points at me like he’s face to face with some celebrity. “You’re the No-O. I’ve seen your pictures in all the memes.”

Memes? There are memes about me now?

I try not to freak out. Anxiety floods my body, making my limbs numb. I want to run, but I’m stuck.

“No, that’s definitely not me,” I say. “I’m not who you think I am.”

“Yes you are,” he says, eyes lighting up with recognition, oblivious to my growing anger. “I’d recognize your face anywhere.”

He leans uncomfortably close and all the hairs on my body perk up like a rabbit’s ears when sensing a predator. My nerves fire warning signs, skin prickling uncomfortably.

He leans in even closer until I’m backed up against a woman who pushes me into him. He grabs me by the waist, pressing our chests together. “I bet I can make you O,” he whispers greasily.

His hand snakes around to grab my butt.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” I growl, voice loud enough to carry over the clank and creak of the tracks.

Unperturbed by the shift in my voice, he smiles. Several people glance at us, but go back to their books and music.

“Come on, don’t be like that.” His hand moves lower, closer to my crotch, rough, forceful. “Ten minutes with me and no one will call you ‘No-O’ again.” He starts to grind against me, practically humping my leg.

“Get off of me!” I try to hit him, but being this close, my hits are ineffective. I keep trying anyway, hoping to get in a lucky blow. Next time I try to hit him, he grabs my arms in a vice grip, squeezing hard enough to cut off my circulation.

Still, no one does anything to try and help me. No one even seems to notice except for a handful who raise their phones for a photo op. My heart races, and I start to panic, wondering if this guy is going to try having his way with me right here in front of all the

se robots who don’t seem to care about anything other than their own entertainment. Has this city lost its freaking mind?

I try to scream for help but he puts one of his meaty paws over my mouth to shut me up.

Then suddenly, he’s yanked backward. First he’s there in front of me, then he’s gone, so fast my brain struggles to make sense of what happened. Everyone else around me seems just as confused as a man climbs on top of him and lands a vicious blow to the side of nose. There’s a cracking sound that I hear even over all the mumbled voices and train sounds. My attacker’s nose is bloodied and more crooked than it had been when standing in front of me. Definitely broken. He cries and whimpers, unable to get his footing long enough to stand.

I look up at my rescuer, but his back is to me. Then he wheels around and grabs my hand. Everything moves too fast for me to get a clear look at him. I realize the train has stopped and the doors open. He tugs me through the crowd and into the busy terminal. Dazed and a little frightened by the whole event, I allow him to pull me along like some child until we’re outside in the cold again. Looking at our interwoven fingers, I see that his knuckles are bleeding, and his hand is starting to swell. That doesn’t seem to hinder his strong grip.

When I finally catch my breath and the cloud that had been muffling my thoughts clears, I stop, pulling my hand away from him. He slowly turns to look at me and my breath freezes in my lungs.