by Rob Dircks
“Good for you, dude. Have a blast. I’m going home.”
So Pete starts heading for the door, and I know I have to pull out the big guns.
“So what, are you a pussy?”
He stops dead, and I know he’s considering punching me right in the face. But he never has in fifteen years, and I know he never will, so I go for the jugular.
“You gonna live your life looking good on your surfboard and your old-guy soccer team, pretending to know shit about financial markets or whatever your job is, and never actually DO anything? Huh?”
I got him. I can tell even before he can. He’s in. He smiles and walks toward me, with his arms open.
And then he punches me in the face.
Now it’s not what you think (or maybe what you would hope under the circumstances) – no knockout, no broken nose with the bloody tissues hanging out of my nostrils, no “fuck-you-our-friendship-is-over” shit. He grazes me – yes, with that perfect football-throwing hand-eye coordination – just to scare me. But I do fall on my ass, my favorite body part, and it stings (mostly my pride - my ass is cushy enough to survive a fall perfectly fine).
“Whatever. I’m in. But this is the last time I’m letting you talk me into something stupid. Wait. It’s always something stupid with you, so forget I just said that. Just don’t be a dick.”
“Okay, sorry. Promise.”
God, I write too much. This email is like twenty pages long already. I’ll try to get to the point.
So me and Pete head over to the New Yorker Hotel to check it out. (Tesla lived there in Room 3327. How cool is that? Living in a hotel. Like “Room Service? Send up another Lobster Thermador, my good man!” But he was broke, so maybe it was more like “Room Service? Send up some crackers, my good man!”) Of course, we haven’t planned this out at all, other than getting there, so the conversation with the girl at the check-in desk goes something like this:
“May I help you?”
“Yes. Ah, we’d like a room. Just for a couple of hours.”
She raises her eyebrows, and I immediately know what she’s thinking: which one’s the prostitute?
“Uh, what I meant to say is, we’d like to visit Room 3327. We’re researchers – fans, in fact – of Nikola Tesla. We’d consider it an honor to repose in the room he stayed in.”
She eyes me suspiciously, but my knowledge and use of the word “repose” has disarmed her. Apparently prostitutes don’t know about Tesla or words like “repose.” I’m off the hook.
“Yes, the Tesla Room. I’m sorry, however, rooms are only available for full night stays.”
“Uh, sure. We’ll take it for one night.”
“All right. It is available. The rate is $725.”
“We just need one night.”
“Yes.”
“Fuck. Ah, I mean, Yes. That’s fine.”
I look at Pete. He’s glaring at me. Glaring like he wished he had punched me in the face harder – bloody-tissues-hanging-out-of-my-nostrils harder. He’s grinding his teeth, too. But he knows he’s the one with the actual job, so he ponies up. (By the way, I have a job now you’d be happy to know. I’m a security guard. Or I was. But in any case it’s not really an actual job. But I’m trying.)
Eventually, Pete gets over the money thing, and realizes we’re at the door of Room 3327.
“Dude. Do you really think they never found this? That the FBI is a bunch of morons?”
“Uh. Yes. Total morons. Dude, first: they lost this journal, right? So it probably never even got read. Second: they thought he was demented anyway, right? I bet they put first-year Special Agent Lefty Shitforbrains on his case. And third: you think the New Yorker Hotel wanted the FBI in Room 3327 for the infinite future, investigating some INTERDIMENSIONAL TRANSFER APPARATUS? They probably re-did the whole suite the minute the feds left. Coverup.”
“The hotel is covering up a portal to other dimensions, so they can rent this room.”
“Yup.”
“Just yup.”
“Yup. It’s obvious.”
I think this made some perverted kind of sense to Pete, because he willingly follows me into the suite and we head right for the north guest room. (After we figure out which way is north.) I don’t know why, but I expected floor-to-ceiling research papers, maybe a big wooden globe, beakers and shit, like Dumbledore’s office or something. But no. Typical hotel room. Ugly drapes. Whiny air conditioner. Beige everything. BOOORING.
