Wiggle and Whir

The air around it sizzled and was charged with the fear and anxiety that radiated from the onlookers who were regarding it with a wariness that bordered on paranoia. Its nondescript appearance would not warrant a second look from a casual observer. A generation ago, it would have sat there unnoticed and undisturbed for days.

A woman in her mid-thirties approached the object with a look of determination and purpose. She stared at it as though sizing up an enemy. She reached inside her pocket and retrieved a cellphone. She proceeded to take pictures of the object that was lying on the floor of the 42nd street subway station.

Aboveground, a ten-block radius was cleared of pedestrians and vehicles. The average New Yorker who took that route every morning is unaware that the inconvenience of getting stuck in the heavy traffic caused by the rerouting is due to that black and yellow object that no one dared touch… except by one brave individual who was making a cautious approach towards it as though it will come alive and pounce at her at any moment.

She pulled out a pair of gloves without taking her eyes off that chunk of leather that housed God-knows-what. This was her first day at work and she tried to recall what she learned during the months of grueling training: her life and future are hinged on it.

“Deputy, have you seen what’s inside?” a deep voice on the radio that was tucked in the front pocket of her uniform asked.

“I am about to. Stay on the line,” the deputy replied.

One step, two steps, three steps… the closer she got the louder her heart thumped. Beads of perspiration appeared on her forehead and she could almost hear the ticking of the second hand on her wrist watch. The crowd that gathered earlier were dispersed by several national guards and all who were left in the immediate vicinity seemed to have been glued frozen to their spots. No one else attempted to move, much less breathe.

As the deputy reached to touch the object, she felt a vibration coming from within. She pressed her ears closer to it and tried to identify its contents by the sounds emanating from it; but other than the steady and slow whirring that she felt through the fabric of the backpack, there were no other telltale signs that revealed what was inside. 

She pulled up the zipper an inch and positioned her nose close to the small opening. She noted a hint of a salami-like scent, a whiff of peanut butter, and stale milk. None of which provided clues as to what the vibrating thing inside was. She pulled the zipper some more until she could see the interior of the backpack. The whirring grew louder, her heart beat stronger, her hands grew clammier…

She opened the backpack wider and she was both surprised and relieved by what she saw: a turtle-shaped hand-held massager that was turned on to full speed, a day-old sandwich and a half-spilled bottle of milk.

The bomb scare was a false alarm; but in a post-911 world, every threat was taken seriously. The squad was recalled back to their offices carrying the backpack that put an entire neighborhood on edge. The deputy who prepared herself to diffuse a bomb that day said a little prayer of thanks.