OtherLife

by Jason Segel

“We can’t afford to lose another day,” Nasha informs me. I wonder who she means by we. I’d certainly be fine with twenty-four hours of R&R.

  Nasha leaves, closing the door behind her. We hear a click as a lock turns. The four of us stand motionless in the center of the room. A day has passed since we’ve been alone. There’s so much we should be talking about. But there’s no doubt at all that these walls have ears.

  “So!” Elvis breaks the silence. “Turns out Busara’s mom is Black Widow. How awesome is that? Like mother, like daughter.”

  “Stop it,” Busara says coldly.

  “You know Black Widow is a good guy, right?” Elvis asks awkwardly. “I mean, she wasn’t at first, but then—”

  “Stop. Now.”

  Her words take Elvis by surprise. He looks like he’s been slapped in the face. I’m pretty surprised myself. I thought my little talk with Busara had done her a world of good. Guess I overestimated my newfound powers. “Sorry, I was just—” Elvis starts.

  “I know what you were trying to do,” Busara tells him. “You think you can make the situation better if you turn it into a joke. It’s what you always do. Usually I laugh along, but—”

  “Busara—”

  “But there’s nothing funny about my mother,” she finishes.

  Once again, I find myself being dragged into the emotional muck. “Busara, we talked about this. We agreed that coming here was our best option.”

  “No, we agreed it’s our only option,” she corrects me. “Don’t worry. I’m not second-guessing it. But that doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven my mother—or that I ever will. She lied to me and she betrayed my father. I guess I just can’t see the humor in any of that.”

  Elvis steps toward Busara, his arms reaching out to her, but she shies away.

  “I’m tired.” She heads toward one of the bedrooms. Elvis is starting to follow her when she stops abruptly at the threshold. “I think I need a little time alone,” Busara announces before she shuts the door.

  The three of us stare at the closed door. “What’s going on?” Elvis mutters. “It was a stupid joke, but I was just trying to make her feel better.”

  I don’t really want to look at him. I feel like I’ve already witnessed something I wasn’t meant to see.

  “A lot’s gone down in the past forty-eight hours,” Kat does her best to explain. “It might take Busara a little while to come to terms with it all. She will. You’ve just got to be patient.”

  Kat’s words of wisdom don’t seem to have done much for Elvis. “But aren’t I supposed to help her? Wouldn’t you two help each other?”

  “It’s not always that easy,” I say. “Everyone gets trapped inside their own head sometimes.”

  “Why don’t you try getting some sleep?” Kat asks.

  “Where?” Elvis asks miserably. “I’m not allowed in the bedroom.”

  “Take ours.” I can’t believe I’m saying it. In twelve hours I’ll be sneaking into a high-security prison to talk to an axe murderer and I’m giving my own bed away. I’m turning into someone I barely recognize.

  * * *

  —

  I’m sitting on a sofa that’s beautiful but feels like it’s made of rocks. Kat doesn’t seem to mind. She’s asleep with her legs curled up and her head on my lap. Before she fell asleep, she said Max’s uncle Arnold seemed like an interesting character. She knew better than to say any more.

  I should be taking this opportunity to rest as well, but I can’t. My mind won’t turn off. The same thoughts keep cycling through it. Uncle Arnold stars in most of them. There’s something weird about all of this. I can feel it.

  The television is on with the sound turned low. There are no other electronics in the apartment. As beautiful and luxurious as it may be, the place belongs to another era. They must have searched through every scrap heap in the city to find the television. It gets three channels and the reception is grainy. Sometimes the picture flickers out altogether. But I can see enough to know that Kat and I are the stars of every show. Police are patrolling all the subway stations. Checkpoints have been set up at every bridge and tunnel. There’s no way out of the city. That must be why Nasha’s employer left the television here for us. They want us to know that we’re screwed without them.