But we’re here for work. We go right to the back of the closet and…
Nothing.
I mean, of course. What did I expect – a big neon sign that said “Interdimensional Transfer Apparatus?” (Except that it would be in all caps.) So me an Pete get into a little married-couple fight. I know you love when Pete gets mad, so here’s the transcript:
“I told you this was stupid. The FBI took it.”
“You can’t TAKE it. It’s a passageway. A portal. It’s here. But no. You never believe in me.”
“What are you, my wife?”
“Fuck that.”
“Good. Now we can leave.”
“Dude. You just made a mortgage payment to be here. We’re not leaving.”
“Okay. What do you want to do instead, ‘Repose’?”
“That hurt.”
“Poor Chip. Who’s the pussy now?”
I take a feeble swing at Pete, which of course he easily avoids. So my fist hits the back of the closet wall, and there’s this weird metallic sound.
“Dude. Was that a weird metallic sound? Or is sheetrock supposed to sound like that?”
Pete shakes his head, and we stare at the closet wall like a couple of cavemen, like “What do next, Grog?” We absolutely have to see what’s behind this wall. Then we realize our toolbox consists of:
• One old journal
• One cell phone (Pete forgot his)
• Two wallets (only one of which has credit cards in it)
• No tools
So Pete searches around for something, and he comes back from the bathroom with this plumber’s wrench. Seriously, like out of a cartoon, this giant plumber’s wrench. They must’ve had a leak or something and left it - whatever. Now it’s OURS. So he goes to town on the closet wall, smashing the shit out of it. Meanwhile, somebody next door is screaming “Hey, what the fuck?!” And I’m like “Sorry, it’s the headboard, you know how it is, wham-bam, don’t worry, we’ll be done in a minute!”
The dust finally settles, and there it is – a steel door. Not the size of a regular door. But not like a doggie door either. It’s the perfect size for a stooped-over, old inventor who wants to travel to different dimensions.
Holy! Shit! We! Did! It!
We start jumping up and down and hugging like the kids who won the fourth-grade dodgeball tournament (but in total silence, because we don’t want the scary-sounding guy next door coming over and ruining our discovery). I calm down and take a look at the door.
The latch. It has a combination lock on it. Four rotating dials, like a big luggage lock. I try it. No go. Damn.
“Okay, Mister Nikola Tesla Expert, what’s the combination?”
“Dude. There is NOTHING in this book about a combination. No mention of a lock at all.”
“You sure? You read every word? Deciphered any codes? Invisible ink?”
“Really? Invisible ink? Hold on, let me get my wand and cast a spell on it.”
“Fuck you.”
I shake my head. I can’t believe this. Tesla left THIS out of his notes? Didn’t leave a combination? Kind of an oversight, don’t you think, Nikola? I start frantically flipping through the pages of the journal, then in a pissy rage I toss it across the room. And wouldn’t you know it, the back cover fold cracks open and a wee little note pops out.
“That’s it!” We rush over and pick it up, hands shaking, waiting for the four digits to pop out and save us. Here’s what it reads:
“15 March, 1941: pick up trousers; feed pigeons”
Gr
eat. Fucking great. We’ve unearthed Tesla’s really important to-do list from some random day in 1941. Now I’m the one who’s ready to pick up and leave, but I stop. I’d like to say I was thinking about you, Julie, and that gave me courage, but really I was just pissed as hell. I’m now on the hook for one demolished hotel room wall, and Pete will NEVER let me forget this moment as long as I live, and I have to go back to my shitty security guard job tomorrow, and I’m never going to do anything awesome.
“No fucking way this lock is beating us. It’s like a luggage lock, how hard can it be? Hey Pete, what’s the default on a luggage lock, zero-zero-zero-zero, or one-two-three-four?”
“Zeros. I think. I don’t know. What am I, Luggage Lock Guy?”
So I go over and turn all the dials to zero. There’s no way it could be this ridiculous.
