Houdini and Me

by Dan Gutman

  “Maybe.”

  “AND I’LL BET YOU LIKED HEARING ALL THOSE PEOPLE CHEERING FOR YOU.”

  “Yes.” I had to admit I enjoyed it when I threw off the straitjacket and the crowd went crazy.

  “AND YOU GAVE THOSE PEOPLE HOPE THAT THEY COULD ESCAPE FROM THE PROBLEMS IN THEIR LIVES.”

  “I suppose.”

  “SO ALL IN ALL, METAMORPHOSIS WAS A GOOD THING FOR YOU, AGREE?”

  Maybe it was. I don’t know. I was just glad it was over. He was a jerk.

  I thought that would be the end of it. I didn’t want to communicate with Harry Houdini anymore. He had tricked me, and I didn’t like being tricked. I had been living a perfectly happy life before he entered it. I didn’t need so much stress and excitement in my life.

  I tried to think of a way to end the conversation.

  “I’m pretty tired” I began tapping, when his next text came in.

  “HARRY,” he texted. “THERE’S SOMETHING I NEED TO TALK TO YOU ABOUT.”

  Oh no. Here it comes. What was he going to do now? Have me locked in a trunk and thrown in a river?

  “What is it?” I tapped, fearing the worst.

  “I WANT TO DO ANOTHER METAMORPHOSIS.”

  “No,” I tapped right away. “You’re joking, right?”

  “HEAR ME OUT,” he went on. “THIS TIME, YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO AN ESCAPE. YOU DON’T HAVE TO RISK YOUR LIFE. YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE TO BE HOUDINI. YOU CAN BE YOURSELF.”

  “What would I have to do?” I tapped.

  “WHATEVER YOU WANT,” he texted. “WE WILL SWITCH PLACES AGAIN, BUT YOU CAN JUST BE A REGULAR PERSON.”

  I’m already a regular person, and perfectly happy living in my own time. I don’t need to go back to “the good old days.” The good old days didn’t seem all that good to me. But I didn’t want to make him angry.

  “What’s in it for you?” I tapped.

  “DID YOU EVER HEAR OF REINCARNATION?” he replied.

  “Yes,” I tapped, although I really wasn’t quite sure what the word meant.

  “I GET TO LIVE AGAIN.”

  “Being alive for an hour means that much to you?” I asked.

  “NO,” he texted. “BEING ALIVE PERMANENTLY MEANS THAT MUCH TO ME.”

  He had to be joking. He couldn’t be serious. He wanted to do Metamorphosis with me…forever?

  “I’m not going to live in your century,” I tapped. “My mother is here. My friends. My school.”

  “YOU CAN BRING YOUR MOTHER ALONG,” he texted. “SHE WILL LOVE IT.”

  I didn’t have to think it over. It was a ridiculous idea.

  “No thank you,” I tapped.

  There was a very long pause, while I waited for him to reply. I thought that maybe my phone battery had died. Wishful thinking. I checked the charge, and it was over fifty percent.

  “THIS IS NOT AN OFFER,” he finally texted. “HARRY, WE ARE GOING TO DO THIS.”

  I felt the hairs on my arms going up. He wrote it in a way I didn’t like, like this decision was entirely his, and his alone. Like it was out of my control. But maybe I was just misinterpreting his words.

  “What do you mean?” I tapped.

  “JUST WHAT I SAID,” he texted back. “WE ARE GOING TO DO THIS.”

  “You say that like I’m not part of the decision,” I tapped.

  “YOU AREN’T.”

  I was in trouble, I realized. Big trouble. Houdini had power over me. He knew I was afraid of heights, so he had me hung from a tall building. He knew I was afraid of bullies, and now he was bullying me.

  My mind was racing. The first time we did Metamorphosis, I didn’t have to do anything. I just lay there on my bed. It was all him. Could he actually do it a second time, but against my will? I was starting to panic.

  “Metamorphosis is over,” I tapped. “Let’s go back to our own lives.”

  “THAT’S EASY FOR YOU TO SAY,” Houdini texted back. “YOU HAVE A LIFE. I’M STUCK HERE IN ETERNITY.”

  “That’s really not my problem,” I tapped.

