Crown Vic to a Parallel World

2

I’m where?

I gasped awake, hungover and flat on my back in a too-small bed with no memory of how I got there.  The bed was barely wide enough for both my shoulders to be on it at the same time and my feet and ankles stuck well-passed the end into empty space.  The room was a plain white box, small and windowless.  It had no furniture but the bed, a small white nightstand with one drawer, and an armless, white chair backed against one wall next to a black door.  The entire ceiling glowed with soft, white light.  The room had a clinical feel to it, like an ultra-modern hospital.

I sat up and found I was still fully dressed except for my boots, which I noticed sitting in a neat pair next to the armless chair.  I lit a cigarette, had a coughing fit that woke me the rest of the way, and rubbed my grimy neck.  I felt dirty from a long day at work and the sticky sweat of getting drunk.

A second look around the room revealed that the narrow black door next to the armless chair had a twin directly across from it.  These stoked my curiosity enough to get me on my feet.  I opened the one by the chair.  It led to an empty corridor with walls and a floor of shiny black material that looked like glass.  The corridor ceiling glowed with soft light like the one in my room.  The hallway didn’t hold my interest, so I tried the other door.  It led to a small, white bathroom with white fixtures, a white shower stall, white walls, and a glowing white ceiling.

The rooms were devoid of ornament but seemingly not of thoughtfulness.  On the back of the wall-mounted sink, sat a white toothbrush, an unbranded travel-size tube of toothpaste, and a bar of soap wrapped in white paper.  A white towel bar held a white bath-towel, a white floor mat, and a white washcloth.  I idly wondered what enemy of color designed and furnished the building.

As I wondered, a mass of color caught my attention from my peripheral vision.  Suspended from a hook on the back of the bathroom door was clothing with enough color to make up for my monochromatic surroundings.  The outfit, hung from black hangers, consisted of an electric-blue polo-style shirt and a pair of light-purple pants, like pleated khakis.  Black briefs and black socks bloomed from the pants pockets.  On the floor under the sink was a pair of bright-red, lace-up, wedge-style heels.

I wasn’t completely convinced that what I was seeing was real, so I drank several handfuls of cold water from the sink tap while I kept my eye on the outfit like it was going to climb off the door on its own.  I lit another cigarette and sat on the toilet lid to think.  I didn’t know where I was or what the people who’d brought me there wanted.

I thought hard and remembered the kid from the night before, that Shawn guy.  He’d wanted to go to Baltimore and I agreed to let him drive us.  That was OK as far as that went, but that didn’t explain anything.  I had no way of knowing if I was in Baltimore or even how I’d wound up in the bed I’d just woke up in.  Shawn was nowhere near big enough to have gotten me out of the car and into that bed on his own.  Even if he had been, what would the point have been?

I’d slept off a drunk in the front seat of that car many times and probably would many times in the future.  ‘Why bother to move me?’ I wondered.  I thought about that until my brain hurt, which took exactly no time given how hungover I was.  When I couldn’t get anywhere with that, I shifted my attention to my current situation.

There was no one around and I wasn’t locked in.  That made me feel reasonably safe because if I was being held prisoner, the door would have been locked and I would have been under guard.  Another good sign was that someone had seen to the minimum of my comfort, what with the new clothes and toiletries.  I raised my eyes to the glowing ceiling of the room and considered that my ‘hosts’ might be watching me, but I didn’t know why they would.

I thought about getting a shower, but the possibility of being watched made me hesitate to undress.  I finished my cigarette while I weighed the possibilities.  I stood so I could drop the cigarette butt in the toilet bowl.  As I did, an idea struck me, and I laughed.  I stripped my clothes off and spoke to whoever might be watching.  “Get a good look, fuckers.” I said as I tossed my clothes in a heap in the corner. “Good luck keeping breakfast down.”

I turned the water on as hot as I could stand it and stepped under it.  The square shower stall was so narrow I could barely turn around without dragging my shoulders on the walls and the shower head was so low, I had to lean down to wash my hair and face.  I didn’t complain, the water was plenty hot, and it felt good to get cleaned up.

When I got out and dried off, the idea of putting my filthy clothes back on revolted me enough that I dressed in the bizarre outfit that had been left for me.  The clothes fit like they were tailored to my exact measurements.  I even tried the heels and found they ‘walked’ like my work boots but were much lighter and more comfortable.  I liked everything about the outfit except how I looked.

For lack of anything else to do after I was dressed, I sat on the bed facing the door into the corridor, and lit a cigarette.  I wondered what to do with the ashes.  I had no ashtray and didn’t want to drop them on the floor.  I checked and found that the nightstand drawer was empty, without even a Gideon Bible, so I flicked my ashes into it.  Just as I completed the action, a disembodied and sexless voice scared the hell out of me by calling from everywhere and nowhere.  I half-expected to be scolded for smoking.

