The Ruins of Tropicalia: And The Peripherals

By Tyler Taylor

In early 2014, a group of Americans gathered on a remote Central American peninsula to experience the last days of an unsullied tropical paradise before its development into a corporate retreat for the world’s biggest tech company. Many of them believed they were there accidentally, but none of them were. This is the story of how a group of restless, indecisive idiot discovered who brought them there, and what they could be. This is the story of a country and a civilization few remember ever existed. This is the story behind the most mysterious mass Disappearance of the 21st century. This is a war story. And when things get bad, you rescue what you can…

The Ruins of Tropicalia, originally serialized at http://theruinsoftropicalia.com and on a mobile app, is a literary adventure story, accompanied by music by indie rock n roll band The Amends. This complete version of TROT compiles all the serialized chapters into a single novel, as well as the five "peripheral" novellas. Links to the soundtrack songs are embedded within the text.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9780692315576

Book preview

http://theruinsoftropicalia.com

THE RUINS OF TROPICALIA, Part One: Ruins

Foreword

My name, unfortunately, is Tyler Taylor, and I’ll be your somewhat unreliable narrator for parts of this journey south. Many of the events described may seem hard to believe, but I swear they’re as real as I am.

I’m actually one of four narrators of The Ruins of Tropicalia. You’ll also meet Liz Troy and Regina Porter. The fourth writer, who wishes to remain anonymous for the time being, tells the stories of those who did not return from Central America. Those of us who did come back to the States decided this story needed to be told. We each wrote our own account of what we had seen and done. I compiled and edited these different perspectives.

The Ruins of Tropicalia is divided into three sections. The first part, called Ruins, tells how each of us ended up in Tropicalia. The narrator/subject of each chapter is identified beneath the chapter title. The extended interlude is called An Unknown, Compelling Force, and tells the hidden, crucial backstory of two people who end up at the very center of the events of the book. Tropicalia, the final section—you guessed it— takes place entirely in the country known as Tropicalia. Additionally, The Ruins of Tropicalia is merely a big chunk of an even larger story. Five additional tales are included in the section following TROT, called The Peripherals. These are related to the people and events described in TROT, yet each of them is a standalone, self-contained story.

An admission: Perhaps partially because I’m also a musician, my own story is more self-indulgent, and ultimately less relevant than the others’. However, because I’m the perpetually confused outsider of the group, my account may be the best introduction for the uninitiated.  Among other discoveries I made in Tropicalia, I learned to let go of my ego and realize that there’s a bigger picture of which I’m not necessarily a vital part. But apparently that hasn’t stopped me from making my story the first chapter.

Come along with us. We have something to show you.

Yours as sincerely as possible,

Tyler Taylor

Territory of Colorado, 2014

Museum of a Museum

Tyler Taylor

Three months before battle

Although my heart was back in my chest where it belonged, after too many years bound haphazardly to my flannel shirtsleeves by overused guitar strings and clichés, it was more exposed today than I’d prefer. I had no meetings scheduled today, but I played dress-up anyway. My only clean t-shirt had my last band’s orange logo slapped across its center. Whenever I didn’t feel like doing laundry back home in Colorado, I pilfered from a big box of unsold shirts in my hall closet.

So now I stood in line for the coffee cart at 73rd and Broadway in Manhattan. My irksome heart was covered by a cheaply made symbol of the musical aspirations I had neither the drive nor talent to sell, itself hidden by a dress shirt, suit jacket and Burberry overcoat. I had no business wearing any of them.

Don’t worry, I often despise my own thoughts, too.

The Lebanese cart-tender handed me my coffee and waited impatiently while I struggled to dig out my wallet from beneath my absurdly long coattail. I gave him a five. Afraid of being further pegged as a nervous, ill-prepared tourist, I told him to keep the change and shuffled out of the way.

The overcast New York sky showed faint signs of clearing up. The air was already warmer than I’d expected, considering it had snowed a bit for a couple hours before dawn. I would soon have another reason to regret the overcoat. I crossed the street towards Verdi Square, doing my best to avoid the sloppy puddles of melting snow. My boss, the CEO and co-founder of the tech startup for which I worked, was still asleep up in the hotel suite we shared down the street. I’d slipped out early without showering to avoid his questions about today’s schedule. No meetings today.

