by Rob Dircks
But it’s too late – Pete’s rage switch is already on. He grabs the journal and we play tug-of-war with it. Bobo’s jumping up trying to grab a piece too, I guess it looks like a fun game (he’s still pretending to shoot himself in the head, btw). Then Pete snatches the book away from me and goes to rip it in half.
“NO!!” I grab it back, and stuff it down my pants. Wrong move. Pete’s on me in a second like a rabid mountain lion (do mountain lions get rabies?), mauling me.
“Give me the goddamn book!”
We fall to the floor, me on my back and Pete right on my chest. I can’t breathe. I’m trying to kick him off, and he’s reaching around me for the book, and Bobo’s psyched, because now the game just got even more fun, and he jumps on Pete’s back, so now they’re both on top of me.
“can’t… breathe…”
Then suddenly, somewhere deep in the recesses of Pete’s mind, I think he realizes he can’t really trash the book, and we need Tesla, as much as he hates the idea, if we’re ever going to find our way home. So he gets off me with a huff. “Whatever. It probably smells like your ass now anyway. Keep it.”
But Bobo’s not done with the game yet, and he keeps jumping up and down directly on my chest. Pete’s enjoying this part – if he can’t have the book, at least he can watch me slowly die at the hands of Bobo.
“get…”
Jump.
“the…”
Jump.
“fuck…”
Jump.
“off…”
Jump.
“me…”
Bobo’s having the time of his life. But when Pete sees I’m about to pass out, he finally pulls him off. I curl up in a fetal position (it’s getting to be a habit), wheezing. And Julie, the weirdest thought pops into my head while I’m trying to catch my breath: remember that time we went to Sleepy’s Mattresses and started jumping up and down on that giant bed? It was like a trampoline. I remember watching you, your hair waving all over the place, getting in your mouth, I could barely see your eyes, but enough to see how you get those wrinkles in the corners when you’re laughing hysterically. It was perfect, us jumping together in rhythm. (corny, I know, but it’s my email and I’ll write whatever the hell I want.) And then you pushed me, and I fell, and you crashed right onto my chest, laughing. And I couldn’t breathe, but I didn’t care. Because if that’s how I was going to die, that’s all right. That’s exactly how I wanted to die. And then the guy came over and kicked us out of the store, but not before you whispered right in my ear “I like defying gravity with you.” You’re so weird.
“Hey. Earth to Chip. What the hell are you smiling at?”
“Uh. Nothing.”
“Good. Then quit staring off into space and grinning like an idiot, and start turning this thing around with Tesla. Or next time, I don’t care how much we need the book, I’m feeding it to Bobo.”
Whoops. Right. Back to business.
“Look, Tesla, dude, it’s the year 2015. I found your journal in an old desk drawer. The FBI must have lost your Navigation Controller, too (I refuse to write it in all caps, btw). And you didn’t think to mention it in the journal. To warn us that we’d need it. Nice move. So we’re stuck. And you’re stuck. So thanks for nothing. Now how about some actual help getting us all home?”
His response:
“Hmmm.”
Wow. He literally wrote “Hmmm.” Instead of just saying it to himself. I would laugh, but the last time I laughed (see previous email) my appendix almost exploded. So we just kind of sit there waiting. Then suddenly the journal is scratching away like crazy. Uh-oh. Tesla’s ticked.
“Dear Sir,
As my response is multi-part, I will employ a list:
First: Do not call me ‘dude.’ I have never vacationed or labored at a ranch, or railroad, or whatever that term might mean in your day. Call me Nikola.
Second: Though I am sorry to hear that the FBI has bungled the handling of the journal and the INTERDIMENSIONAL NAVIGATION CONTROLLER, I did not include instructions for it in the journal for one simple reason: because instructions were sitting right beside it! A second set of instructions? Highly inefficient!
Third: What does ‘btw’ mean? You will have to educate me on the vernacular of 2015. I guessed ‘before the war,’ and ‘bring the washbasin,’ but neither fit in context.
Fourth: This is most important. Do not consider yourself ‘stuck.’ Do not consider me ‘stuck.’ We are temporarily delayed. That is all. Nothing stops. Everything is temporary. We will simply have to build another INTERDIMENSIONAL NAVIGATION CONTROLLER together, for you to use.”
I look up at Pete. “Well, at least he likes making lists.”
“Yeah, you two should get along great. Just make sure the next list is How to Build a Navigation Controller in Three Easy Steps Using Only a Plumber’s Wrench.”
So we write back and forth with Tesla, (btw, I explain what “btw” means – “by the way”– was it really that hard to figure out, Nikola?) and eventually he sends us a list of components, diagrams, and directions for assembling this Controller thing. Pete plops down next to me, and we both stare at the notes, scratching our heads.
“Uh, Pete. So what do you make of this?”
“Me?”
“You have the degree, dude.”
“You have a degree too, you idiot. We graduated from the same college.”
“Yeah, but my degree is in Philosophy. Useless.”
“Not totally useless. It helped you get into that girl Carla’s pants.”