  The commercial breaks are the strangest part. For thirty seconds at a time, the world returns to normal. Happy kids eat cereal. A man gets rid of his bathtub grime. A senior citizen finds the answer to his chronic constipation. And then New York City appears on the screen. Cop cars race by with sirens blaring. Crime-scene tape blocks off a section of sidewalk outside the building where Scott Winston was gunned down. I’m thinking the news coverage has kicked in again when the camera focuses on a woman standing at the edge of the crowd. She takes a pair of black glasses out of her bag and slides them on. All at once, the world is in black-and-white. The cars are 1940s models and everyone’s dressed like they’re film noir stars. The woman is now clad in a mobster’s pinstriped suit, and she holds a gun in her manicured hand. A pair of old-timey coppers are passing by on the opposite side of the street. One sees her, does a double take and points her out to his partner. As they race through the traffic to reach her, she turns and disappears into the crowd. Then we hear the announcer.

  Need an escape?

  Experience OtherEarth. Your world—only better.

  Available August fifteenth.

  I laugh out loud. I gotta hand it to Wayne. It’s the ultimate fuck-you. They’ve taken our manhunt and made it part of the game. Oddly enough, this is exactly what I needed to see right now. Just when I was finding it hard to summon the motivation for the act I’ll be playing this evening, Wayne reaches out and gives me all the inspiration I need. I’m going to take that bastard down.

  * * *

  —

  When Nasha returns to the apartment, there’s a tiny woman with rhinestone-rimmed glasses and a jet-black bob following her. The lady’s wheeling a black suitcase that’s large enough for at least one of our bodies, but she doesn’t look dangerous. If anything, she seems anxious as hell.

  “Lorraine is our makeup artist,” Nasha announces.

  Lorraine greets us all with a stiff smile, which confirms my hunch—she’s a civilian. I watch her eyes widen as they pass over Kat. She must recognize her from all the videos, but she doesn’t say a word. Either they’re paying the woman extremely well or they have something on her.

  Nasha puts a hand on my arm. “This is your subject,” she informs the makeup artist.

  Lorraine gives me a thorough once-over. “That will need to come off,” she says, pointing at the bandage that covers my nose.

  When I reach up and pull it off, the woman’s eyes widen and she quickly looks away. She knows who I am, too.

  Nasha points to one of two chairs in the apartment’s dining set. “Sit,” she tells me. “The rest of you go hang out somewhere else.”

  I notice Nasha doesn’t acknowledge her daughter. She was listening last night. There’s no doubt about it. This family feud is getting ugly.

  The makeup artist pulls her bag over to the table where I’m sitting, heaves it up onto the surface before I can offer to help and unzips the case. Inside is the most amazing assortment of putties, paints and hairpieces I’ve ever seen.

  “What happened to you?” the makeup lady says when she finally sees me up close. Her voice is trembling.

  “Nose job,” I tell her. “Can’t you tell?”

  The woman brushes her thumb over one of the bruises beneath my eyes. “These are old,” she notes. “You’ve had them a while.”

  She’s smart, this one. She knows the person in the videos wasn’t banged up like I am. She knows it wasn’t me.

  Nasha clears her throat.

  “Sorry,” Lorraine says. “Just making conversation. Your nose still hurt?”

 
“Not as much,” I tell her.

  “Good,” the lady says. “ ’Cause we’re gonna have to add some putty, and that will put a bit of weight on it.”

  “No more chitchat, please,” Nasha orders.

  Lorraine catches my eye for a moment. Then she gets to work.

  * * *

  —

  Three hours later, there’s a knock at the door. Nasha opens it and an arm hands her a black garment bag. When I turn back around, Lorraine is putting her brushes, putty and prosthetic ear hair back into her suitcase.

  “I’m done?” I ask her.

  She hands me the photo she’s been using for reference. “Oh yes, you’re done,” she says. Then she reaches out and puts her hand gently against my cheek. “Good luck to you.”

  She knows I’m in deep. Perhaps even deeper than she is.

  “Thanks,” I tell her. “You too.”