“What would you like for breakfast, Mister Philips?”  The voice asked.

The voice unnerved me enough that I shouted at it. “WHAT?  Who the fuck is that?”

“I apologize, Mister Philips.  This is the cafeteria.  We were directed to offer you breakfast when you woke.”

I looked around the room for a camera or microphone or something.  “How do you know I’m awake?  Are you watching me?”

“I apologize again, Mister Philips.” The immensely polite voice went on. “The rooms are monitored for water consumption.  We get a signal when our visiting dignitaries are using enough water to indicate a shower.  That tells us they will probably be ready for breakfast when they finish.”

‘Visiting dignitary…’ I wondered then shrugged off my curiosity. ‘Fuck it.  Worry about it after they feed you.’

“What’s on the menu?”  I asked.

“Anything you like.”  The voice replied.

“Scrapple?”

“I don’t know what that is…” the voice trailed off unhappily.

‘Must be fucking Baltimore.’ I thought. ‘No fucking scrapple.  Probably want to serve crab cakes for breakfast.’  For a split second I considered trying to explain the breakfast ‘meat’ that was unique to Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and Delaware, but I decided not to.  I reasoned that if the voice didn’t know what it was, they wouldn’t have it anyway.

All that would be gained by describing the pork organs and offal that were ground up and fried to create my favorite breakfast ‘meat,’ would be to permanently horrify the voice.  I decided that my soul had enough black marks on it without scaring the poor bastard voice for life.

‘Stick to the basics.’ I reminded myself.  “OK, three eggs scrambled well, four links breakfast sausage, a big pile of potatoes fried brown with onions, a large pulp-free orange juice, a pot of black coffee, like a whole pot, and three slices of thick white-toast smothered in butter.  I’ll also need a lot of ketchup and salt and black pepper.  Got that?”  My hangover throbbed behind my eyes and prompted an addition to the list.  “Oh, and three aspirin, please.”

“I have the food order, sir.  I don’t know what as-pir-in is.”  The voice pronounced the name of the ancient painkiller like each syllable was its own word.

I waved an impatient hand in the air. “I just need something for my headache.  Send whatever you have.”

“Yes, sir.  How would you like the meals divided?”

The voice’s questions were working on my nerves.  “What do you mean?” I snapped.

“I assume you want the food split between you and your guest.”

“It’s just me.”

There was dead silence for a long beat, then, “yes sir, Mister Philips.  It’ll be right along for you.  Not more than five minutes.”

The voice signed off and I was alone.  To kill the time until the meal arrived, I finished one cigarette and chain lit another.  The drawer of the nightstand made a good ashtray.  The furniture was made of this glossy, solid surface white stuff that felt like fired ceramic, but couldn’t be.  A ceramic nightstand made no sense.

I was stubbing the second cigarette out when someone rapped a warning knock on my door.  A short, thin, non-descript woman wearing a forest-green uniform that looked like hospital scrubs, opened the door behind the knock, and entered.  In front of her she pushed a white cart covered with plates under glass domes.  She glanced around in confusion and asked me if I was alone.  I didn’t understand where these people thought I’d hidden another person.  The woman shrugged, took a spare plate and extra set of cutlery from the cart, and left.

I lifted the glass domes and dug into my breakfast feast.

*          *          *          *

Twenty minutes later, I was using the last piece of toast to mop the last bit of greasy, ketchupy breakfast residue off my plate when there was a knock at the door.  This knocker didn’t immediately enter behind the knock.  I opened the door to find Shawn on the other side.

He was dressed as bizarrely as me, hot-pink hip-hugger flat-front khakis and an athletic-fit lime-green polo with a chest pocket and no buttons at the neck.  On his feet were a pair of bright-red, lace-up, wedge heels that matched mine exactly.  I studied him while I lit a ‘meal-ender’ cigarette.  Shawn wrinkled his nose at the smoke but didn’t say anything other than ‘good morning.’

I skipped the pleasantries.  “Where the fuck am I?” I demanded.

Shawn sat, with excellent posture, in the armless chair and rubbed his right cheek with the palm of his right hand.  “It will be easier to show you then to tell you.  Finish your cigarette and we’ll go.”

“Uh huh.” I said and shifted my conversation gears without the clutch. “Are you colorblind?”

Shawn lowered his hand from his face and folded it with the other in his lap.  “No, why?”

“Why?” I parroted in disbelief. “If you’re not colorblind, can you explain why we look like two sides of an unsolved Rubik’s cube?”

