by Jason Segel
The next time I pick DYSTOPIA. The glittering city is replaced by one that was destroyed long ago. It’s your typical Hollywood wasteland—the one we’ve all seen a million times. The skyscrapers have crumbled. Bridges have plunged into the waters below. A dusty haze smothers the land. The cars around me are rusted-out wrecks, nothing left of the humans that once drove them. My own car is now just a metal frame, with no doors or windows. I hear a loud thump on the roof and my eyes turn upward. When I look back down, I find I’m surrounded by snarling beasts that resemble giant versions of the wild dogs that prowl the woods around my hometown. I have a weapon, but I don’t choose to use it. I sit back while they maul me. I see my own blood pooling around my feet, but I feel nothing at all.
The game shuts off. The menu returns and I take off the glasses. If this were Otherworld and I were wearing a disk, I’d be dead. My heart is racing. The experience was realistic enough to leave me breathless. But now I’m back in the real world. Air is still pumping in and out of my lungs. Nothing has changed. I reach into the black box on my lap, and I pull out the disk inside. It’s a modified version of the one I have. Smaller, but apparently no less deadly.
I wouldn’t say I’ve ever been known for making great decisions, but what I’m about to do may be the dumbest of them all. I’m dying to know what else OtherEarth has to offer. My friends will never let me test it while my hand is unusable. The backseat of a cab isn’t exactly the ideal place for a trial. The driver is already watching me nervously through the rearview mirror. But I don’t see a better opportunity headed my way anytime soon.
I put on the glasses and affix the disk to the back of my skull. If it weren’t for the menu that’s appeared, I’d think it wasn’t working. I haven’t been transported anywhere else. All parts of my body are able to move just fine. Nothing appears to have changed aside from an all-new menu in front of me. There are two items. The first says simply DAME JUDI. The second says NEW EXPERIENCE. These must be the same glasses I tried at the Company. I’ve already seen enough of Dame Judi, so I pick NEW EXPERIENCE. A tablet appears in my hands. It feels as real as the seat beneath my ass. There are two buttons to click on the tablet. ENTER ACCOUNT INFORMATION or OPEN NEW ACCOUNT. I click the latter and I’m taken to a page where I can enter my credit card information. You pay extra for each customized experience. I’d love to know how much, but as they say, if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.
I used to know my mother’s credit card number by heart. Odds are it’s changed since the last time I was caught using it. But even if it hasn’t, I’m not dumb enough to let the Company know I’ve got the glasses. I return to the main menu and choose DAME JUDI instead. In an instant, she’s sitting beside me, wearing the same sparkling evening gown she had on in the Company’s boardroom. There’s a menu icon in the upper right corner of my field of vision. I open it up and scroll through it. Dame Judi’s outfit cycles through hundreds of choices—most of which I doubt you’d find in her home closet. I choose a tasteful ensemble that befits a woman of her stature—a white rhinestone suit and a pink cowboy hat.
“Hi,” I say, reaching out a hand.
“Hello,” she responds with a coy smile. When she shakes my hand, her grip is surprisingly firm. “What sort of experience may I offer you today?”
It’s clear I could ask for anything. That’s the whole point. And what would be wrong with that? It’s Dame Judi’s voice and Dame Judi’s face, but it’s not Dame Judi. Is it? I’m starting to feel very unwell. This is not right, but I don’t know how to describe what’s wrong. If someone were to lean over and kiss her, no harm would come to the flesh-and-blood woman. It’s highly unlikely she’d ever know. What would be the difference between kissing her in OtherEarth and daydreaming about it?
“Don’t be shy,” she says, placing a hand on my shoulder. I feel the heat radiating from her palm. One of her veins throb as her heart sends blood to her fingers. A drop of sweat trickles down from my temple. I reach back and fumble for the disk on the back of my skull. Relief floods over me when I feel it. I rip it off, along with the glasses, and toss them onto the seat beside me.
I look at them there, where Dame Judi was just sitting, and wonder which is worse—Otherworld or OtherEarth.
