Where the Hell is Tesla? A Novel

by Rob Dircks

  Anyway, now that she’s free, she’s back to realizing we saved her and her kids, and she leaps into my arms (don’t worry Julie, I’m not hot for scrawny moms of twins from other dimensions, or anybody but you for that matter, schnookums), and the crowd goes wild. WILD. (Btw, this hero stuff should definitely get me a lower score on your douche-meter, right?)

  So we do our best rock-star waves to the adoring throngs and make our exit, while everybody’s still kind of in shock, and the Good Morning New York cameras are just getting there (I’m like “Dude, cameras!” and Pete’s like “No. FOCUS, dude.”), and we head uptown in our doorless cab. I’m sitting there smiling, and Pete knows exactly what I’m thinking.

  “No. We aren’t superheroes.”

  I’m not listening. “What’s going to be your superhero name?”

  “We’re not superheroes.”

  “Come on dude. Don’t kill the moment. Whatever. Humor me. IF you were a superhero, what would your name be?”

  “I don’t know. Fly Guy. No. The Brute.”

  “Cool. For me I’m thinking Awesome Man.”

  “Modest. I like it. Subtle. As always.”

  So Awesome Man and The Brute get out at Columbia University (after The Brute reattaches the cabbie’s door with his bare hands – awww, The Brute’s really just a softy), and we stroll (if you can call the herky-jerky thing we have to do to stay on the ground ‘strolling’) right past staring security guards and professors, to the Office of the Department of Electrical Engineering. Nobody even asks us a question. We must be giving off the superhero glow. It’s awesome. Just like Awesome Man, right?

  Ding!

  I tap the little bell at the reception desk and flatten it into a pancake. Whoops. Awesome Man needs to control his awesomeness a little better.

  The receptionist girl (nice looking, nerdy-but-cool glasses, scrawny as hell like everyone else we’ve met) is sitting right there watching this, so I don’t even know why I dinged the bell, but she takes it down like a wounded bird, puts it in a drawer for a little mini-funeral, and glares at me.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes. We’d like to speak with the department chair.”

  “Sorry. Mrs. Herbert’s not in.” (She says this with some definite relish, btw, like “Ha. That’s for the bell, asshole.”)

  “We can wait. When will she be back?”

  “Two weeks. She’s on vacation.” (Again with the relish!)

  Pete takes over, and wouldn’t you know it, his Thor vibe is still working its magic. The second she notices him, the smirk disappears and she’s all dimples and eyelashes.

  “Listen, my friend Awesome Man Chip and I are in a bit of a jam, and we really need Mrs. Herbert’s help getting home.”

  I’m thinking this girl must be having a seizure, her eyelashes are fluttering so much. “Well, she’s overseas, so there’s really no way to track her down. But maybe I can help you. I’m her T&A.”

  I snort laugh. I can’t help it. I’m so juvenile. (You’re allowed to smack me for that one when we get back.) Anyway, she glares at me again, this time with extra relish.

  “Her TEACHER & ASSISTANT, sir. And Doctoral Student. With a 4.2 grade point. With a Tesla Award on my shelf, if you don’t mind.”

  Our jaws drop. “Wait. Did you say Tesla Award?”

  “Yes. Named in honor of Nikola Tesla, for outstanding contribution to the field of electricity and electronics. First person under thirty-five ever to receive it. Don’t act so surprised, gentleman. Girls are allowed to be smart.”

  “No, no. It’s not that you’re a girl. It’s that we KNOW Tesla.”

  She scowls. “I said I was SMART, gentlemen, not GULLIBLE. Tesla died in 1943. He’d be ah… 158 years, 10 months, and 25 days old…” she looks at her watch, “yes, that’s it… if he were alive. Don’t take me for a fool. Now if you’ve had your fun, good day.”

  She gets up, pissed, and starts herding us towards the door. But there’s no way I’m letting her get away – she’s the one. She just calculated Tesla’s age to the day. In her head. I can’t even remember if it’s Daylight Savings Time.

  “Wait.”

  “Wait what.”