He didn’t answer right away, and I assumed his hesitation was because he didn’t know what a Rubik’s cube was.  Sometimes I forget exactly how long ago the 1980s were.  I gestured to my clothes.  “The colors, Shawn…the colors.  I look like a cartoon character.  So do you.”

“Oh that.”  Shawn stood up to do a quick, show-offy turn in front of me.  “Our culture likes color.  Everyone dresses like this here.”

I drew on my cigarette, inspected the length of what was left, and drew on it again.  I stubbed the butt out in the nightstand drawer, an action that Shawn noticed but didn’t comment on.  I got to my feet.  “Ok, I guess the sooner I see where I am, the sooner I’ll understand.  Lead on.”

Shawn opened the door and stepped into the corridor.  I put my cigarettes and lighter in my pocket and followed behind.  Before we left the area of the room, Shawn had me push the breakfast cart into the hallway for ‘them to pick up.’  I did as he asked and didn’t worry about who ‘they’ were.  Shawn led the way and moved with purpose.  He kept having to stop to wait for me as I dawdled to look around.  My attention was captured by the starkness of my surroundings.

The corridor walls were completely smooth.  No doors, door jambs, doorknobs, fire extinguisher cabinets, fire strobes, light switches, thermostats, air conditioning vents; nothing broke the continuous, glossy-black surface.  Spaced at uneven intervals were glowing blue circles, twice the size of a quarter, that hovered on the walls a little lower than Shawn’s eye-level.  Each of these showed a black, three-digit number.  There was nothing else.

Shawn stopped us when we came to a wall with an orange dot instead of a blue one.  He said his last name to the wall in a conversational tone and volume.  Two rectangular panels took shape from the continuously smooth surface and sunk into the wall.  They opened horizontally to reveal a room about the size of an elevator.  The room was constructed just like the corridor.  Shawn stepped in and I followed.  We turned to face the opening.  As we did, the panels slid closed, and the seams disappeared.

“Are you afraid of heights?” He asked.

“How high?”

“The roof of an eight-story building.”

“No.”

“Roof please.” He said.  As if to answer his request, an orange dot appeared on the wall above where the opening had been.  Black characters in the orange read ‘B2’.  I watched as this changed to ‘B1,’ then ‘G,’ then ‘1,’ then numerically upward to ‘8,’ then ‘R.’  I assumed we were riding in an elevator, but there was no discernible movement and no noise.  Seams reappeared in the wall, the panels slid open, and we stepped out onto a roof.

We were in the corner of a flat, black glass roof.  It had a four-foot-tall parapet around the edge and was as big as a city block.  Its surface was unbroken by any building systems, roof drains, sewer vents, air moving equipment, or lightning protection cabling.  The position of the sun in the clear, blue sky, told me it was full morning, probably around nine.  The weather was beautiful, warm with moderate humidity and a slight breeze.  It felt like mid-May.

Shawn’s right arm swept over the parapet in a broad gesture.  “Welcome to Epistylium, the capital city of the nation known informally as The Protectorate of the Common States.  The world we’re in is parallel to your own and is called Solum.  I was on Earth to find a powerful and compassionate man.  Last night, when you rescued me, I decided you were the one foretold by the prophesy.  I drove us here in your car.  It’s parked downstairs in the garage.”

I groped in my pocket, brought out my pack and lighter, and fired up a cigarette.  I breathed the comforting smoke and looked out over a vast, patchwork sprawl of a city.  Immediately beneath us was an expansive park with lush, green rolling acres of grass, stands of old-growth deciduous trees, park benches, trails, and people of all shapes and sizes.  The people dressed in a rainbow of bright colors and gave credence to Shawn’s statement about the culture liking color.  From as high as we were, it looked like a box of crayons had come to life and decided to have a stroll.

In the distance, beyond the park, rows of rectangular buildings, multiple stories tall, rose from the ground in neat residential blocks.  All had flat roofs, plenty of grass around them, and all were built of, or clad in, a blue-grey material.  Wide avenues of paved road separated the blocks into a city grid.  Vehicles moved like the people strolled, making leisurely progress along the blue-tinged pavement.  The cars reminded me of plastic toys I had as a child.  They were plumb-purple, smooth, rounded, and oblong, like eggs big-side-down with black wheels.

Parks alternated with districts of buildings, making the city appear to be half greenspace.  In one direction, the sprawl stretched to the horizon.  In the other, it was hemmed in by low, bluish-grey mountains, jagged and forbidding against the soft blue of the sky.  Dotted here and there were districts with larger buildings.  I presumed these were warehouses or factories.