When I reach our suite at the Waldorf Astoria, I drop down on one of the silk-upholstered sofas and close my eyes. It’s so quiet and peaceful that I almost feel sane. I’ve started thinking of the hotel as home, but I don’t know how long we’ll be able to stay. In retrospect, I probably should have pulled a few more bundles of bills out of the duffel bag. The money from the Phantom will be running out soon, and I doubt Alexei Semenov’s estate will continue to foot our hotel bills.
I open my eyes and see a silhouette in the shape of Busara standing in the doorway of the room where Kat’s and Elvis’s bodies are laid out on identical full-size beds while their minds are in Otherworld. When Busara steps forward into the light, I can tell she’s staring at me.
“What?” I demand. God she gets on my nerves.
“Simon, are you okay?” she asks. “Where’s your ogre friend?”
“He’s safe now. I took him home to New Jersey.” I’m almost regretting the decision now. I could really use Gorog’s company. For some reason, Busara makes me angry and anxious. I’ve never really been able to trust her. At least I knew Gorog always had my back. Plus the kid was a riot. I don’t think Busara’s ever told a joke in her life.
“What happened?” she asks.
It’s hard to know where to begin. I point to the black box I set down on the coffee table next to the sofa. “That’s OtherEarth,” I tell her. “I tried it.”
She gasps. “You what? Simon, do you have any idea—”
I cut her off. I don’t give a damn what she thinks. “Yes, I do. I’m not interested in a lecture, Busara. I knew exactly how stupid it was before I did it. Now do you want to hear about my experience or not?”
“I do,” she says with a sigh.
Yeah, I thought so. I start with the destruction of Manhattan and end with Dame Judi Dench.
“With the disk on, how did OtherEarth compare to Otherworld?” Busara asks. “Was it just as convincing?”
“There was no way to tell what was real and what wasn’t. I could feel the lady sitting next to me. Hell, I could smell her perfume. For the record, Judi Dench smells fucking great.”
“Do you think it’s as dangerous as Otherworld?”
“Nothing’s as dangerous as Otherworld. But OtherEarth has a pretty impressive body count too.” I reach for the box and pull out the Post-it inside. “Alexei gave me five names. He was convinced they were all people who were given OtherEarth glasses and a disk. All but one of them are dead now. We need to find proof that Wayne and his buddies were responsible. It’s our best chance now to destroy the Company. You and I should start working on a plan right away.”
She peers down at me with a strange expression. “I think we should wait for Elvis and Kat to get back from Otherworld—”
“No!” I bang my fist on the coffee table with far more force than I should. Busara doesn’t even flinch. I swear she’s a goddamn robot. “It can’t wait. Did you hear what I told you? People are dying. We have to come up with something now.”
“I don’t think that we can, Simon. Have you seen yourself lately?” When I don’t answer immediately, she points to the bathroom. “Get up right now and go look in the mirror.”
I don’t know why I do what she tells me. I guess I’m just too tired to resist. The bathroom light was designed to be flattering, but even its golden glow can’t hide the truth. I’m pale and sickly, with dark circles around my eyes. I look like a bad photocopy of myself. I might not even recognize my reflection if it weren’t for the glorious schnoz.
“I think you should get some sleep right away,” Busara tells me. “We can talk about all of this as soon as you’re up.”
>
It’s excellent advice, I suppose, but I can’t shake the feeling she’s stalling.
* * *
—
My sleep is deep and dreamless, but I wake up with a start just after two in the morning. The suite is dark, and no one is stirring. I wander into the living room, where I find the remains of a room service meal on a wheeled cart. My stomach growls noisily. I can’t even recall the last time I ate. I lift one of the metal domes, hoping for leftovers. Perched on a bed of wilted lettuce is an iridescent green scorpion. I jump back just in time to avoid a lash from the barb at the end of its tail. Then it scuttles off the tray and disappears under one of the sofas.
