| Prologue
It took a lot of nerve to make the turn I attempted.
Charging down 43rd Avenue at around 65 miles an hour in
a car that excels only in straightforward speed, taking
a sharp turn onto 7th Avenue was highly unadvisable, but
I really didn’t have much of a choice. A glance
at my rear-view mirror displayed what the howling sirens
behind me were saying; don’t stop. Trying not to
think too much about it, I cut the wheel hard to the right
while not easing up on the gas, sending the already worn
rear tires of my 1984 Camaro Z28 into a frenzy. The back
of the car fishtailed left to almost 90 degrees, so I
cut the wheel hard to the left while I bolted down an
empty Seventh Avenue. The car then fishtailed right, left
again, then finally settled down and let me concentrate
on what I needed to do; get as much distance between myself
and the proud men of the NYPD.
I stole a look at the back seat of the car, catching a
glimpse of the nondescript beige box resting there. It
had shifted quite a bit during my vehicular maneuvers,
but it didn’t seem damaged yet. Not that I cared.
I actually wanted it damaged. If I had a choice, I would
have thrown it out the window, but I didn’t want
anyone getting a hold of the components inside, in case
any of them didn’t break. My future, hell my life
it seemed, relied on that box being destroyed, as if it
never came into existence. I still didn’t know exactly
how I was going to destroy it completely, but I had it
in my possession, and possession is two thirds of victory
in my book. The men in the squad cars chasing after me
saw it differently, of course, but they didn’t know
what I did. They didn’t know how dangerous that
box was. To them it was just a computer, just a piece
of someone else’s property that I pilfered. They
were right in that sense, but didn’t know what I
did.
The police were gaining ground, and they had a distinct
advantage; there was really no way for me to exit the
city. I couldn’t take either of the tunnels; they
were certainly road blocked. Water surrounded me, so any
real attempt at an escape by car was pretty much ruled
out. I briefly considered the 59th Street Bridge, and
then realized they would have that road blocked as well.
Then it hit me. I wasn’t going to make it out of
the city by car. I also didn’t have much of a chance
trying to hop a train. I could, however, destroy the computer
and ditch the evidence for a short time. That was the
thing; I technically had all the time in the world. If
things went according to plan, the destruction of that
computer would be followed by a return to life as usual
for me, and my problems would be solved. At least, that
was what I was hoping.
I cut another turn onto 22nd Street, and headed down toward
the South Street Seaport. Luckily, the streets were empty,
because I took this one a bit too wide. A metal garbage
can lost its life in that collision, but nothing else.
Though New York is certainly the city that never sleeps,
it does take a catnap around 4AM. I got control of the
car, which now was missing its right headlight, and burned
down the street. The squad cars behind me took the turn
more cautiously, and I had gained a little ground for
the time being. I knew that wouldn’t last, mainly
because they surely had backup on the way to intercept
me. The only way to avoid that, or minimize it at least,
was to take the most indirect route to the seaport. This
way, they would have no idea where to set up the interference.
For the people who think that high speed chases must be
the coolest thing out there, let me dispel that rumor.
Even though the adrenaline level during such an event
is life-threateningly high, you are really too focused
on staying alive to really get a rush out of it. If you’ve
ever felt the bottoming of your stomach when you see police
lights in your rear-view mirror, multiply that by about
a hundred and you get the idea. On top of that, this was
a mission for me. I was too concerned about failing to
realize what I was doing. It didn’t have the same
effect a good videogame does, even. I guess I could equate
it to receiving a phone call stating that a loved one
has been rushed to the hospital, and you’re racing
there, not knowing what happened. Oh, and you just finished
off about four lines of good cocaine. Not the crap that’s
been cut four or five times; I am talking about the good
stuff.
I took another turn onto Park Avenue, running through
my mind the routes necessary to get to the seaport. I
heard the computer ram against the side of the car. Something
probably came loose. I felt a little better about that.