At the end of a tour promoting our second album, I left my band to see if the business world was more amenable to my wobbly, jaded state of mind. A college friend put me in touch with my now-boss. My interview was conducted over drinks at an Irish bar in Boulder. The CEO was a fan of my band and it took three drinks to steer him away from his attempts to get me to regale him with tales of the road. Once he realized I was serious, he decided to give me a chance. He hired me as a Strategic Business Development Consultant. To this day, I have no idea what those words mean.

My CEO took me under his wing and showed me the ropes. I went on the road with him. Being part of a startup, we usually shared hotel rooms, but the accommodations were exponentially more comfortable than the shitty motels and fans’ couches to which I was accustomed. I supported my CEO at meetings with bigwigs at media companies, research firms, and ad agencies. I happily played sidekick—a familiar role—taking notes and pretending to be the subject matter expert (SBDC: SME?) when required.

Two months ago, he had taken one of my late-night bar ideas seriously, and tasked me with the creation, development, and rollout of a new product. Product was a liberal description of what I threw together. In reality, it was a couple spreadsheets, several thousand numbers linked tenuously by sketchy formulas, lofty promises, vague theories, and empty air. After setting me up with a few initial meetings, my CEO turned the reins over to me. I flew out here with him this week while he met with investors and board members, but I’d been unable to schedule any meetings on my own.

I used to be a musician; now I was ostensibly a suit—albeit the most indigent, questionably qualified, addiction-riddled, paranoid, pretender, out-of-my-element businessman I could imagine. Many of the same descriptors could be applied to my musical life. We had obtained an initial measure of success too easily, and then we hit a wall. Our riffs became derivative, and my lyrics transparent. Our audience grew, plateaued, and before its size started to noticeably shrink I called it quits on dubious moral grounds. I told everyone I was going into investments.

Recently, my business ideas had become derivative, and my plans transparent. The number of interested potential clients had plateaued. I didn’t have any meetings today.

I knew where I wanted to hide out this morning, but I needed to kill some time before the place opened. My CEO frequented the Greek diner on the other side of the square, so that was off-limits. I pulled out a cigarette and my phone to find another option for breakfast. Walking around aimlessly wasn’t an option if I was to continue my attempts to not look like a Pretender.

A woman approached from my left, after I had narrowed my search to a strip of restaurants by 70th and Columbus. Her cheeks were sunken, her eyes rimmed dark, but her dreadlocks were suspiciously well-maintained. The name tag pinned to her North Face jacket identified her as Clarissa, a representative of some generic-sounding charity. Pro-Act or WonderHelp or Guiding Star. I wondered if she’d teleported directly from Colorado. I’d been found out.

Would you like to help the victims of the earthquake? she asked.

Her big brown eyes blinked in slow motion.

That’s not really a fair question, I said.

These were, appropriately, my first, half-committed words of the day. My hesitation reflected my current state of mind, my financial shortcomings, and that I could not specifically recall the disaster to which she referred.

What about helping change the dialogue on health care reform for immigrants? she tried again. Clarissa’s dark eyes betrayed nothing, neither altruistic passion nor apathetic clock-punching.

I’m curious to know how those two things are connected, I said, fingering my lighter in my coat pocket. But that’s where my curiosity ends at the moment.

It’s all connected, she said.

Her eyes flashed jittery conviction for the first time. The residue of old hallucinogens, now stagnating at the base of her spine, gave her a sense of blissful assurance of the inter-relationships of Everything.

"Everything. Everything’s connected. You can help give closure to the victims of The Disappearance¹. You can also help with primate conservation in Tanzania."

You’ve got yourself quite the one-stop shop for social conscience, I said.

I lit my cigarette and turned my head, politely, to exhale.

We’re not supposed to talk about The Disappearance, I added obligatorily.

Her eyes narrowed on the cigarette.

