The Sullivan Chronicles

– maybe PG –

There’s a pounding in my head that worsens with every movement. But I can’t stop moving. The thumping drives coherent thought into the recesses, leaving dull instinct to shuffle me around the room. 

Grab my pants. Grab my shirt. Can’t find my socks. Fine. It’s the dark side of winter outside so that chill will set in fast and numb my feet to the bone. Numb feet, numb mind. If I’m lucky. 

The girl who brought me home, like some stray puppy, is sleeping the sleep of the dead. Pretty sure that’s all we did last night; sleep. What was her name? Marsha? Mary? Hell, I can’t remember. I’m horrible with names, even when I’m sober. Might as well make something up. I’ll probably never see her again. Magnolia. That’ll work. She was kind of funny. I think. Or maybe that was the alcohol.

I find my coat. Keys are still in the pocket, but I don’t remember driving here. I don’t remember where here is, either, but I’m sure it will all come back to me when I get outside. So outside I go. 

Outside I sneak, rather. Not my proudest moment, but mornings like this are… awkward, and I really just want to get home, take a shower, reassess my day. 

Speaking of reassessing, apparently I’m in an apartment building. It seems outside is just more inside; a hallway, nondescript, taupe, windowless. Left? Right? Exit signs in both directions. No way I’m taking stairs, if there are stairs. I need an elevator. A quiet one. 

I choose right. The hallway runs left at the Exit sign, goes another hundred yards to another exit sign, turns left again, and there’s the elevator, and the doorway to the stairs. I jab the down button and wait. Still no windows, no way to get my bearings. I guess this building is a big box, with elevators in the center.

The ding alerts me that my escape pod has arrived. It’s not empty. A thirty-something male is leaning overly-casual in the back left corner, eating an apple. His head is a non-stop bristle of stubble, from his two-day beard to the clipped male pattern baldness clearly thinning the crown. He’s like a Chia-Pet I once grew as a kid. 

Maybe my hangover is making me unduly critical, but this guy is trying too hard. Grey, skin-tight pants, close at the ankles, riding atop coal colored, alligator shoes. A black button down shirt opened three buttons from the collar. The shirt had a shimmer to it; a pattern that pulled at my half-interested imagination. Oh, right, it was black on black leopard spots. Cheesy. Leave the animal prints in the jungle, buddy. He only needed a gold chain dangling from his open shirt to complete the picture. 

The crunch and slurp as he bit into his apple made me cringe. Something about listening to other people eat, especially in the morning, made me want to puncture my own eardrums. This ride could not finish fast enough.

Fourteen floors to the bottom, according to the elevator lights, and ten more above me. Sheesh, twenty five floors in this building? What building did I know that was this tall? None I could think of. I mean, it wasn’t New-York-City-tall, but it was tall for my town. 

Ten floors to go and the elevator creaks and jolts to a stop. More passengers. A lady and her dog; a Bichon Frise-Maltese-Terrier conglomerate that’s all tippy-tappy nails, waggy tail, cute pink bows in its fur, and full-on outfit of white collared jacket and white pants that — oh my God — matches precisely with what its owner is wearing. She is old enough to know better, but young enough to not care, apparently. She’s an attractive blonde, in healthy shape from — could it be walking her dog all the time? In a normal setting, I might be interested, but with her pink bows and white pant-suit puppy coordination I can clearly hear my little voice screaming to run away from those issues as fast as possible. 

Five floors to go. More rattle and shimmy and slowing to another stop. Pant-suit is sniffing at my sockless feet. The short, fuzzy pant-suit, not the blonde. But the doors open and her interest turns to the newcomer. 

