now she knows she's been had

11 October 2007

I'm studying abroad in France. My apartment is small but very classy; it's painted the same gold color as my room in the Shoreland. One afternoon I'm working on a problem set with the windows open and a black cat nudges my closet door open and wanders out into the room. He has a white marking on his chest that looks like half of the Bat-Sign. I name him Batman.



Batman pounces on a moth and I am with Nick in Flushing Meadows Corona Park in Queens, New York. I can tell by the state of decomposition of the World's Fair buildings that it's about 1966. I pull my camera out to take pictures and by the time it's turned on and warmed up all but the centermost third of the State Pavilion roof is gone and the cars are rusting and dropping off of a large metal swing ride of some sort.

I am thirsty for a plastic glass of cold flat Diet Coke with ice and I am in a suburban Cleveland party hall. It's near Christmas and my family members' haircuts and clothing, and the presence of a newborn Brian, put the year at 1989. Aunt Eileen, wearing a lavender dress, and Grandmommy, in a black turtleneck and red & black sweater, are sitting at the table where I have ostensibly materialized.

I'm so happy to see Grandmommy. I give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and neither she nor Aunt Eileen are surprised that I'm twenty-one years old, but then I'm not sure they know who I am either. By the time I realize that Aunt Eileen might be hurt about the fact that I'm talking almost entirely to Grandmommy, and try to decide whether or not to explain it, I'm being pulled toward late 2007.

There are three of us in the Hotel (!) Shoreland's South West elevator. The other two, a young woman and a young man, both in semiformal dress, are sitting on the floor, leaning against the elevator's back wall. The girl is crying. The boy is visibly shaken. I look over my other shoulder and see that the doors are open and the elevator is stuck halfway between two floors (5 and 6). Remembering the story of Dr. Nikaidoh, but reacting illogically to it, I brace myself against the open doors so that my body is parallel to the floor with an hand on either side of the door and use my legs to launch myself out of the elevator. I land roughly but safely on the 6th floor. The other two passengers opt to stay inside, and the elevator drops. I have reason to believe they survived.

Shaken, I run down the stairs to the lobby. Nick is there, and we leave the building. On the pavement outside, I paint this tag:

It's a moth, and it's the Shoreland. Before the paint dries a man who looks like Nick's grandfather arrives in a gray sedan to drive us away, having been summoned by the tag.