by Rob Dircks
Oh boy, time to stop. Woah. Snap out of it, Chip.
So we let the thing follow us, and I’m thinking of the whole pet thing, so I turn around and I’m like “Come here, Bobo.” And it scurries up to walk with us. Pete’s like “Bobo?” and I’m like “whatever.” Then Pete taps one of the doors with his wrench:
“Okay, here’s the door.”
“Which one? I thought we left it open.”
“I thought so too. But this is it.”
“How could you possibly know that this is the door? Shouldn’t we keep looking for the open one?”
“Chip, I’m pretty good with spatial relations and navigation. If there was an open one a few feet away maybe. But as far as we can see in either direction are closed doors. This is it. Definitely.”
“Hmmm.”
“Hmmm, what? You want to go home, or you want to stay here with Bobo?”
“Okay. I just have no idea how the hell you know this is the door.”
I lean down and look at the latch: 3-4-2-8. I walk over to the next door: 7-7-1-9. Across the hall: 8-0-8-3. WTF?
“Wait. Shouldn’t ours be 0-0-0-0?”
“Dude, shit stopped making sense an hour ago. Trust me. Trust me. This is it.”
I flip the combination dials to 0-0-0-0 and try the latch. It turns and lets out a little whoosh. Whew! Pete was right. Always trust Pete.
I tell Bobo that he has to get back to wherever he came from (like he understands a word I’m saying – he’s actually drooling a little), and we open the door to go home.
It’s not the hotel closet.
I don’t know if there’s an opposite to a hotel closet, but this is it. It’s like a forest, but all the trees are blue – if you can even call them trees. And before I can even try to comprehend what we’re seeing, some metal thing whizzes past my ear and lodges into the wall behind me. So of course I start screaming, and Bobo runs away down the infinite hallway, and Pete lunges at the door, slams it shut, and turns the latch.
“Oops. Maybe it’s the next one.”
I jump on Pete (still screaming), and we fight like some sad amateur professional wrestlers, gouging each others eyes and pulling hair, you know, really classy. Once we’re tuckered out (well, I’m tuckered out and Pete’s just tired of kicking my ass), the strangest thing happens – I start an inventory of the shit that is about to go wrong:
1. Pete’s credit card will be charged for room damages, something he’ll remind me of every five minutes for the rest of our lives.
2. My car is in the garage (again), and Ed’s going to be a total dick about it if I come late to pick it up (again).
3. I think I left Pete’s stereo on when we swung by his place, so his neighbors are going to complain – and that’s the third time, so he might be looking for a new apartment. (He doesn’t know about that one yet, so don’t tell him when you rescue us.)
4. My mom brought over a pan of lasagna, which is on the fridge (not IN the fridge – I know, I’m a schmuck). That is going to be RIPE.
Before I can complete my list of disasters (which will never end until you rescue us pretty please), Pete picks me up, makes sure my ear isn’t bleeding, and turns into Mister Action Man.
“I’ll try the next one. Stand back.”
“Uh, you think?”
He chooses the door to the left of the really dangerous blue forest with hailing weapons, flips the combination dials to 0-0-0-0 and tries the latch. It turns and lets out the little whoosh, just like the last one.
(Official Interdimensional Travel Observation #1: Apparently the universal combination for an Interdimensional Portal is 0-0-0-0. Pretty awe-inspiring, right? Also, it looks like once a portal door closes, it automatically resets to a random four-digit combination. Just to totally mess with you.)
Pete grabs his plumber’s wrench. I grab the metal thing out of the wall. (Bobo grabs nothing, because he’s completely gone.) We’re both cringing, waiting for a T-rex to pop out and eat us or something. Then Pete cracks open the door just a wee bit.
IT’S THE HOTEL ROOM!
Oh my God. We’re saved! I immediately promise the following:
• No more of this dimension traveling shit.
• I’m going to work out.
• I’m going to get a real job. (Not with the FBI, no offense guys!)
• I’m going to marry you. Whoops. Yes, I just said that. And you know what? It felt good. Yes. You will be my bride. We will ride astride white horses down a pristine beach during sunset, reciting our vows to the seagulls, laughing and splashing in the sea. Definitely.
Pete goes through first (not hitting his head this time), and I follow (yes, hitting my head, and Pete laughs at me). And I don’t know if it’s just that “holy-shit-I-got-my-life-back” feeling, but the room looks fine. Shove the ironing board and robes back into the closet, close the door, and it’s good as new. Boom. Awesome.
We head downstairs, with a skip in our step. Yes, we’re The Masters of Interdimensional Travel, thank you very much. Then we take care of the essentials:
• Put the lasagna IN the fridge.
• Turn Pete’s stereo off.
• Go out for a celebration beer.
We hit Harper’s Tavern (you know, where we first spilled beer on each other and I was pawing you to help you clean it but really copping a pretty nice feel) and I remember: “Wait! I have to call Julie!” But guess what? My phone is dead, and Pete’s is still at his place. Luckily, there’s a CVS right next to the bar, so I pick up a charger (yes, another charger, to add to my collection of three hundred or so, and yes, I made Pete pay for it).