I pinch my eyes shut and breathe in deeply. I can hear the rush of blood pumping through my veins. “It wasn’t real,” I whisper. But I’m not convinced. It looked as real as Dame Judi Dench. I hurry to the bedroom, where Kat and Elvis are laid out on the beds, and close the door, stuffing a towel in the crack beneath it to keep the scorpion out. After that, there’s nothing else to do but drop down in the plush chair in the corner. I’m reminded of the days I spent sleeping in the chair beside Kat’s hospital bed. But this time we’re not alone.
Busara is sleeping on Elvis’s bed, which seems a little unusual. But I suppose she wants to stay close in case she needs to remove the disks. It’s the first time Elvis and Kat have gone under without me. I watch their bodies for clues that might tell me where they are in Otherworld. The disks induce the same kind of paralysis that keeps people from acting out our dreams while we sleep. Elvis mumbles something incomprehensible, then Kat cries out once as if she might be injured. I hop out of my chair, ready to rip off the disk at the first sign of trouble. But I know she’ll be pissed if I drag her out of Otherworld before they’ve killed off the guests. So I put my ear to her chest and listen to her racing heart. After a few seconds, it slows down.
I suppose most people would be bored to death by this vigil. But the sound of Kat’s heart, when it’s slow and steady, is the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard. I hope it can help me recover what little is left of my mind. I am not well at all. I know that. I don’t want to end up raving at the padded walls inside an asylum. But what scares me most is the thought of losing Kat. I spent ten years of my life dreaming about her. Now we’ve been together for a little more than a week and I’m already falling apart.
“Pssst.” It comes from the bathroom. “Simon!” I know who it is, and though his presence is hardly proof that my sanity’s been restored, I’m glad he’s here. If nothing else, I should apologize for trying to murder him in Otherworld.
I get up, turn the light on in the bathroom and softly close the door behind me. “Hey there,” I say to the Kishka, who’s perched on the fancy toilet seat. “Sorry for throwing a dagger at you before.”
He bats away my apology with a flick of his hand. “Not a problem. It’s all part of the job. But listen, kid, there’s a question I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
He pauses to light a cigarette. Pale blue smoke spills out of it and swirls around us like fog in a Halloween haunted house. “Okay.” I’m getting impatient. “What is it?”
“Do you know who I really am?” It’s a bizarre question coming from someone I’ve been chatting with regularly.
“Sure, you’re the Kishka.” I figure it’s best to play along. “You’re my dead grandfather who visits me because I’m mentally unsound.”
The Kishka shakes his head at me as if to imply that I’m stupid as well as insane. He taps the giant nose that earned him the nickname—the schnoz that’s almost identical to mine. “I’m the part of you that never changes. No matter what happens, or how damaged you get, I’ll always be the same. It’s like your mother. She had the beautiful nose I gave her shaved down and shaped. But I swear it’s still there, every time she looks in the mirror.”
I laugh. “You’re sure about that?” I have my doubts. I think my mother sees the same perfect nose everyone else sees.
“Why don’t you ask her?” the Kishka says. “She’d probably be happy to hear from you. Maybe she can remind you who you are.”
“There you have it. I’ve gone stark raving mad,” I respond. “I’m sure Mom’s thrilled to be rid of me.”
“Who knows? I’d say it’s worth a gamble,” he says. “These days things aren’t always what they seem.
“In fact—” He stops and cocks his head toward the bedroom. “Wake up,” he orders me. “Now.”
I open my eyes and discover I’ve fallen asleep in the chair. I sense someone moving inside the room. As my eyes adjust, I see that Busara has gotten up and walked over to Elvis’s side of the bed. She’s leaning over his body. Maybe he did something that alarmed her. Or maybe she’s trying to figure out where he and Kat are in Otherworld. Then I see Busara take one of his hands in her own. I assume she’s about to check his pulse, but then she leans down and plants a kiss on his forehead, right above his visor. It isn’t some friendly peck, either. It’s a real kiss if I’ve ever seen one.