Never mind, Clarissa said. You obviously don’t care about your own environment, much less the ecosphere we all share.

She drew her clipboard to her chest and turned away from me.

Could you define ‘care’? I asked. I’ve been struggling with the general concept recently.

She walked away, already scanning the early rush hour crowd for a more magnanimous mark.

I shut my eyes and imagined the earth shaking beneath my feet. The cars crashed into each other and overturned as the asphalt buckled, split, and caved in. Buildings trembled and crumbled. Little kids cried for their parents; mothers screamed for their lost children. The sky darkened. I grew strong and certain with purpose. I rushed to action. I pulled victims from the rubble. I wrapped my Burberry overcoat around the shivering shoulders of a certain dreadlocked survivor. My actions captured by ubiquitous cameras, I wiped away her tears and told her that Everything was connected, Everything would be okay.

I stubbed out my cigarette and walked south, carrying with me a temporary, but substantive feeling that each step I took, each word I spoke, and each action I performed carried grand historical importance. 

***

My phone buzzed on the table as I finished the last bites of a bland omelet.

A text from Liz: Hi babe—I hope you’re having a good trip. I miss you. I love you.

It wasn’t quite 7 o’clock in Colorado. She wasn’t at work. She’d sent the message from home, perhaps even from bed. She’d opened her eyes at her customary time, facing the window. She’d rolled over to touch me lightly on my shoulder. She remained partially in her dream, counting the many impossibilities she had readily accepted in order to advance the dream’s plot—and still close enough to that nighttime world that some of the explanations for their reasonability remained plausible. 

During these first seconds, before growing to minutes and miles, before clarity changed to confusion, annoyance and amnesia—every fantastic premise, every new and unblemished life, every secret romance, Everything was possible, Everything was connected. When her fingers first dropped through my empty space to the sheets, my absence could be explained by any one of the wondrous machinations of her dream mind. She yawned and expelled half of the possibilities. She stretched and the rest flew out the window. Her fingers curled. She remembered. He’s in New York for work. He’ll be back on Friday.

I knew her well enough to predict her early morning movements, and the timing of the final exhalation of her dreams, but I could not know which emotion would first reveal itself after she fully processed my absence. Was she relieved that I wasn’t slipping off unannounced in the middle of the night again? Was she proud of me for my business travel? Or was she disappointed that I was shilling vaporware to marketers, instead of sharing my best attempt at art? Was she worried that I’d fallen back into the thin, tattooed arms of strangers again? Or did she simply miss me? Her email indicated the latter, but I wondered if typing those words and hitting Send on her phone were, simply, the easiest way to drive out the last vestiges of her darker dreams.

I didn’t deserve her. I knew this, even if she hadn’t yet realized it. When she first found me, almost four years ago, I was a tattered wreck, full of self-loathing, and freshly broken by another girl’s recognition of my faults. Conversely, my music career was starting to take off, carried on the backs of a set of self-indulgent, half-baked songs about that previous girl. Liz took me in, believing that she could nurse me back to health, and that one day my songs would be happier. She succeeded in making me strong again for a while, but I never got around to writing a song about her. Happiness writes white². She forgave me my many missteps and betrayals. I could not remember a particular instance where I forgave or even comforted her. She spoon-fed me soup, ran her fingers through my hair, nursed me to health, over and over.

She had remained strong through four years, asking nothing of real consequence in return. Through my failures and fuck-ups, lapses and relapses, she did not waiver. She had a successful career. She was smarter and funnier, more tender and far prettier than me. I didn’t deserve her.

I wanted to tell her this and much, much more. Tell her how grateful I was, how sorry I was, how willing to change, willing to comfort, forgive any transgression she may consider. I wanted to write her a melody atop buoyant chords that would leap all the way up to the firmament, and spring across what passes as airwaves these days, so that everyone would know.

What I came up with was: I love you too. I'll be home soon.

I opened up my email. Three new ones since I’d first checked upon sitting down in the diner. I clicked through them without pausing long enough to feel either excitement or dread. The first two were apologies from people I’d cold emailed before leaving for New York. They were very sorry, but they didn’t have time to meet this week. Maybe next time you’re in town? The third one was a reply from a VP of market research.