We get back to the bar, and I’m waiting for my phone to have enough juice to call you, enjoying a Blue Moon, feeling like King-of-the-Universe-About-to-Call-His-Queen, and this cop walks in. No big deal, right?
He walks over to the bartender, who points down to us. So the cop comes over to us, no introductions, and grabs my left hand and Pete’s left hand.
“Where are your bands?”
And we’re both like “Bands?”
“Don’t play idiot, retards.”
“Hey, isn’t that a little–“
Instantly, me and Pete are bent over a table, zip-cuffed, sipping our own spilled beer through our noses. Then the cop starts the crazy talk into his radio:
“Base, I’ve got two Untrackables. And they’re not on the Watch List. Yeah, likely they’re terrorists. I’ll bring them in for booking and waterboarding, Get the tank ready.”
What the? Bands? Untrackables? Waterboarding? TANK?
Then it hits me: this is NOT home.
4
I Met Myself, and I
Am Actually Not
Bad Looking
From: Chip Collins
To: Julie Taylor
Date: June 4, 2015 5:43am
I met myself, and I am actually not bad looking
Hi Julie,
Okay, so obviously we lived through the Evil-Cop-from-a-dimension-strikingly-similar-to-our-own episode, because I’m writing this to you. I just had to give my poor fingers a break (you know how hard it is to type a thirty-page email on a four-inch screen?) and charge my phone.
IMPORTANT NOTE: If you’re reading this, I’m assuming it’s because you’re waiting for the FBI to come over and make their way over here to the Strange-O-Matic machine and get us the hell out of here. If for some reason you still haven’t called, PLEASE DO SO IMMEDIATELY. Pretty please. You’re the best, babe. XOXO.
So how do we escape the Evil Cop? You are NOT going to believe it. He’s walking us out of the bar so he can spend the next few hours torturing us, and (this is the part you are not going to believe):
We literally bump into ourselves.
Alternate Me and Alternate Pete – I assume out for a congratulatory beer after finding their dimension’s copy of the Interdimensional Transfer Apparatus, and pretty oblivious to the outside world – bump right into us.
I know me and Pete (and our identical counte
rparts) should explode from the paradox, or at least dissolve into blubbering insanity, but this is the only thought that pops into my head:
Hey, I’m not a bad-looking guy.
Obviously Pete’s thinking the same thing, because the two Pete’s are smiling at each other. So there we are, Chip and Pete, and Alternate Chip and Alternate Pete. Same faces, same hair, same clothes. Same everything. All smiling like idiots at each other.
(Official Interdimensional Travel Observation #2: you’d think that meeting yourself in another dimension would cause a total freak-out of the infinite order, pants-pissing, screaming, etc. But it’s the total opposite: weirdly calming. Like “Hey bro, I know you! Let’s go get a beer.”)
But the whole love-fest is immediately cut short by Evil Cop, who does a few triple-takes (kind of comical, just not at the moment), then shoves all four of us up against his car. He checks the other Chip and Pete, and sure enough, they’ve got bands around their left wrists. So Evil Cop scans their bands with the register scanner thing he got from The Gap.
“Okay, retards. You two are clean. But if you can’t explain why I’m looking at both of your identical twins – who DON’T have bands – you’re ALL going to the tank.”
We’re standing there, bellies up against the squad car, frantically searching for some weak story to hold on to. And I can tell poor Alternate Me is dying to ask us a million questions. But Evil Cop’s not waiting.
“NOW.”
And then Alternate Me (my hero) comes up with this gem:
“Sir, ah, sorry for the confusion. They’re our, ah, robots.”
Robots? I don’t know whether to laugh or release my bowels.
“Robots. Really. Don’t lie to me, punk.”
Then Alternate Pete chimes in.
“Uh, yes officer. We work at the, uh, Columbia University Advanced Robotics Lab, and this was part of an experiment. To see how people interact with very realistic robots.”
“So you want me to believe these two are robots.”
“Yes. Very realistic robots.”
“Bullshit, punk. Prove it.”
At this point, I’m preparing myself for whatever “the tank” is, and I can’t tell if Pete is more afraid, or more pissed at me, because he’s grinding his teeth again and glaring at me. Meanwhile, Alternate Me doubles down on the robot story (just like I knew he would. Man, he’s awesome – I know, I know, when he’s not being a douche):
“Sure thing, officer. Robot Chip, power down.”
Hmm. Power down. How do very realistic robots power down? Do I bend over and do that arm swing thing like the dance? Do I just freeze? Do I make bleep noises and go through some kind of shutdown sequence? Do I –
“Power down NOW, Robot Chip.”
Whoops. Got it. I just relax everything and let my body fall to the pavement (which hurts like a motherfucker, btw). I’m not sure if Evil Cop buys it, but he lets out a snort, which sounds promising.
“Now make him get up.”
“Okay. Robot Chip, power on and get up.”