At least, if I did get caught, the folks at the research
laboratory would have their work ahead of them getting
that hellish computer working properly. Even if I threw
off their timetable, that would be fine. There were a
few cabs on Park, so I had to be careful not to hit any
of them. I didn’t care so much about getting into
an accident, but I was afraid of anything that would slow
me down. I punched the accelerator some more, and the
big V8 engine growled, as if to tell me it was getting
tired of this. I looked at the gas gauge and saw I had
just a touch more than a quarter tank, so I had plenty
of fuel to dump this car into the East River. I just hoped
I personally had enough energy to get out of the damn
car.
I chose 18th Street as my final route to the seaport,
and inched the needle on the speedometer over 100MPH down
that street. I was acutely aware of the fact that any
collision at that speed, even with the smallest of objects,
would spell disaster for me. Well, disaster for me at
that moment. I had a theory, a cockeyed one at that, which
I hoped would protect me from danger. If I didn’t
rely on that theory, I wouldn’t have tried to pull
this stunt off in the first place. Theories, at least
this one, are nothing more than elaborate lies we tell
ourselves in times of trouble. Despite the fact that I
knew this, I hoped to God or anyone else who was listening
that it would work.
I raced through the streets, with only getting away from
the police on my mind. I had never been in trouble with
the law before, so having what seemed like an entire precinct
chasing after me didn’t feel comfortable. I figured
it wouldn’t be long before they starting shooting
at me. After all, at the speed I was driving, I could
be considered a danger. I didn’t know enough about
police procedure in a car chase, but I did see enough
of the reality cops shows to know I didn’t have
much time.
Just as I had the seaport in full view, I hit a classic
New York City pothole at about 95 miles per hour that
caused the steering wheel to go berserk. I felt control
of the car slipping from me, and I mashed the accelerator
and turned the wheel hard to wrestle control back. It
didn’t happen. The front right tire, the one that
found the pothole, had shredded, so I was left with three
working wheels and a slick metal rim. I did my best not
to think about it. To put it plainly, I shit my pants.
The car jimmied sideways, still moving along at high speed.
I calculated as best I could whether or not I would have
enough momentum to make it to the pier and thrust the
car over the edge. There were a few boats that I had noticed,
and since I did not have any steering capability at all,
I had to hope I hit a spot on the pier that was clear
of them. I didn’t hear or see the police behind
me but I knew they had to be close. I closed my eyes and
awaited whatever it was fate had in the cards for me.
It might help to explain how I got into this situation,
how I broke into one of the largest research facilities
in New York City, evaded security, and walked off with
a $100,000 piece of computer equipment. I’m sure
that an explanation of why I chose to get into a high-speed
chase with the NYPD and then dump my pride and joy of
an automobile into the East River would help. Answers
to such questions are not cut and dried, and I must admit,
I don’t know the exact answers for sure. I only
know things from my perspective, which I guess will have
to do. I know there is a saying about watching out what
you hope for. Though this statement does apply to my situation
somewhat, this is more about what sort of schemes you
use to cheat the game of life. Some of us have no opportunity
in this game whatsoever. Most people are victims of the
game, hopelessly plodding along the bottom of the bell
curve, knowing full well they are doomed to an existence
of mediocrity at best. I thought I was one of them, one
of the people who would never realize any of their potential
because life had other things in mind.
Opportunity has the ability to surprise us all. I’ve
come to realize that, though this is true, not all opportunity
should be seized. Most opportunities are tests to see
how gullible we are. Anyone can be foolish enough to take
the bait. It is those of us who refuse it, and decide
to continue our seemingly worthless lives instead of being
caught in the allure of better living, that end up better
in the long run. That’s why I chose to tell this
story. I want to offer a warning to the people who might
get the same opportunity I did. I wasn’t strong
enough to turn it down. I didn’t have the willpower
to politely refuse. I really can’t imagine many
people who could. But, if the information I give in the
following pages helps at all, then I have completed my
mission.
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site is copyright © 2002 John Misak