  When she’s gone, I strip down to my underwear. It’s time to put on my costume, and I don’t see any need to be bashful in front of someone like Nasha. She hands me articles of clothing, one at a time. Each is a work of art. Even the socks must have cost some serious change. But none of them are new, I notice. I suppose that’s smart—brand-new clothes might attract attention. But I wonder who broke them all in. When I shove my arms into the shirt, I smell the faint stench of smoke.

  “Hey!” Kat calls from the bedroom where she, Busara and Elvis have been waiting. “Can we come out yet?”

  I quickly slip on the pants Nasha hands me and zip myself up.

  “Yes,” Nasha tells them. She steps up to me and threads a tie under my collar. It’s a red Hermès tie with little blue diamonds. Then she crafts a perfect double Windsor knot. “Show them,” she says when she’s finished.

  I turn around to a stunned audience. I haven’t been near a mirror in hours, but I’m not surprised by their reaction. Lorraine was an artist, and Nasha’s employer certainly wouldn’t have settled for anything less than the best. But the silence lasts a little too long.

  “What?” I ask.

  Kat takes a deep breath. “Have you seen yourself yet?” she asks.

  “No, why? Is something wrong?” I head straight for the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door.

  Kat comes after me. “Don’t freak out,” she whispers in my ear as the mirror comes into view.

  I am the Kishka.

  I am driven to Rikers Island in a Maybach S600 that I’m certain belongs to Max’s uncle Arnold. The wallet in my pocket is filled with identification and credit cards that—at least to my untrained eye—don’t appear to be fakes. Did Uncle Arnold willingly lend his belongings, I wonder? Or were they stolen? Where the fuck is Uncle Arnold? How far is Nasha’s employer willing to go for the answers they’re after?

  I sail past ID check. I ace the frisking. None of the guards gives me a second look. When I get to the visitation room, I’m shown to a cubicle. I can see a reflection in the glass that will separate the visitors from the felons, but the reflection doesn’t belong to me. I try to look through it. I do my best to pretend it’s not there.

  When a kid sits down across from me I almost raise my hand to call the guard over. It’s hard to believe this could be the same Max Prince. The guy I’m expecting is a rosy-cheeked cherub who looks like he’s been spoon-fed nothing but caviar and pâté de foie gras since birth. But this poor bastard already has one foot in the grave. His face is covered with a nasty rash, clumps of his dull black hair are missing and his body is wasting away. It makes me wonder how bad the food here could be. In Max’s emaciated state, his nose dominates the rest of his face. Was it always so big? I wonder.

  We sit and stare at each other through the glass, as if daring the other to make the first move.

  “Hello, Uncle Arnold,” the kid finally says, confirming that I do indeed have the right Max. There’s no emotion at all in his voice. He hasn’t blinked since he took his seat. “I’m surprised to see you here. You don’t usually make public appearances. This must be important.”

  Clever. The disguise hasn’t fooled him. He knows I’m not who I say I am, and this is his way of warning me that he can call my bluff at any moment. If he does, I’ll probably be thrown in a cell just like his.

  “I’m not here for you,” I reply. “I came to see if you’ve heard from your mother lately.”

  Max blinks. I think he gets it. I hope like hell he does. “Not for a few days,” he says.

  “I haven’t either,” I tell him. “She seems to be missing. I’m trying to find her, and I was hoping you might help me figure out where to look.”

  The slightly nauseated smile that appears on Max’s face can’t hide the fact that he’s gone sheet white. He knows what I’m trying to tell him—he just doesn’t know whether to believe it. “She’s probably on an island somewhere, drinking mojitos and ogling the help. She always did have a thing for young studs, as you know.”

  “Yes well, all the young studs appear to have gone on holiday. I’ve been calling the island. No one picks up. It’s as if the whole island’s deserted and no one’s there to answer the phone.”

  That should make things crystal clear if they aren’t already.

  “Then I’m afraid I can’t help you,” Max says. “I wish I could offer a clue or two, but it’s hard to do much detective work while I’m locked up in here. As I’m sure you know, I’m not allowed to have any devices.”

  Max is going somewhere with this, I think. He wants me to play along.