  “Take a look at this first, before you kick us out.” I pull out the journal and plop it on the counter.

  She considers it for a second. “Where did you get this?”

  Me and Pete look at each other. It’s going to be a long afternoon.

  From: Chip Collins

  To: Julie Taylor

  Date: June 4, 2015 5:43am

  Re: Wait, let me back up

  Hi Julie,

  A MILLION HOURS LATER…

  Shit, by the end of our story, even Pete and I can hardly believe everything that’s happened so far. So I’m not surprised she’s skeptical.

  “I’m sorry, I’m still not convinced. How do I know with certainty you’re telling the truth? That this isn’t some kind of elaborate scheme to build a weapon or something? What hard evidence is there that you’ve been to other dimensions?”

  Hard evidence. Hmmm. Wait – the Shogun. Of course! I pull it out and smack it on the desk. “Exhibit A.” (Awesome - I’ve always wanted to say that. Chip the District Attorney.)

  She looks it over. “Hmm. Very interesting. What’s this button do?”

  And before I can scream “WHY DOESN’T ANYONE ASK BEFORE TOUCHING THE GODDAMN BUTTONS?!,” before I can lunge at her to rip it away, before Pete can block her curious index finger, she presses the first button. But I’m already in mid-lunge, so I can’t stop, so my hand touches the tip.

  THWUNK.

  9

  Ouch. My

  Head Hurts.

  From: Chip Collins

  To: Julie Taylor

  Date: June 4, 2015 5:43am

  Ouch. My head hurts.

  Hi Julie,

  Where the hell am I? And God. What a headache.

  Like forget any headaches I had before this. Like forget the headache I got when we went to that go-kart place and I thought I was Mario Andretti but I wound up tipping the stupid car and banging my head on the retaining wall. But you were great, I mean you were laughing at me, but you pulled me from the wreck (okay, I’m exaggerating, but it sounds better than ‘lifted my sorry ass out of the mini go-kart’), and you got ice from the machine for me, and kissed me on my forehead, and instead of go-karts we tried to win that big stuffed football from the claw machine for two hours. You know I still have that thing? I mean, I better, it cost fifty bucks in quarters.

  Actually, I have lots of stuff from that summer. I have the ticket stub from the Knicks playoff game (remember those awesome seats? We were only like four rows from Woody Allen, and we tried to get his attention the whole time instead of watching the game). And those t-shirts we made, with the big “4EVA” on them and the cut-off sleeves. Do you still have yours? Do you still have anything? Or did you throw it all in a trash can and set it on fire? You know, I wouldn’t blame you.

  How could I? I never was as good to you as you deserved (yes, I know, NOW I realize it, when you’re some infinite number of dimensions away from me). You were always there for me, for two years, and I just kind of let that be the way it worked. So I wouldn’t blame you for letting this time be the last straw. Letting it all burn.

  But I wish I could take it back. I wish the goddamn Tesla hallway wasn’t a dimension machine, but a time machine, so I could go back and instead of saying “I need a little space” or whatever stupid shit I said, I could say “FORGET space, babe - let’s stay together forever!” I mean, what did I think? Did I think I was going to meet someone better for me? Did I think some other superficial quality, or one less pet peeve, or being alone, could make me happier? What am I, an idiot? (Rhetorical, no need to answer that.)

  But you know what? Maybe this whole thing with Tesla is a test. A test with just one question: “Question 1. Hey, Chip, what the fuck do you REALLY want? You’ve got infinite possibilities, so what’s it gonna be? Make a choice an
d stick with it, dude.” So maybe I’m not a lost cause. Maybe I’ll pass the test. Maybe you’ll stick around when I get back and give me another chance. We’ll see.

  Wait, where the hell am I again?

  Right. The Shogun. Frozen (button one) and passed-out for God-knows-how-long. Laying on the floor (yes, in the fetal position again), with grenades exploding against my temples. Ouch.

  I look up. “Need… Ice…”

  “Ahh. You’re back. Good. We were just going over the components we’ll need.”

  “Ice... Please…”

  “Yeah, ice, sure, whatever. Hey, is your brain okay? We need you to focus, dude. Get up.”

