Commuting

Nancy Jane Moore

Where would you live if you could get to work instantly from anywhere on Earth?

That morning, I began my commute as usual, driving from my adobe cabin nestled among the gray-brown rocks of the Davis Mountains down to the Alpine Transphaxx Station. I never get tired of the drive, no matter how many times I go past the same rock formations dotted with cacti followed by occasional stands of trees. Even the unmistakable odor of dead skunk pleases me a little: The vultures won’t go hungry.

It’s not always a perfect drive. The winding road can be treacherous when we get a little snow or ice. (Not that I complain about snow. It’s unpatriotic to object to precipitation in West Texas.) And during the first week in August, there’s a traffic jam near the Bloys Cowboy Campmeeting, a religious revival that has been going on in the mountains since 1890. Even though I’m not a believer and have to stop for pedestrians crossing the road, I like seeing the campmeeting every year. Tradition is good.

On that particular morning in early October, the sun was peeking around the mountains and the air was crisp. I passed maybe a dozen cars on the road. When I arrived at Transphaxx, the parking lot was three-quarters filled. Inside, about fifteen people stood in line, waiting for their turn – less than a ten-minute wait, unless someone forgot their coordinates.

I stood there patiently, thinking about the final segment of my commute: the ten-block walk from the Brooklyn Transphaxx Station to Remington’s, the art gallery I manage on York Street. (Retro Western art is very “in” in NYC these days.) Walking down the busy city street past people with skin colors ranging from translucent white to ebony and wearing everything from conservative business attire to scraps of cloth artfully arranged to show off tattoos lets me feel the vibrant mix of city life.

I never have decided whether I like the country or the city best, but now, thanks to Transphaxx, I don’t have to. Without instantaneous transfer, I would spend my mornings fighting nightmare traffic in New Jersey (no way I could afford to live in Brooklyn) just to get to the subway station, and then endure a packed subway car. And the only time I’d ever see my beloved West Texas mountains would be on a buying trip for the gallery or the occasional vacation.

The young man in front of me in the Transphaxx line carried one of the bright red messenger bags popular with college students. He looked to be about nineteen, with wavy black hair and eyelashes a supermodel would kill for. Not too tall, and slim the way young men are when they haven’t quite finished growing. Brown skin, high cheekbones, and the general shape of his face combined to give him an exotic appearance. Probably off to school somewhere – Transphaxx commuting lets colleges offer occasional class meetings to supplement the online work.

He yawned as he walked into the Transphaxx booth. Thirty seconds later it cleared. I punched in the Brooklyn coordinates.

And I was there, with just enough time to grab a latte on my way to work. Only I felt … wrong. My jeans were trailing on the ground, my cowgirl shirt – with real mother-of-pearl buttons – was too tight across my shoulders but bagged in the front where my breasts should have been, and I felt the strangest bulge in my underwear. I used the nearest shop window as a mirror and saw the face of the young man who’d been ahead of me in line.

At least I still had my belongings. I texted my assistant and told him to open the shop, and then walked back into the Transphaxx Station to get them to fix the problem.

That was two days ago. They’re still working on it. They did at least get me some clothes that fit and are putting me up in a New York hotel. I assumed the young man had ended up with my body and found myself wondering what he’d thought when he found himself on a college campus in the body of a middle-aged anglo woman.

But the accident turned out to be much worse than a simple body switch. When I finally got to talk to the young man, he didn’t have my body; he was in the shape of a defensive end for the Green Bay Packers who outweighed him by a good hundred pounds, and all his clothes had ripped apart as he exited the booth.

They still haven’t figured out who got my body, and they can’t give him back his until they find mine, because they can’t leave me without one. Meanwhile the defensive end is supposed to start on Sunday, and he apparently ended up with the body of a seventeen-year-old ballerina. The mashup of bodies isn’t even a circle, it’s more like a spiral.     

Transphaxx is shut down until they can fix the problem. Rumors abound: The system was hacked; at least one person got completely lost in the system, which is why they can’t find everybody; this was a terrorist attack, not a system malfunction. No one is telling us anything. People are screaming conspiracy, but personally I figure human incompetence is the more likely explanation.

I’m better off than most. Like most folks in their fifties, I’ve always wanted to be nineteen again while hanging on to the knowledge gained from experience. And combining a male body with a female mind twists that perspective: Male genitalia really does have a mind of its own, and it does not care to listen to female opinion.

If they can’t fix me, I figure I get to live an extra thirty years or so and find out what life is like as a man. The idea has its charm.

But, oh, I miss my mountains. 

Copyright © 2009 Nancy Jane Moore