“Whatever, Pete. We gave it a shot, right?”
I try the latch, and this time it turns and the door swings out.
Awesome.
3
Sorry, I Accidentally
Hit Send
From: Chip Collins
To: Julie Taylor
Date: June 4, 2015 5:43am
Subject: Sorry, I accidentally hit Send
Julie,
Okay, so where was I at? Oh right…
Awesome.
Wait, first, in case you by some miracle got my previous email and haven’t already done so, CALL THE FBI IMMEDIATELY. Here’s our last known location:
New Yorker Hotel
481 Eighth Avenue
New York, NY 10001
Room 3327
North Guest Room
Back of Closet
Steel Door (watch your head)
Latch Combination: 0-0-0-0 (really? yes)
Watch your back (you’ll find out why in a minute)
Now back to awesome. Well, awesome for a few seconds. After some well-deserved congratulatory hugs (yes, guys can hug), there we stand, chests out, fists on our hips, imaginary capes fluttering in the wind…
Chip Collins and Pete Turner:
Masters of Interdimensional Travel.
So we bound through the door (Pete hits his head – it’s hilarious) expecting Hallelujah choruses and chicks waving palm tree branches, maybe a spaceship with a driver waiting for us, holding a silver tray of champagne and strawberries.
Nope. It’s a hallway.
And it’s not even a nice hallway like in the hotel. It’s like a dingy hallway in a warehouse. Gray. Just enough light to let you see how fucking gray it is. And everything’s gray. Like, they didn’t even paint the trim white or anything, or put yellow and black “Danger! Interdimensional Portal!” signs up. Yawn.
“Wow. What a letdown.”
“Yeah. What is this, the help’s hallway?”
“The staff.”
“The help, the staff, whatever. Is that what this is?”
“I don’t know, but it’s loooooong.”
We start walking (south?), to see how far this hallway goes. See if Tesla’s big invention is really just a stupid hallway that leads to the emergency exit. But it turns out it goes on forever. And Julie, I am NOT being figurative, or exaggerating – it goes on FOREVER. We must have walked for a half hour and nothing but hallway as far as you can see in both directions. And doors. Every six feet or so there’s a door on both sides. Guess what color?
“Hey, you know what’s weird about these doors?”
“They’re gray.”
“That’s not weird, you idiot. There are no numbers.”
“Oh yeah.”
“Oh shit.”
“Oh shit what?”
“Oh shit there are no numbers. How are we going to find the door we came in through?”
We start running like crazy back in the other direction. Of course, Pete’s about a thousand yards ahead of me, and I’m wheezing and clutching my chest (I swear, Julie, if you help us get out I’m going to start working out). So I stop, figuring Pete will find the door no problem because I’m pretty sure we left it open.
And then Pete comes running back down the hallway towards me at full speed.
“Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit!”
And it’s kind of funny, because he sounds like a race car, you know, where his “holy shit”s are faster as he approaches me, and slower when he passes me.
Wait, he’s PASSING me? “Pete! What the fu-“
And then something tumbles into me and grabs my leg. Starts dragging me back.
“Pete! Help! It’s got me!”
Just when I start crying (Julie, I’m not too proud to say that I cried like I’ve never cried before), Pete comes back into view, giant plumber’s wrench in hand, and whacks the thing in the head. Whack. Dead.
“Dude, I’m sorry. I got scared. I thought you could outrun it.”
“You thought I could outrun something?! Are you fucking crazy?!”
“Hey, simmer down, I came back for you. I killed that thing. What the fuck is it, a bear? And what the fuck is a bear doing in the help’s hallway?”
“It’s the STAFF, dude. And I don’t think we’re in the staff’s hallway. And I don’t think this is a bear.”
I stand up, and me and Pete carefully roll this thing over to get a better look. And that’s when shit gets real.
“AHHHHHHH!” “AHHHHHHH!”
(That’s both of us screaming.)