Sweet Jesus!  It’s Jesus!  There’s no mistaking it. He’s toting a cross as big as he is. This guy has the beard, gaunt features, long tunic and robe — probably made of a cotton-poly blend, not an authentic wool — and the obligatory ancient Judaean sandals. Not much else is needed to describe this guy. I mean, he’s Jesus!  Which, the more I think about it, seems a bit sacreligious. I wonder what Catholics think when they see him. Is it taboo to impersonate God Incarnate? Is he due for a lightning bolt of judgment? It’s a bit of a gray area for me, so I’ll just keep my distance once we exit this fun house. I don’t want to be collateral damage in The Almighty’s smiting. 

Looking around, not one other person thinks the other is strange. No one seems worried about the wrath of God, or disturbed at the matchy-matchy Miss and her pup, nor do they notice the cheeseball slurping in the corner, or, for that matter, the sockless posterboy for Midwestern blandness whose judgmental eyes are bouncing from freak to freak. Ah, there I go again: judgmental. Maybe I’m the strange one, in need of more worldly eye-opening and acceptance. Maybe I am the one who could use a smiting. Just a small smite; a sort of wakeup call, slap upside the head, a boot to the backside to pull my head out of my…

Ding!  The ground floor. The doors open and we all file out into a sunlit lobby of polished white marble floors and mahogany walls. Nice. Magnolia’s place is pretty posh.

The sunlight seems a bit bright for winter. I’m used to waking up to deep overcast, landscapes in grays and blacks, maybe all white if the snows have arrived. But sunlit days are few and far between this time of year. It will be a nice change, once my head stops pounding, and my eyes adjust. For now, I just shade my throbbing orbs with my hand and hip-push through the front door, curling into my coat, bracing myself for the chill. 

Oh, no chill? It’s really nice out today. Were we supposed to have a heatwave this week? I don’t know. I don’t usually look too many days into the future for weather. But this is quite a change. It must be in the high fifties, low sixties. Last night it was around ten. That is a huge flip. 

The air smells like spring. I love that. It’s a tease in the middle of winter, I know, but it gives me hope that maybe, just maybe, there will be an end to winter. Some day. 

It’s still too bright to unshade my eyes, so I close them completely and turn my face up to the sun, letting the cancer rays infect the outer layers of my soul. I can feel the Seasonal Affective Disorder melting off me like hot wax. And good riddance. These sunny days are a panacea for the cold weather blues. They are the garlic to ward off the vampire of winter which slowly sucks happiness from your body, one dreary cloud at a time. 

I just stand there, recharging my batteries.

“Hey, uh… Charlie?” A voice behind me is accompanied by a tapping on my shoulder. I turn around, and there’s Magnolia, standing there, all of five-foot-five inches and wearing floppy button down plaid jammies. Her chocolate hair tousled and bed-headed.

“Magnolia! Sorry, I shouldn’t have snuck out like that, but you were sleeping so soundly, I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Magnolia?” She’s giving me a look that suggests I may have picked a bad name. 

“Mary?” I offer. Her eyebrow raises. Not in a good way. “Martha?” Third strike, because her lips purse. Not in a good way.

“Natalia,” she finally corrects me.

“Oh, sorry. I’m Karl.”  I offer my hand to shake, and she begrudgingly takes it, but then smiles.

“I guess we both were a little out of it last night. I could have sworn your name was Charlie.”

“Well, it was loud.” I try to remember last night. Were we actually someplace loud? It really is still a blur. She just nods, so I leave it.

“So, I wish you had woken me up, because now this is awkward. I usually don’t bring guys home. I don’t bring anyone home, for that matter.”  She looks around and I follow her gaze, my eyes seem to have finally adjusted to the light, and…

“Holy Crap!  Where the…. That’s the…  And over there is…”  I’m stammering like an idiot that cannot complete a sentence because my mind knows where we are, but it also cannot comprehend where we are. The location is undeniable. Where else could you see a black pyramid, the Eiffel Tower, and a space needle all in one place? 

Vegas. I was in Las Vegas.

“Char…I mean Karl,” she takes my hand and turns me to look at her. “You really should have woken me, but… well, too late now. Yes, we’re in Las Vegas, but I’ll get you home.”