  “Guess I’m fetching my own damn ice, huh?” I mutter to myself, and as I get up, of course I forget that we’re in lighter gravity, so of course I launch up to the ceiling and hit my fucking head again. Even Receptionist/Tesla Award-Winner Girl laughs. Nice. I rub my new bump (I’m starting a collection), and now it’s my turn to glare.

  “Funny, huh, Miss…”

  “Thatcher. Margaret Thatcher.”

  “Wait. Margaret Thatcher? Cool! Like the Prime Minister.”

  She gives me a blank look.

  “Of England.”

  “What’s England?”

  “The country. In Europe.”

  “What’s Europe?”

  “It’s– forget it.”

  Chip’s Quick List of Things to Know About This Dimension – Additional Entry:

  • There’s no Europe. Go figure.

  “In any case, you can call me Meg.” (Did she just wink at Pete? Or is that just more uncontrollable eyelash waving?)

  “Okay, Meg. Listen, first – that age guessing thing you did was cool. Can you just randomly do that? Like say my friend Pete here was born on June 4, 1985.”

  “I’d say Happy Birthday. He was born exactly 30 years ago today. Too easy.”

  Wait. That can’t be right.

  Today’s June 4. Yes. And… Pete’s birthday… is June 4.

  FUCK.

  I forgot. Again.

  And I didn’t just forget. I talked Pete into stepping into the Interdimensional Transfer Apparatus, and saying goodbye forever to his normal, content life ON HIS THIRTIETH BIRTHDAY.

  I whip my head around to Pete (almost passing out from the pain of my brain hitting the inside of my skull). And he can see the gears turning furiously in my head, the calculations: how many Pete birthdays have I forgotten? Or worse, how many Pete birthdays have I forgotten AND made him buy beers? All I can manage to say is “Jeez. I can’t believe it’s been a year since I forgot your last birthday.”

  He just pats me on the shoulder and smiles. “Thirty. Whatever. I didn’t remember either, dude. You can get me a cake when we get back.”

  Man, is Pete great or what? I ruined his life, and he lets me off the hook. “Definitely. Big cake. Ice cream with crunchies. Happy birthday, The Brute.”

  Now it’s Meg’s turn to ruin the moment. “Sorry to interrupt your very strange and awkward birthday celebration, but can we get back to the list? There are some pretty interesting things on here.”

  Fifty-three “Pretty Interesting Things” Needed to Build the Interdimensional Navigation Controller:

  1. 1,250 grams Rhodium (I know, what the hell is that)

  2. Primary Capacitor 20kV (same here, wtf?)

  3. Sliding Magnetic Shield (same here, wtf?)

  4. Stator (same here, wtf?)

  5. Flux Capacitor (kidding! Just wanted to see if you were paying attention)

  6-53. Blah, blah, blah, boring technical stuff. Trust me, Meg saying “pretty interesting things” was a major overstatement.

  Okay, anyway, we read through the list (or actually Meg reads through the list and we almost nod off from boredom), she’s poring through all the diagrams and shit, and then, she’s like “Gentlemen. I have good news and bad news.”

  I wipe the drool from the corner of my mouth. (Did I say almost nod off?) “Uh, whatever. Just give us the worst news first. We’re getting used to it.”

  “The bad news is the rhodium. Rhodium is a rare metal, a hundred times rarer than gold, and priced appropriately. That’s almost three pounds of rhodium for an anti-corrosive and super-conductive shell around the core of the unit. My guess at market price is a thousand dollars a gram, so that would be a million dollars, give or take.”

  “Gee, only a million dollars? What’s the bad news?”

  “…And the supply isn’t concentrated anywhere, so good luck finding that much rhodium for sale in one place.”

  “Fuck. Okay, on to the good news. Please tell me your dad owns a rhodium dealership.”

  “No, the good news was going to be that the actual construction of the Controller is not only possible, but with current electronics that Tesla didn’t have available in 1943, very straightforward. The brain of the unit could be your average smartphone.”