Julie, if I’m being really honest, I’m not sure you’ll ever see these emails. I might as well be writing them all over the walls with my own poop. So why not tell it like it is, right? No shame, right? Well, we turn this thing over… and I piss my pants. While I’m screaming. While I’m fainting. While Pete is trying to slap me out of it.
It’s an alien, Julie. I don’t know how the hell an alien got into the hallway, but here it is, dead at our feet. It’s got the giant black eyes, like baseball size easily, and the little slits for a nose, and it’s smallish, maybe up to my waist. The whole E.T. thing, just like in the movies. But it’s furry. REALLY furry. Like Chewbacca furry, but even more. Like you’d want to pet it, not smash it in the head with a plumber’s wrench. And after my holy-shit fear wears off (an eternity, btw), I start to feel a little bad.
“Shit. What if this thing was the last of its kind?”
“Dude. The last of its kind was trying to eat you.”
“I don’t know. Look how small that mouth is.”
“Have you ever seen what a snake does with its mouth? Swallows a goat whole.”
“Right. Good call with the wrench.”
So Pete starts heading back, and I follow him. But I can’t help it. I get a pang.
“Are we just gonna leave it?”
“No, you’re right. Let’s skin it and eat its meat.”
“C’mon, Pete. I’m serious.”
“What do you want to do, bury it? With what? A plumber’s wrench? I’m leaving.”
“Hey, I was just–“
And then it’s on me again. The thing.
I scream and try to kick free, but it’s no use. I’m in its clutches. I am going to die. And Pete’s laughing. Laughing?
“What the fuck are you laughing at?! Kill it!”
“No. Just let it finish.”
“Finish?!”
“He’s humping your leg.”
Pete’s right. This sick little alien is getting off on my leg. So right there in that split second, all my ideas about highly intelligent extraterrestrial beings who spread peace and knowledge throughout the universe go out the window. It’s just trying to get some, like the rest of us. (By “rest of us,” I’m talking generally, not me specifically. All I’M trying to do is get back home and be good to you, babe. And if I get some? Bonus. Kidding! I’m totally kidding. Not about being good to you. About getting some as a bonus. Whatever, okay I’m a douche.)
So the thing “finishes” – no green alien spooge or anything to contend with, thank God – and Pete starts laughing again. Now we’re both laughing, becaus
e it’s sitting there all satisfied, like if it had a little alien cigarette it would be lighting up right now. And it’s just looking at us. Weird – it’s actually kind of adorable. The big black eyes, sort of Bambi-like. So I instinctively reach out – Pete’s warning me like “remember the goat, dude” – and I pet it. And it’s all “ohhh yeahhh” like a cat. (It’s not actually talking, God I would’ve pissed my pants again.)
“So what do you want to name it?”
“Fuck you.”
“No I’m serious. Your leg and him are married now, so he should at least have a name.”
“How about ‘Pete’s-an-asshole’?”
“Nice. Nice ring to it. How about ‘Indestructo’? He took that wrench like a champ.”
“Whatever. I’m sure it has a name or something wherever it came from. Let’s just get the hell out of here before we actually do kill something. Or get killed. Later, furry alien dude.”
We start walking, and yes, you guessed it, the furry alien dude thing starts following us. Great. We don’t need a pet. I can’t even keep a plant alive at my apartment. Remember my last pet? Rocky the Ferret. You loved him. But he went bat-shit crazy and started jumping on all the neighbors and we had to put him down. I remember you were crying like Rocky was your own kid. Shit, I was even tearing up a little I guess. Fuck. Now I’m crying again. You know, we could have another pet together someday, it would be awesome. But something that doesn’t go bat-shit crazy. And it could sit between us while we’re watching TV, and we’re both petting it and I accidentally pet your hand. And you’re like “what am I, your pet?” And I’m like “I don’t know, do you want to be my pet?” And you smile, and you’re like “Why don’t you be my pet? I’ll go get the leash.” And then we start laughing our asses off, and the dog (it just became a dog in my imagination) starts barking his head off, wagging his tail, joining in on our big joke, like one big happy family.