“How did you get me here? I don’t remember taking a plane last night. I mean, last night is really fuzzy, but I think I would have remembered riding on a plane for a few hours.”

“That’s the awkward part. Look. Let’s just go back inside, and I’ll explain it all.”  

Again, she directs me by hand and pulls me back inside her building. I’m not sure why I’m following her at this point. My brain is overwhelmed with questions, but I assume she doesn’t want to stand outside in her pj’s to answer them. Maybe she’s calling me a cab. Or an Uber. To where? The airport? Crap. Am I going to have to pay for a last minute flight home? That won’t be cheap. Did I fly us both here? Holy cow, my credit card bill is going to be huge. I don’t think I’ll have to fly her back though. She clearly lives here. Wait a minute!  If she lives here, maybe I didn’t buy her ticket. Maybe she just used her return ticket and I tagged along? That’s a little better. 

“Say, Natalia, did I just follow you back on your return flight?”  I’m trying to figure out who paid for tickets without sounding like a cheapskate. “ What I mean is, did we just buy tickets last night on a whim, or were you leaving and I felt the need to follow?”

“Sort of the latter, but a little of the former.”

Yeah, that is not helpful at all. I’m still lost, but she’s not offering any more info. She jabs the up button and an elevator door dings open immediately. Looks like we’re going back to the fifteenth floor.

The silence is heavy, but I can’t think of anything to say, witty or otherwise. I’m coming up with a dozen questions, but I’m hoping she’ll offer up conversation. I’m disappointed.

The ride up is uninterrupted. Seems people are only going down at this time of day. The door opens on fifteen and Natalia, (That’s a long name for my state of mind. I’m going to just call her Nat. At least, for my internal dialogue.) Nat just saunters out without a backward glance, assuming I’ll follow her back to her apartment. Which, of course, I will. By this time, I’ve resigned myself to just find happiness in a good cup of coffee, so I can clear my head and start making the decisions I know must come. I’m already thinking about my work schedule, flight times, and other transportation choices. It’s Saturday, I think, so I have today and tomorrow to get back. Maybe I can hit the Vegas strip for a few hours, play some slots, catch the musical fountain at Bellagio. Hell, might as well make a vacation out of this. Money’s already spent.

Nat unlocks her door and holds it open for me. 

“Thanks,” I say.

“Sure.” She sweeps past me and heads to the bedroom. “I’m going to change, and then we’ll get going.”

“Ok.” Sounds good to me. If she can drive me into town, I’ll figure out my flight plans and then maybe hang out with her today. She probably knows all the best places.

“Do you have coffee?” I ask.

“How about we go out for coffee?” she shoots back from what sounds like a deep closet.

“Sure.” Starbucks works. They’re everywhere, so I already know what I’m ordering. The more I think about it, she’s probably trying to get rid of me as fast as possible, so it looks like I’ll be sight-seeing on my own. I get it. This is one awkward morning-after for both of us.

“Ok, I’m ready.” She’s back. Plaid pajamas are gone and she’s wearing jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, and an unzipped puffy jacket. Wow, she must really be used to hot days in the desert if she thinks she needs that down jacket in Vegas.

I guess this was a short apartment visit. I’m wondering why I didn’t just wait for her down in the lobby. Maybe her car is parked in a garage somewhere off a different level or something. She has an electronic fob in her hand, but I can’t quite make out the insignia. She looks like a Mazda girl. Whatever the model, I’m ready to go, so I head for the door.

“Hey, Karl?” She stops me and turns me around, again.

“Yeah?” I’m looking into her face now, kind of close. She is very pretty. This is very awkward.

“Sorry about this,” she says, and clicks a button on her fob.