  “That must be unpleasant for you. Perhaps you’ll learn to love reading while you’re incarcerated.”

  “What a funny old man you are.” Max isn’t laughing. “If you hadn’t been born in the Dark Ages, you’d know this shithole was made for Otherworld.”

  “Otherworld?” I ask as if I’ve never heard of it, but my heart is pounding inside my chest. We’re getting somewhere now.

  “Jesus, Uncle Arnold, didn’t you ever watch any of my videos?” Max rolls his eyes. “It’s a virtual reality game. You put on the headset and you’re in a different world. I used to hang out in a place called Albion. You should visit sometime. There’s an old bastard there who reminds me of you. Fortunately they don’t let him leave his cave.”

  That’s the clue I’ve been waiting for. I’m sure of it. It’s time to bail before either of us accidentally says too much.

  “Charming,” I say, scooting the chair back and rising from my seat. “I see prison hasn’t changed you, Maximilian.”

  Max stands too and leans forward until his forehead is pressed against the window. “Get the hell out of here,” he snarls. “And don’t come back here again or I’ll make what I did to Mama’s boy toy look like a fucking paper cut.” Then he drops the receiver and leaves it dangling from its cord as he walks away.

  The rage is a nice touch. Max is a smart kid. He doesn’t want anyone who might be watching to think we’re too friendly. Otherwise, they might pay more attention to the little chat we just had. If they did, they might realize—as I do—that Max was suggesting a trip to Albion.

  * * *

  —

  Back at the safe house, Nasha and all three of my friends greet me at the door. I walk straight past them to the bathroom. I don’t want to look at myself in the mirror. I don’t want to see the Kishka. I peel away the mask and wipe the goop from my skin. When I turn around, the others have formed a blockade outside the bathroom.

  “Well?” Kat demands.

  “We’ll have to go to Otherworld,” I tell her. “There’s something there we need to find.”

  “What is it?” Busara asks eagerly.

  “No idea,” I tell her.

  “You have no idea?” Nasha repeats, hands on her hips.

  I focus on her. “I’m not telling you a damned thing until I know what you guys did with Uncle Arnold.”

 
“Uncle Arnold is fine,” Nasha huffs. I wait until she adds, “You have my word. Now what’s this about Otherworld?”

  “I think Max left something there. If you want us to find it, we’re going to need a computer, an Internet connection and a television that gets more than three channels,” I say. “Plus all of the stuff we brought from the island—especially the Otherworld headsets. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get the hell out of these clothes.”

  Kat follows me into the bedroom and sits while I change. “Tell me,” she says. She knows there’s got to be more to the story.

  “While you were in Otherworld, did you ever visit a place called Albion?”

  “No, but I’ve heard of it,” she replies. “It’s typical kill quest stuff. Knights and giants and that sort of crap. Is that where we’re going?”

  “I think Max hid a clue in Albion during his last visit to Otherworld. He said something about an old man who lives in a cave.”

  “Which old man? Which cave? It’s gotta be a pretty big place.”

  “Dunno,” I admit. “But Max recorded his adventures in Otherworld. All we have to do is watch the play-through.”

  “Really?” Kat groans. “So we’re in for an evening of Max Prince’s farts and dirty jokes?”

  “If you think about it, it’s not that different from an evening with Elvis,” I say.

  “Good point,” she laughs. “By the way, it’s been hell being stuck here with him and Busara all day. They hardly said two words to each other.”

  “Look, they’re a weird couple. They always were. But I’m sure everyone says the same thing about us, too. Girls like you aren’t supposed to end up with head cases like me.”

  I was trying to make her laugh again, but Kat looks worried.

  “Are you okay, Simon?” I know what she’s asking—what she can’t say out loud.

  “I think so,” I tell her. I’m not going to lie. I don’t know for sure. I pull her toward me and bury my face in her hair. “You saw Uncle Arnold. Remember that picture of the Kishka I found when we were kids? Uncle Arnold looks like an older version of my grandfather. What do you suppose it all means?”