There was no smoke, no smog, and none of the acrid odor of big cities as I knew them.  The most offensive smell in the air was the smoke from my own cigarette.  There wasn’t even much noise.  No honking horns to blare against clattering diesel engines and the uneven drone of automotive traffic.  The city sounded like a small town.

I stared as much as I could, then walked along the parapet to stare some more.  The view changed as I walked, but only as much as a view of a planned city could change when looked at from one spot or another.  I finished a cigarette, took another from the pack, looked at it, and put it away.  I took the watch from my wrist and twisted the band between my fingers as I walked.  My stroll brought me back to where I’d started and where Shawn remained.

“How do I know any of this is real?”  I asked with my own broad, sweeping gesture.

Shawn’s hands rose from his sides and he looked at them, like he didn’t know what to do with them.  He clasped them together, his left hand a fist and the right wrapped around and squeezing the left.  “Don’t you trust your senses?”

I slipped my watch back on my left wrist but didn’t leave it alone.  My right hand stretched the band to its limit.  “No, I don’t.  I’m a drunk.  Drunks get used to waking up in strange places without knowing how they got there.  They get used to their minds playing tricks on them.  Maybe I finally went too far, and I’ve gone insane.  I’m impressed, but you’re gonna have to do better than showing me an interesting view before I’ll believe something as crazy as a parallel world.”

I let go of my watch and pressed the heels of my hands to my forehead.  My hangover still throbbed, and the bastard voice had forgotten my aspirin.  “What’s wrong?”  Shawn asked.

“I have a hangover headache, or maybe it’s a brain tumor and that would explain the view.”

Shawn stepped inside my personal space.  “Let me look.”

I peered down at him and scoffed at his suggestion.  “You want to LOOK at my headache?  That’s a new one.”

Shawn shook his head indignantly.  “Don’t be a silly ass.  I’m a physician.  I want to see if I can do something for your head.  Lean down.”

‘Can’t wait for this.’ I thought.  I leaned down enough that my face was level with his.  Shawn put his hands on either side of my head, the heels on my temples and his fingers spread wide toward the back of my skull.  Gentle warmth started at my temples and spread around my head.  He removed his hands.  The warmth faded.  I straightened up.

“How do you feel now?” He asked.

My headache was gone, better than that, my head was clear.  I didn’t have the normal (for a drunk) morning fog shrouding my thoughts.  I felt around my head where his hands had been.  “What did you do?”

Shawn explained in an emotionless voice like he was giving driving directions. “I’m a Third-Class Empath with a double ‘B’ power rating.  That means I’m a physical empath with a higher-than-average magic capacity.  People with my power usually work in the medical field.  I was trained as a general practitioner, but I don’t practice.”  He stopped talking when he saw me gawking at him.  “That’s more than you wanted to know, I guess.  I added some energy to help your natural functions recover from the toxins.”

“Magic.” I said as a question.

“Yes.  Everyone here has one magical specialty and a given power capacity.  They’re born with it and it can’t be changed.  You see…”

I waved my hands to cut him off.  I could only handle so much insanity in one morning and I felt like I’d reached my limit. “Enough!  It’s enough.  Parallel world, prophesy, magic…WHAT?  No…no, no, no, no, NO, NO!  NO!”  I shut my eyes to block out the view that made no sense.  “Look, you seem like a nice kid and I appreciate the compliment, but whoever you’re looking for, I ain’t him.  So, put me in my car, and open a gate, or say the secret words, or I’ll click my goddamned heels together, and let me go home.  OK?  Please.”

A very small voice replied to my rant.  “I can’t.”

The negative response made me mad.  I opened my eyes to glare down at Shawn.  I crowded him against the parapet at the edge of the roof.  “Can’t or won’t?” I demanded.

Fear flashed across the young man’s face, but he held his ground after a moment’s hesitation. “Uh…won’t.”

I grabbed a double handful of his shirt and hauled him off his feet to growl in his face.  “What if I beat the shit out of you?”

A stoic mask of obstinance replaced his look of fear.  He answered in resigned monotone.  “Still won’t.”  He said and looked me dead in the eye.

I could tell he meant it, so I gave up.  “Ah, shit…you win.” I set him down and smoothed the crushed wrinkles from his shirt front.  “I apologize.  This is the strangest Thanksgiving ever and I guess I’m freaking out.  Doesn’t matter; I can’t see pulling you away from four meatheads just to beat you up myself.  I’ve never beat anyone up.  I don’t think I’d know how.  I’d probably fuck it all up like I do everything else.”

Shawn collected himself.  He unfastened his pants and re-tucked his shirt into them.  “It’s fine.  I guess this is a lot to take in.  Why don’t we go back to your room where it’s quiet?  We can talk there.”