“About wha…”  My vision turns to Karo syrup, all thick and blurry. Everything is out of focus, like looking down the wrong end of a telescope, and I feel myself sinking down a dark, dark tunnel. Pressure builds in my ears, reaching a painful stretch that my instinctive yawning cannot correct.  With my eye’s closed now, I work my mouth like a cat yacking up a furball to try and get my ears to pop. That’s not working, either. I open my eyes again and light is coming back, the dark edges are receding, but my eyes are so watery from tears, I still can’t focus. 

Pop!  

Ahhhh, thank God. My ears are clear. The pain dissipates as fast as it arrived. Sweet, sweet lack of pain. You never really appreciate the lack of pain until you have pain. My vision is clearing, too, but I’m still dizzy. Really dizzy. And I don’t feel so good. In fact…

“Bluhhhhhhchch….” Oh, that’s carrots. I ate carrots last night apparently. Now, they’re on the pavement. Along with the other nasty liquid contents of my stomach. On the pavement? What pavement? We’re in her apartment. But it’s freezing. And there’s a puddle of ice next to my puddle of sick. I’m on my hands and knees, so looking up, I see we’re in an alley. And it’s snowing. And I’m freezing. And there’s Magnolia, I mean Natalia, looking down at me with an “I’m sorry” face.

“It’s always a hard ramble if your system isn’t used to it,” she says.

“Wha.. wha…” I’m trying to get the words out without throwing up again. I’m suddenly exhausted, but puking usually takes a lot out of me. “What… the Hell… just happened?” I finally breathe out.

“Oh. I’d rather not explain. It’s really easier if I don’t, and you just try to forget about this,” she says. “Look, you should start feeling better in about five minutes.”

“Bluhhhchch…”  I swear, I thought my stomach was empty, but there’s noodles on the ground now.

“Ok. Maybe ten minutes. But you will feel better soon. We’re in the alley by Monroe and 32nd Street. The Grand Plaza is around the corner, and the Starbucks is inside the hotel. You have your bearings?”

“The Grand?” I wheeze out. “You mean, we’re back? How? What’s happening?”

“Sorry, Karl. I don’t do answers. It’s better for both of us. Last night was fun, but I won’t be seeing you. Thanks. Take care.”

The air sizzles. Is it my eyes, or is she getting fuzzy? No, it’s her. The sizzling is louder.

Pop!  

Holy crap on a cracker!  She just… folded into herself and popped out of existence. That’s the only way I can explain it. I swear, her head and feet flipped into her belly, then she shrunk down to nothingness with a small thunderclap.

I’m not feeling any better, but I stand up and stumble around the alley anyway. This has to be some sort of magic trick. We were in Vegas. They have all kinds of magicians and mentalists, and tricksters. That has to be it. It was all smoke and mirrors, and probably drugs. Really bad drugs. I check my coat for my wallet. It’s still there, and so is my twenty dollars in small bills, plus both credit cards. What was the point, then? If she was a magician, why all the effort of a private performance if she wasn’t getting anything? Why target me at all? I’m a nobody, with no real money. A working stiff. This made no sense. 

The snow landing on my nose reminds me I need to zip up before I freeze to death. Gone is the fifty degree weather. I’m back in the teens. But it is making me feel better. Looks like she was right: five or ten minutes to recovery. Short lived drugs, I guess. Was it drugs? It was kind of like those 3D rides at Universal Studios. Seems fun, until your body’s motion doesn’t match what your eyes are seeing, and the nausea starts. It takes a few minutes on solid ground before your stomach settles. This was kind of like that, really.

Does that mean I did that same psychedelic, fold up, pop into non-existence trick Natalia just did? 

I am just not equipped with enough information, or imagination, to figure this out. There are definitely no more clues in this alley. Just brick walls, and my vomit. 

I’m shivering now, but I feel fine, physically. Mentally is an entirely different question. I think I’ll go sit in Starbucks and think. Over a venti coffee. And then, maybe, if I can’t figure anything else out, I’ll buy a ticket to Las Vegas. 

And some socks. My feet are freezing.