I must gasp, because Busara spins around. She knows she’s been caught in the act. I close my eyes and let loose an unconvincing snore. She tiptoes over to my chair, and I can feel her leaning over me. I’m hoping like hell she doesn’t kiss me too. It’s all so weird that I’m relieved when she just stands there as if waiting for a sign.
“It’s very important that you not tell anyone what you think you just saw,” Busara whispers. I must be a better actor than I thought. She’s not completely sure I’m awake.
She can count on me. I won’t say a word. At this point I’m not completely certain what just happened was real. But I hope it was—even though it will cost me a hundred dollars. Because unless I’ve completely lost my mind, Busara loves Elvis, too.
The bigger question, though, is why the Kishka thought I should see it.
I’m up with the sun. While Busara sleeps, I order room service and chow down three orders of bacon and pancakes. I’m feeling better than I have in days when I leave the Waldorf Astoria and hunt down a sidewalk Wi-Fi kiosk a safe distance away. I plug in my headphones and punch a number into the telephone keypad. On the third ring, the person picks up.
“Hello?” It’s her stern professional voice. “Who is calling and how did you get my private number?”
“Mom,” I say. “It’s me. I’m calling from a public phone.”
“Simon!” I’m surprised that she sounds neither scared nor angry. If anything, she sounds relieved—like she’s been hoping to hear from me. “You’re calling from a Manhattan area code. Is everything okay? No, wait—don’t say another word. I’m headed into the city right now. Can you meet me?”
“Where?” I ask.
“Our favorite place.”
It’s funny. I wouldn’t have guessed my mom and I ever shared the same wavelength, but I know exactly the place she means. “Yes.”
“Great. I’ll see you there at five after ten. Now hang up and get out of there. If they’re monitoring my calls, you don’t want to be anywhere near that phone.”
She’s right. The line goes dead and I hail a taxi. “The natural history museum,” I tell the driver.
“You know it won’t be open for a couple of hours, right?” he asks.
“Yep,” I say. “I’m happy to wait.”
* * *
—
I’m the first one inside when the doors open. I head straight for the darkened hall, where the precious stones and mineral miracles are on display. When I was little and my mother and I would come to the city, we’d often spend an hour or two here. I haven’t thought about those visits much at all in recent years. If I had, I might have realized there was more to my mother than meets the eye. She and I didn’t come here to see the gems on display. Instead, we strategized ways to steal them. When I was about ten, I asked her why she loved it so much.
“This is what my father
and I used to do when I was your age,” she said. As far as I recall, it’s the only time she ever mentioned the Kishka.
I’m standing in front of a bloodred diamond that’s on loan from the Indian government. The security at the museum must be much more sophisticated than it was a decade ago. Everything now is computerized. Which may deter old-fashioned thieves of the grab-and-go sort. But to a small group of people with the right kind of talent, this place is a candy store. I bet Elvis could walk out of here in five minutes flat with that diamond in his pocket.
“Stealing it is the easy part,” says a voice beside me. “Fencing it is the trick. You couldn’t sell the stone as is. You’d have to cut it up. You’d need one of the world’s best gem cutters to do it, and everyone from the FBI to Interpol knows who all those guys are.”
My mother looks as gorgeous as ever in a slim gray sheath dress, her thick black hair cascading over her shoulders. She could be the first lady of a more glamorous country. No one would ever guess she was the child of a lowlife gangster.
I’m sure she has a long list of questions for me, but there’s one I need answered first. “Why didn’t you ever tell me about the Kishka?” I ask. “Were you really that ashamed of him?”
“Ashamed?” my mom scoffs. “Just because I never spoke of him didn’t mean I was ashamed. My dad gave me everything. I was crazy about him. But he died with quite a few enemies, Simon—guys who would have loved to get their hands on Art Diamond’s daughter or grandson. They’re old now, but they’re not all dead. And a couple of them are still fairly dangerous. Fortunately my father had quite a few friends as well. They were the ones who helped me escape from Brooklyn.”
“Was Lenny the Phantom one of those friends?”