Part 6 (1/2)

There was a jolt, and we were moving briskly down in what felt like a prehistoric elevator, the kind with accordion doors. I had no idea how quickly we were going, but the temperature was dropping fast.

When the door opened, cold, wet air hit my face. He led me forward. The ground suddenly felt rough and uneven.

”Stay to your left,” he said. ”In fact, keep one hand on the wall if you don't mind.” He walked directly behind me and kept a hand on my shoulder.

We walked in silence. The air smelled clean and crisp, like limestone and salt. I couldn't tell if we were in a small tunnel or a large chamber, but somehow--I have no idea why--I believed that to my right was an abrupt drop.

My fingers ran over something slimy and warm.

Five hours ago, I was in the library briefing cases like a good law student. Now I was blindfolded underground with a man who collects acid.

As if he sensed my thoughts, the man--call him Mr. Bones--whispered, ”Please, just humor me a little longer. You have nothing to fear.”

”You don't hear that all the time,” I whispered. I was starting to feel a little crazy in the dark.

”I'm sorry?”

” 'You have nothing to fear.' You don't hear that much. The guy at Starbucks doesn't say 'You have nothing to fear.' Someone says that, it's usually a bad sign.”

He slapped me on the back like we were old college buddies.

”There's that sense of humor I heard about. Relax. I wouldn't bring you here if you didn't deserve it.”

Deserve what, exactly--the Ivy League version of Deliverance?

We finally came to a stop. I realized they did their job well. If I happened to be the unlucky reject who didn't make the cut, I'd have no idea how to get back here--whatever here was.

I heard a heavy grinding sound, and then a door opening.

My blindfold was yanked away and my eyes were overwhelmed by a blast of golden light. It was too bright, too fast. I couldn't see a thing. Rough hands shoved me forward. I reached out, trying to keep my balance. That's when I heard the door behind me slam shut and lock.

8.

The world came into focus and I found myself in a ballroom, lined on all sides with elegant mirrored walls that made the room seem infinite. Golden chandeliers flooded the room with a warm radiance. I heard music.

The room was filled with men in tuxedos and women in black dresses. I was in a far corner, away from the crowd. I scanned the hall and didn't see Nigel, Daphne, or John anywhere. In fact, I didn't see a single person I recognized. I turned around and there was no door behind me, only a tall panel between two long mirrors. I pressed on it, and of course it didn't budge.

Did I mention I hate parties? Luckily, I had a flash of a memory, something from middle school that gave me hope. I'd taken my friend Vivek to my church's end-of-summer roller skating party. Vivek was the only Indian kid in our town. His house had statues of human elephants and four-armed women who appeared regularly in my dreams. About halfway through the party, the youth pastor asked us to sit at the far end of the rink. He skated up. ”Is everyone having a good time?” he asked. We all said yes. ”Let me ask you a question,” he said. ”Does everyone here know for sure that they're going to Heaven?” Again, we all nodded. But the pastor looked puzzled. ”Well, my question for you is, how do you know? Let's try something else,” he said. ”Raise your hand if you've accepted Jesus Christ into your heart.”

We all put our hands up. Everyone except Vivek. For a second, I watched him look blankly from person to person. Everyone was staring at him. His hand wavered, and then it went up too.

I'm not a particularly brave person. My school was small, and you were either in or you were out. And when you were out, you were really out.

But something about the whole situation rubbed me the wrong way. So, I put my hand down. I looked at Vivek, and after a moment, his hand came back down too.

I figured if G.o.d wanted to know what was in my heart, he could just look.

Now I was Vivek, in this vast room of strangers of a very different religion. I just hoped some of the karma from that day might swing back around tonight.

I was filled with a sudden sense of liberation. I started thinking of all the things I would do when tonight was over. I thought about that girl I met in the middle of the night and walked home, the one who spilled her oranges everywhere. I figured I might just march right up to her door, ring the doorbell, and ask her out. So what if she'd already turned me down? She was distraught. She thought I was judging her. She was judging herself. I wanted to tell her to lighten up, let it go, come have a slice of pizza and be a normal twenty-five-year-old for once. I mean, does everyone here have to take themselves so d.a.m.n seriously? Is that what we get out of this school--the belief that everything we do is a matter of national importance? If that's the case, I thought, it's going to be hard to ever have fun again.

I looked at myself in the mirror, straightened my tie, checked my teeth, and marched into the crowd.

Halfway through my second drink, I b.u.mped into a walrus of a man, complete with a comically curled mustache. His tuxedo s.h.i.+rt strained at the b.u.t.tons, and his woolly hair was parted on the left and traveled away from his cowlick in two heavily gelled waves. I don't know if I walked into him or he walked into me; more likely, the crowd surged us together, until there was no choice but to say something. I would've been okay with ”Excuse me,” but he raised a plate and showed me a half-devoured piece of cake.

”I shouldn't be eating this,” he confided.

”Why not?”

”Just had a quadro six months ago. Know what a quadro is?”

”Not really.”

”Quadruple bypa.s.s. f.u.c.king doctors cracked my chest wide open. Got a scar from here to here. Nasty. Wife says I look like Frankenstein.”

Frankenstein on an all-brownie diet, maybe.

”Know the old saying 'Live fast, die young, leave a good-looking corpse'?”

”Sure. Like James Dean.”

”Right-o. My motto is, 'Live fast, see your cardiologist, and leave a fat old corpse!'”

He gave a wheezy, disturbing laugh that involved his hands and shoulders. He mopped the walrus mustache with a handkerchief.

”Beautiful ceremony, no?” he asked, mouth full of cake.

Ceremony? What was he talking about?

”Excuse me?” I said.

”Good grief, man, the wedding.”

What wedding?

I decided to play along, for lack of a better plan.

”Yeah,” I said. ”It was great.” I held out my hand. ”Jeremy Davis.”

”Ah. Gordon Perry.” He crushed my hand in his meaty palm. ”Bride's side or groom's side?”

I gave him a chummy smile.

”Guess,” I said.