  “NO, BUT YOU ARE MY SOLUTION.”

  “I’m not doing it,” I tapped. “I have free will.”

  “YOU DON’T SEEM TO UNDERSTAND, HARRY,” he texted. “I CHOSE YOU. I AM IN CONTROL.”

  “Why me?” I tapped as fast as my fingers could move. “Pick somebody else. I bet there are a lot of people in my century who would be happy to switch places with you and go back to the 1920s. Why don’t you pick somebody who’s unhappy in my time and would love for nothing more than to escape from the 21st century?”

  “I’M SORRY,” he texted back. “BUT THIS IS THE WAY IT’S GOING TO BE.”

  “You’re sorry? This is a funny way of showing it.”

  “YOU MUST UNDERSTAND SOMETHING,” he texted. “WHEN I WANT SOMETHING, I GET IT. THAT’S ONE OF THE NICE THINGS ABOUT BEING FAMOUS.”

  This was not fair. He was an egomaniac. Why had it taken me so long to realize that? I thought he just wanted somebody to talk to.

  “And what if I don’t cooperate?” I texted.

  “I DON’T NEED YOUR COOPERATION, HARRY.”

  “I thought you were a good guy.”

  “I’M A DESPERATE GUY. DESPERATE MEN DO DESPERATE THINGS.”

  I was a desperate guy too. The difference was that I was powerless.

  Houdini was right about one thing. Everybody wants to escape from where they are. How was I going to escape from where I was?

  “Wait a minute,” I tapped desperately. “You played me! You knew everything about me from the beginning, didn’t you? When you were asking me who I was and where I lived, you knew all that stuff already, didn’t you?”

  “OF COURSE,” he texted back. “I MAY BE DEAD, BUT I’M NOT AN IDIOT. I NEEDED SOMEBODY TO SWITCH PLACES WITH ME, AND I FOUND YOU.”

  “You’re evil!”

  “HARRY, I AM A REASONABLE MAN,” Houdini texted. “I WILL GIVE YOU ONE HOUR TO PACK A SUITCASE AND SAY GOODBYE TO YOUR LOVED ONES.”

  I didn’t know what to do. Sweat was pouring down my face. I closed the phone and hung up on him.

  BACK ON TRACK

  I looked around my bedroom frantically, as if a simple solution to my problem was sitting on the bookcase. But there was no solution.

  It was eleven o’clock, according to the clock on my night table. I made a mental note. At midnight, Houdini was going to do another Metamorphosis on me. I didn’t know what to do. What were my options? None. I didn’t have any.

  I was going to have to tell my mom about the whole thing.

  No, I couldn’t do that. Anyway, she was sleeping.

  Zeke! Zeke would know what to do.

  I slipped the flip phone into my pocket and tiptoed out of my bedroom, being careful not to step on the creaky floorboard and wake up my mother. I felt my way in the dark to the kitchen, where our landline phone is on the wall. I dialed Zeke’s cell number. It took three or four rings until he picked it up.

  “Hullo?” he muttered.

  “Zeke, I’m in big trouble,” I whispered quickly. “I don’t know what to do. I need your advice.”

  “What?” he mumbled. “I was sleeping. It’s late. What are you doing up? What’s so important?”

  “I know you think I’m crazy, and I’m making all this up,” I whispered. “But you’re my best friend and I have nobody else to turn to. I was texting with Houdini again, and he’s out of control. He wants to do another Metamorphosis.”

  “Huh?” Zeke asked. “A what? What are you talking about?”

  “He wants to switch places with me again…but this time permanently!”

  “So tell him no,” Zeke replied. “Problem solved.”

  “I did! He doesn’t care! He’s just going to do it”—I glanced at the clock on the wall—“in fifty-six minutes, whether I want to or not!”

  I told Zeke the story as quickly as I could and asked him what I should do. He thought it over for a few seconds. It seemed like he had shaken off the fog of sleep.

  “Okay,”
he said. “Meet me at Riverside Park as soon as you can get there.”

  “Where in Riverside Park?” I asked.

  “The Freedom Tunnel,” he replied. “And bring the phone.”