As I “power up,” I notice we’re attracting a bit of a crowd. Man, New Yorkers love this shit. Doesn’t matter what dimension you’re in. iPhones are coming out, people are taking pictures. The meat-on-a-stick guy on the corner is pitching the crowd like a cotton candy vendor at a circus. Boy, we’re definitely creating ripples in the Interdimensional Continuum with this little show. Heck, you might even see me on Instagram. (Maybe not YOU you, but Alternate You, who I’m sure is awesome, too. But not as awesome as you.)
“Okay. Now show me his wiring, or control panel, or something.”
Uh-oh. I can tell Alternate Me is at a total loss. I know that blank look. I know it very well. Evil Cop is definitely playing us, knows we don’t have shit. Then I feel the metal thingy in my back pocket. Hmm. Nothing to lose, right? So I finally speak up (in my lovable, ever-so-subtle robot voice): “Master Chip. You forgot my remote when you sent us to the bar.” I’m zipcuffed though, so I can barely get the thing out of my pocket. But Evil Cop spots the shiny object (yes, I’m getting the sense that even though he’s a tool, he’s not the sharpest one) and he grabs it from me.
“Give me that, punk. Huh. Cool.”
And I gotta say – if somebody gave this to you and told you it was a remote instead of a weapon, you’d believe it. It actually sort of looks like one. The tip is like an arrow shape, but the rest is a thin metal tube with recessed buttons down one side. Like a totally badass looking remote. I’m pretty sure I even hear some “Ooooh”s from the crowd.
So Evil Cop, who never stops to ask for directions, or reads an instruction manual, never looks both ways before crossing the street, or uses caution in anything he’s ever done, points it at me.
“What’s this button do?” He presses the top button. Nothing. So he shakes it and taps the tip against his other hand.
And he freezes instantly.
Wow.
We’re all afraid to move. Is he kidding? Is this some sick Evil Cop trick where we try to escape and he shoots us all in the back? Is the thing going to explode in his hands? But after a few seconds he’s still not moving. Not blinking. Not exploding. Nothing.
(Official Interdimensional Travel Observation #3: Be VERY careful with stuff you pick up in other dimensions. There are infinite possibilities, and infinite ways to accidentally kill yourself.)
So the four of us are standing there, waiting. And then I notice that the growing crowd around us is waiting, too. (It’s the kind of crowd that you know is hoping for an explosion.)
Alternate Me breaks the silence and starts clapping. “Okay folks, show’s over! Give these actors a hand! These UNDERPAID actors! Pete, pass around the hat!” What a genius – want to disperse a crowd in New York City? Go around and ask for money. I love that guy. So Alternate Pete walks around with his hand out and everyone stops clapping and starts fleeing like he’s got leprosy. Perfect.
Next, once we’re pretty much alone, we move in silent and perfect unison, like the U.S. Bobsled Team:
Step 1. Alternate Chip and Pete drag Evil Cop into his car.
Step 2. We slip into the back seat.
Step 3. Alternate Chip finds a little knife in the cop’s belt and cuts the zipcuffs off our wrists.
Step 4. I DELICATELY remove the metal thingy (I need a better name for that) from Evil Cop’s hand.
Step 5. Alternate Pete gets on the radio, doing his best Evil Cop impression: “Base, we’re good. False alarm. Retards were clean. I’ll check in at eleven.”
Step 6. We close all the doors.
Let the million questions begin. I’m not sure if it matters, but I figured you might want to know who’s saying what:
Alternate Me: “Hey guys, let me guess. You came from the INTERDIMENSIONAL TRANSFER APPARATUS.”
Me: “Yeah. What an annoying name.”
Alternate Me: “I know, right?”
Me: “Totally. And the all caps thing.”
Alternate Me: “So what happened?”
Me: “We went in, and tried to come back. We thought this was home. But I’m guessing it’s another dimension, mostly like ours.”
Pete: “Except for the bands. What the fuck is up with that?”
Alternate Pete: “Bands. To track you. Permanent fixture. Some stupid asshole came up with that after World War Three. You don’t have them in your dimension?”
Me and Pete: “World War Three?!”
Alternate Me: “World War Three. So what.”
Me: “There was no World War Three!”
Alternate Me: “Don’t tell me there was no World War Three. My mother served two tours.”
Me: “Holy shit! Mom served in a war? Did she survive?”
Alternate Me: “Of course, dude. She’s awesome. She even made me a lasagna tonight.”
Me: “Oh right. Hey, I put it in the fridge for you, by the way.”
Alternate Me: “Whoops. Thanks.”
Pete: “God, I thought listening to ONE of you was a pai
n in the ass. Can we get the hell out of here before another cop shows up?”
Pete, as usual, is right. I hit the Dunkin’ Donuts across the street, and we set up Frozen Evil Cop with a dozen, and stick a chocolate glazed in his hand. Good enough. Then we scram on foot and grab a cab back to the New Yorker Hotel. (Side note: Alternate Me makes Alternate Pete pay for the cab – it’s priceless.)
We walk up to the room in shifts so we don’t cause another scene (us Masters of Interdimensional Travel know what we’re doing), and meet at the closet. We order room service and bullshit for a little while, comparing notes. Meanwhile I’m wondering why our alternates are even here. Shouldn’t they be stuck in another part of the hallway? Or another dimension? They broke down the wall but didn’t go through the door?