“True. True. But we don’t need to get into Tesla’s pants. We need a Controller thing. You the man.”
“Dude - my degree is in finance. So unless the Controller is made out of Convertible Preferred Stocks, we might as well have Bobo here build it.” We both turn to Bobo.
Blink. Blink.
“Yup. We’re fucked.”
From: Chip Collins
To: Julie Taylor
Date: June 4, 2015 5:43am
Re: Wait, let me back up
Hi Julie,
You’re probably thinking we’re fucked too (and generally, I’d agree with you). Building one of these Controller things? Good luck. But then it hits me. “Wait! Brainstorm!”
“Uh-oh.”
“No, dude. Really. Listen, it’s a quick cab ride to Columbia University from the hotel. First, we find a friendly dimension. Then we shoot up there and grab the chairman of the electrical engineering department. He’ll be able to make sense of this. Then we get him to build this thing for us. Easy peasy.”
“Yeah. Sounds like it’ll happen just like that.”
“Right. Right?”
“Not a fucking chance. No one will believe us, and even if they do, what makes you think they’d actually help us? Hi, we’re two guys from another dimension, and we need you to stop what you’re doing and put yourself in harm’s way. We have three hundred dollars, which probably doesn’t even mean anything in your dimension. Oh, and a plumber’s wrench.”
“Okay, smart guy. Your turn. Blow me away.”
“A-HEM. Easy. We find a dimension where the Controller is still sitting there on the desk. We take it. Done.”
Hmm. It does sound easy. I’m all about easy. “Cool. My plan sucked anyway.”
Fast forward a full day (or week, or month, like I said, time doesn’t pass in here so it could’ve been a year), and me and Pete haven’t found shit. Well, we’ve found lots of dangerous shit, and all kinds of weird shit, but not the shit we’re looking for. Shit, shit, shit.
“Dude? I hate to admit this, but remember your plan that sucked?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m starting to think it didn’t suck so much.”
I smile. “Well, I don’t mean to brag, but…”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. It still sucks. Just not as much. Maybe we should give it a shot.”
So we ditch the current sucky plan, and go with my slightly-less-sucky plan (Columbia University
> get smart person > build controller > save Tesla > live happily ever after). At least we’re scratching notes into the doors, so it’s easy to find one that leads to the hotel room.
“Bingo. Let’s go. Bobo, you stay here.”
Bobo’s way ahead of me I guess, because he’s not even paying attention – he’s just sitting there nibbling on a piece of lint from his fur. So me and Pete step through (ever-so-gently, we’re learning quick that we could be stepping into our own graves) into Room 3327.
Pete heads in first, takes one step, and launches straight up to the ceiling, hitting his head. Bonk.
WTF?
As he comes down, he laces into a string of profanities so long and explicit I’m too embarrassed to write it down here (yeah, I know, my virgin ears, right?). But it makes me laugh, which I know is the absolute worst thing I could do when Pete’s pissed off.
“You think it’s funny? Get in here, Mister Laugh-a-Minute. Let’s see how you do.”
And sure enough, even though I KNOW it’s coming, I step in and do the SAME EXACT thing. Bonk. “Ouch! Motherfucker!” (Julie, I swear that’s like a children’s school prayer compared to what Pete said before.)
Now Pete’s laughing, and pointing up. My head actually left a dent in the ceiling. And after we both finish rubbing our heads, we notice we can barely keep our feet on the ground. We’re light as a feather. Crazy, right?
I blurt out “lighter gravity.”
And Pete does a little double-take. “Okay, I’m a little scared that I’m saying this, but I think you’re right. You must have knocked something into place in your brain there.”
I punch him in the arm, and he goes shooting across the room into the wall.
“Woah! Cool!”
“Hey, you know what lighter gravity means, right? The Matrix!”
So we immediately start doing Matrix moves on each other, flips and shit, laughing and hitting the walls and the ceiling, smacking each other with the pillows and making them all explode, and then some poor woman in the next hotel room is like “Hey! What’s going on in there?! Do I have to call the cops?”
We freeze. The word “cops” causes a Pavlov reaction: we’re so scared of running into Evil Cop again, we immediately stop everything. Pete drops his plumber’s wrench with a thud.
“SHHHH!”
“You Shhh! That was like the loudest ‘Shhh’ I’ve ever heard.”
“You want to hear a loud ‘Shhh’? Loud like your stupid fucking wrench?”
“No. Just shut the fuck up!”
“SHHHHHH!”
Hours (okay, a few seconds) later, we finally calm down and get ready to leave. But it’s nighttime, and nobody’s rented the room, so we decide to crash and start out tomorrow.
Goodnight, Julie. xoxoxo
From: Chip Collins
To: Julie Taylor
Date: June 4, 2015 5:43am
Re: Wait, let me back up
Hi Julie,
Man, I slept great. Like in the hallway, time doesn’t pass, so you don’t need sleep, but psychologically, you do need it, so you’re always in this state of wanting a nap even though you’re not tired. Yawning for no reason. Like right now. Yawn. (Did you catch my yawn?)