  I grabbed a flashlight from a drawer and snuck out of the house, closing the front door as quietly as possible. My mother would be furious if she discovered that I went out in the middle of the night without her permission. But I had no other choice.

  The street was empty except for a homeless guy sleeping on a bench near the corner of 113th Street. I looked both ways before crossing the street. All I needed was to get hit by a bike or electric scooter in the middle of the night.

  I wasn’t going to risk climbing up all those steps through Morningside Park in the dark. It would be too dangerous. Instead, I walked a few blocks out of my way to take the longer route along 110th Street. That ate up valuable time, but 110th is a major street and there are lights there.

  I rushed across Broadway and then Riverside Drive to get to Riverside Park. It took a few more minutes to find the entrance we had used to get to the Freedom Tunnel.

  Zeke wasn’t there yet. I checked the time on the cell phone. It was 11:20. I only had forty minutes left until Houdini was going to do the Metamorphosis to me.

  “Where is he?” I muttered to myself. I was sweating all over.

  Finally Zeke showed up, all out of breath. He was still in his pajamas.

  “I didn’t have time to put on pants,” he explained. “Do you have the phone?”

  I took it out of my pocket.

  “There’s only one solution to your problem,” he said. “We’ve got to destroy this thing. Not just destroy it. We’ve gotta bust it up so badly that it’s beyond repair. Render it inoperable. So he’ll never be able to contact you again. Are you gonna be okay with that?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “I have no other choice.”

  I went to pull open the big gate, but Zeke stopped me.

  “Wait,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Tuck your laces inside your sneakers,” Zeke said, “so they won’t get caught on the track this time.”

  Good thinking. While I retied my shoes, Zeke went over to the gate and yanked it open. Luckily, nobody had put a lock on since the last time we were there.

  We went inside the tunnel. It smelled bad. Probably a squirrel or some other animal had died in there. Or for all I knew it was a live animal. Either way, it stunk. And it was creepy. I was glad I had a flashlight.

  Zeke put his ear against the track.

  “I don’t hear anything,” he said.

  “The trains probably don’t run very frequently at this time of night,” I told him. “What if a train doesn’t come until after midnight?”

  “Then this was the stupidest thing we’ve ever done,” Zeke replied. “How much time do you have left?”

  I checked the flip phone. “Thirty-five minutes.”

  Zeke sat down on the track and pulled out his cell phone.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Checking the train schedule,” he replied. “I should have done this before I told you to come here.”

  It took him a couple of minutes to get online and pull up the train schedule. I paced back and forth nervously.

  “We may be in luck,” he finally reported. “It says there’s a train leaving Penn Station at 11:45. It should take about ten minutes to get here. That’s 11:55.”

  We would be cutting it close. But there was nothing else we could do at this point. I sat down on the track next to Zeke and waited. It felt like forever.

  “So,” I said, “do you believe me? About Houdini, I mean?”

  “Of course I believe you,” he replied. “He sounds like a strange guy.”

  “He was so nice to me,” I said. “At least in the beginning. Then he showed what he was really like. That’s when I realized what he really wanted.”

  “What did he want?” Zeke asked.

  “He wanted to pull off the ultimate escape,” I said. “He wanted to escape from his own death.”

  Zeke shook his head.

  “The problem was,” I continued, “he wanted to use me to do it. But I’m happy where I am. I don’t want to go to his time and live there forever.”

  “You’re not going to,” Zeke assured me. He checked his cell phone. It was ten minutes until midnight.

  “The train should have already left Penn Station,” I said.

  “It may be running late,” Zeke said as he got off the rail and put his ear to the track again. “I didn’t think about that.”

  Sweat was starting to accumulate on my forehead. I wiped it away with my sleeve.

  “Wait a minute!” Zeke said suddenly. “I think I feel something.”

  I put my ear against the track too. I could feel a faint vibration, but I didn’t know if that was normal.

  “I hear it!” Zeke said. “Quick! It’s coming. Put the phone on the track!”

  I could hear it too. I put the flashlight on the ground and placed the phone on the track. But it slid off. The phone was so much bigger than the coins we had flattened the first time, and the track was only a few inches wide.

  “Hurry up!” Zeke said. “The train will be here any minute!”

  “I’m trying!” I replied.