  “Great. So one iPhone and a million dollars worth of rhodium gets us a Controller.”

  “Well… of course there’d be my fee, too. Half up front. And the patent rights.”

  I practically jump out of my chair to strangle her, but Pete holds me back. He’s smiling. And it hits me:

  Pete’s digging her!

  Of course! She’s smart as hell, problem-solver type, good-looking (as the scrawny folk here go), and now add to that she’s all business-negotiation-veins-of-ice, and Pete’s over the moon. Damn.

  “Chip, c’mon. Let’s hear her out.”

  Meg clears her throat. “Thank you, Pete.” (Hey, quit with the eyelashes, Meg!) “As I was saying, all of this is dangerous. Obtaining the rhodium, building the device, testing it. I need a fee to cover not only my time, and my time away from the office, but also the danger involved. Also, I’ve got student loans to pay off, and a career to think about. And what did you think – I would just do this out of the goodness of my heart?”

  “Uh… yes?”

  “Sorry.”

  Pete’s still enthralled, but I’ve heard enough. “Okay, whatever. Get to the bottom line.”

  “Patent rights for the device forever. And a hundred thousand dollars.”

  Pete spits out his water. I take my wallet out. “Hey, no problem! I’ve got my American Express Rhodium card right here.”

  Pete kicks me under the table. “Sorry, Meg. You’ll have to excuse Chip here, it’s just his way of coping with shitty situations. But he’s got a point – even if we could come up with your fee, isn’t the rhodium a no-go?”

  “It would seem. Legally, anyway. But there is something.”

  We both lean forward. Hmm. Sounds juicy.

  “Well. There is a meteorite in the gem collection at the Smithsonian in Washington D.C. I saw it several years ago. Called the Gleaming Stone.”

  “The Gleaming Stone?”

  “Yes. Named after an ancient legend about a demon who becomes all powerful when the stone is near. The Demon and the King. It’s a children’s story. You’d like it, Chip.”

  I give Meg the finger. She just looks at in blankly. I guess they don’t have the finger in their dimension either. No Europe. No finger. Check.

  “In any case, the meteorite’s almost a hundred percent rhodium, and it’s nearly five pounds. Since no one can lift it, it’s in an open display where visitors can touch it.”

  “Wait. No one can lift five pounds?”

  “Chip. Lighter gravity, dude.”

  “Ahhhh! That means me and Pete could just waltz in and – wait. You want us to steal a meteorite from the government?”

  “I don’t want you to do anything. You told me you want to go home.”

  Again, that word home. HOME. It weakens our righteousness. “Well, I mean it’s just a rock, right? It’s not doing anyone any good just sitting there. It behooves us to put it to good use. For the greater good. Yeah.”

  Pete’s nodding, he’s already way ahead of me. “We’ll be extremely careful. Now about your fee. There has to be something else we can work out
. We just don’t have that kind of money.”

  I get another brainstorm (weird, I know, multiple brainstorms in one day). “No, dude. We don’t have that kind of money YET. I have an idea.”

  “Great. Another idea.”

  “Yes. I have great ideas. All the time.”

  “Yeah. Like ‘hey Pete, let’s check out this dimension thing on your birthday’.”

  “Man - already? It’s not even three minutes, and you’re pulling out the birthday guilt?”

  He grins. “Get used to it.”

  I decide to ignore him, and start making a phone call (my phone works here – another go-figure). Pete tries to grab for it. “I know what you’re thinking. Hang up. Alternate Chip and Pete from this dimension aren’t going to have a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Of course not. I wasn’t calling them.” The phone rings and picks up.

  “Hello? Yes, is this Good Morning New York? I have some information on the two men who saved a bunch of people in midtown earlier… Yes, the flying ones… Sure, I’ll hold for the producer… Hi, yes, the flying men who saved all those people this morning? That’s us… What? Sure, we’d love to come on the show…”

  Pete’s angry, hitting my arm, swiping at the phone, saying something about what a selfish asshole I am, this is the worst possible time to go stroking my own ego and chasing some cheap celebrity, blah, blah, blah. He’s not getting it.