Anyway, next morning (who knows, it could’ve been days – we slept like grizzly bears), we start down to the lobby. And Julie, you would post this to Videos-Of-Morons.com if you could see how we’re walking. We’re putting almost no pressure on the ground, and we’re practically floating. It’s exactly like walking on the moon (I know from all my prior moonwalking experience). In order not to go bounding into the air, every step has to be a gentle arch, like a cartoon character trying to walk through a minefield. We also find out it works better if we sort of hold each other down while the other one takes a step, so my left hand is on his right shoulder, and his right hand is on my left shoulder. Quite the picture. Pete’s not happy.
“Just quit giggling. You’re making it worse.”
So I try to stifle my giggles (which is really impossible now that he’s saying not to do it), and we make it out onto the street. I hail a cab, and Pete grabs the door handle to open it for me. What a nice guy.
Then he rips the door off the hinge.
“Oops.”
The cabbie gets out and runs around to give Pete a piece of his mind, but he stops cold. Now you know Pete’s in good shape – especially compared to me – but compared to this cab guy? He’s Thor. (Except with a big wrench instead of a hammer.)
Chip’s Quick List of Things to Know About This Dimension:
• It’s got lighter gravity. Because our muscles are built for much heavier gravity, we can fly. Well, not fly, but bound around like the Hulk. Like literally jump a mile. (Pete tried it. It was awesome.)
• Everyone’s scrawny. Like same height as us, but thirty or forty pounds tops. We figure because of the gravity, people don’t need as much muscle. Hardly any, really. So to them we look like demigods. (Okay, Pete looks like a demigod, and I look like whatever is a couple of steps down from a demigod.)
• Objects are brittle and weak. We figure (Hey, look at us, Julie – we’re figuring stuff out!) because people are weak, they need their stuff to be proportionately lightweight – car doors, toasters, manhole covers, etc.)
So anyway, the cabbie has totally changed his tune, and he’s like “Uh, uh, excuse me, sorry, sir. Y-Y-You can just put that in the trunk. A-And the fare’s on me. Where to?”
But before Pete can even answer, we notice up the block something’s causing a commotion (God, I love that word, commotion. It’s like not quite an emergency, it’s almost goofy, like “those circus clowns over there are causing a commotion juggling those chainsaws.”) Anyway, the commotion actually does turn out to be an emergency: a bunch of people are looking up and shouting for help. About fifteen stories up this building, a couple of bricklayers are hanging on for dear life to some scaffolding, and it looks like the whole thing’s gonna come crashing down any second.
Without a word, Pete immediately leaps up the building (did I mention it’s fifteen stories?) and plucks the workers off the scaffolding just as it gives way. But the whole thing, along with a huge pile of bricks stacked on the planks, starts falling toward the ground.
Oh shit.
People on sidewalk.
Mom with double stroller.
Two business guys.
No time to think.
I hurl myself towards them.
In midair (it’s true: stuff like this feels like it happens in super slow motion), I pull out the Shogun, press button four – force field – and fling it at the stroller. Then I barrel into the two guys, grabbing them and turning, so my back crashes through a deli window, and we all land inside just before the scaffolding and shit smashes into the sidewalk. Dust everywhere. Can’t see. I rush outside. The mom…
It worked.
Julie, holy cow, something I did actually worked!
The mom and her twins are inside the bubbled safety of the force field from the Shogun. Whew. The two guys stumble out of the deli, brushing off their suits, without a scratch. Whew again. And Pete jumps down from the side of the building, a worker under either arm. He sets them down, looks at me and smiles.
“Dude. Was that YOU?”
“I guess. Who knew?”
“Kick ass. You’re my hero.”
The crowd around us is in total silence. They have no idea what the hell just happened. Then one guy starts clapping. And another. Pretty soon everyone’s clapping, hooting, coming over and hugging us. Cops are shooting their guns in the air (not really, but that would be awesome, wouldn’t it?). It’s great, I’ll admit it. We’re soaking it in. We’re in the zone. I go over to Pete to give him a hug. He backs up.
“Don’t ruin it, dude.”
Clink. Clink. Clink.
Whoops. It’s the lady in the bubble, tapping on it. She’s obviously grateful, tears and everything, but she’s also like “Um, are you ever going to get us out of here?”
Me and Pete look at each other, then back at the mom. Shrug. Sorry, lady. It’ll be at least a half hour, based on our past Bobo tests. It’s a buzz kill, I know, but you’re alive, right?
But she’s not waiting. She’s trapped in a force field bubble with twins crying their heads off, and I’m sure it’s getting hot in there. And I have no idea about the oxygen situation. So she leans down and presses a random button on the Shogun.
“NO!!! I mean, COULDN’T YOU ASK FIRST?! You could kill yourself! Or your kids! I mean, what the hel…”
And the field trap instantly disappears.
“…huh. So that’s what button five does.”
I mean, of course. It took me and Pete HOURS to test all this shit on Bobo, waiting for the effects of the Shogun to wear off every time, instead of just trying button five. Duh. Well, now we know for next time. Thanks, random mom.