  I put the phone on the track sideways, but it slid off again. The track was vibrating, which made it harder to keep the phone in one place. I wished I had brought some tape or glue or something to hold it on the track. Too late now.

  “It won’t stay!” I shouted.

  “Let me do it!” Zeke said frantically.

  But he couldn’t do it either. The phone kept sliding off the track. While Zeke was on his hands and knees, I looked up. There were two lights coming toward us in the distance.

  “I see it!” I said. “Try again!”

  Zeke cursed. The phone slipped off the track again.

  “What are we gonna do?” I asked.

  The lights were getting closer. I probably had less than thirty seconds left.

  “Forget this idea,” Zeke said, picking up my phone. “It’s not going to work. You could lose your hand.”

  I looked up. I could see the train now. My heart was racing. In about ten seconds the train would be right on top of us. I could barely hear Zeke shouting at me.

  “Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do,” he hollered, handing me the phone. “When the train goes by, toss it under the wheels!”

  “What, are you crazy?” I shouted. “Why me?”

  “It’s your phone!” Zeke shouted. “You gotta do it.”

  “What if I miss?”

  “Then you miss,” Zeke shouted. “Enjoy your new life in the Roaring Twenties.”

  The train was bearing down on us. It was so loud. I couldn’t communicate with Zeke anymore. He backed away and covered his ears with his hands.

  The train seemed like it was right on top of me. I crouched down as it rushed by and tossed the phone underhand into the wheels.

  I’m not sure what happened after that. I couldn’t see the phone as it disappeared into the darkness. But I heard a cracking sound when the case shattered, then I saw sparks. Bits of plastic and metal went flying all over. Some of them hit my arms and legs. I put my hands up to protect my face as I dove out of the way, stumbling backward and landing on the rocks next to the tracks. I banged my head against something hard.

  And that’s all I remember.

  GOING HOME

  But when I opened my eyes, I remembered everything.

  I could picture every little detail of what had happened leading up to that moment. The headlights. The noise. The train coming right at us. The crunching sound, and the sparks that flew after I tossed the cell phone onto the tracks. I remembered diving out of the way and banging my head. It was so clear.

  And just like the first time I woke up after my little adventure at the train tracks, I had a headache and my throat was sore. I felt sore all over. And once again, when I wok
e up, my mom was holding my hand.

  “He’s awake!” she screamed. “Harry woke up! It’s a miracle! Nurse! Nurse!”

  As my mother was hugging and kissing me, I looked behind her at the room. I was in the hospital again. It was a different room, but it had pretty much the same kind of machines and stuff as the first time. Flowers, cards, and candy boxes were strewn all over the windowsill. I had an IV and various tubes going in and out of me. But I didn’t seem to have any broken bones or other serious injuries.

  “Where am I?” I asked.

  “Roosevelt Hospital,” my mother replied, tears of joy streaming down her face. “You were in a coma.”

  “Again?”

  My mom looked at me like she didn’t know what I was referring to.

  A nurse came running in. She gave me a big smile and greeting. She looked at the machines and jotted something down on a clipboard.

  “How long was I in a coma?” I asked.

  “Almost a week,” my mother said, wiping her eyes. “I didn’t think you were coming back. I thought I lost you.”

  “Your mom was in here with you the whole time,” the nurse told me. “I don’t think she ever left. She’s amazing.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” I told her.

  I felt like I was going to cry too, for all I put her through. We’re supposed to learn from our mistakes, right? My mom didn’t seem mad that I had done such a stupid thing a second time. She just looked so grateful that I was alive.

  “I’m just glad you’re here!” she said, squeezing me. And then she started crying again.

  A doctor came in. He was tall, and his nametag said DR. MINUTOLI on it.

  “Well, if it isn’t Rip Van Winkle!” he said cheerfully as he shook my hand. “I’m so happy to see you awake, Mr. Mancini. I bet the other doctors five bucks that you would come out of it today. You made me money.”

  I liked this doctor better than the one I saw the first time I came out of a coma. Dr. Minutoli put his hand on my head and felt around up there.

  “The swelling is down considerably,” he said. “That’s good. So it’s unlikely that your head is going to explode. How are you feeling?”