I don’t understand what you’re selling here, it said. I’m sorry, I don’t have time to read through all the attachments. Can you summarize what this is exactly?

In short, no. A familiar, irritating wave of nausea swept over me as I typed out a bullshit, automatic response, concluding with an assurance I could explain it better in person.

I gazed out the window for a few minutes. My waiter came and went with the check. The walk to the museum would take fifteen minutes at most, and the doors didn’t open till ten. I opened the InterWorld app. There were a dozen new wall posts which I scanned through absent-mindedly, until I saw a familiar name. Regina.

She had written: What’s up, stranger? Haven’t heard from you in forever, but I suppose when your heart’s full, you should best keep your mouth shut. I’ve been down in Tropicalia for a while. How’s the band life? Write me back if you have something interesting to say. May you never plateau.

When trapped within forced moments of honesty, I regretted leaving the band the way I did. I wasn’t the front man, but perhaps because of my past musical experience, I was our de-facto leader. I never told my bandmates I was quitting. After we returned to Colorado from our tour, I never called them to start rehearsing again. I started looking for something else.

I wanted to be an original. I wanted to construct an ideology. I wanted to create a myth and then inhabit that myth until the myth became real. I believed I was special, and that I had something to say that no one had said before.

I began to doubt I had anything worth saying or singing or playing at all. I grew tired of never knowing exactly what our next move should be. I hated knowing that whatever we did, it might never be enough. I wearied of leading something I didn’t believe in anymore. I was sick of asking what’s next. I craved safety, security, and ease. I, I, I…

And yet none of that was truly honest either, because it was Regina who triggered those thoughts. I wouldn’t allow myself to think about her, not with Liz waiting for me at home, reminding me that she loved me.

I resorted to my usual attempt at shallow cleverness, replying: Reaching the plateau isn’t so bad. Once you get there, maintaining the plateau, making it stretch as flat and far as it can go without tumbling down, that’s the hard part. That’s the art of mediocrity.

I slid out of the booth, stepped outside, and began walking towards the Museum of Natural History. 

***

Still early, I ducked off Central Park West and into the park itself. During this brief window of time, the park was nearly deserted. The early morning joggers had departed and the tourists hadn’t yet arrived. I was fully aware that for someone pretending not to be a typical sightseer I spent an inordinate amount of time in tourist traps. I carefully climbed one of the rock outcroppings. My oxfords weren’t built for scrambling up wet, uneven… what kind of rock is this? Shale, schist, limestone? Regina would know.

I climbed high enough that I could see much of the skyline through the bare tree branches. My gaze shifted south to the space in the horizon which had remained empty for the past decade. Everyone—first-time visitor and New Yorker alike—could instantly, as if by instinct, turn towards the precise direction of the absence³—not only from within the city itself, but from anywhere in the world. Most people did not know they possessed this new directional constant, the ability to orient themselves exactly to the place where an entire skyscraper had disappeared one autumn night.  

It had been years since any of the amnesiac Disappeared had turned up. The most recent estimate I heard last spring was that 140 were still unaccounted for, and 32 had been Found. Some had been living new lives for years, working regular jobs in new cities as quiet amnesiacs. Some turned up in mental institutions or prisons. Others showed up at their families’ doorsteps.

The ten-year anniversary had passed without so much as a single memorial on TV or article in any major paper. Few people openly talked about The Disappearance anymore. There were still a handful of active conspiracy theory websites, but most mentions were relegated to hushed conversations around campfires, or spontaneous drunken arguments in bars. This collective silence suggested less of a quiet disavowal than a shared sense of forced naiveté, and an even deeper, stranger feeling of relief. A ritual had been conducted, a sacrifice made, and a greater, more traumatic tragedy staved off for the time being. Uncertainty remained preferable to calamity.

***

The outer perimeter of the museum was boarded up. Constant, jarring sounds of construction rattled through the plywood. I climbed the front steps. A big sign on the door listed the exhibits that were closed for remodeling. The woman at the front desk, whom I paid for a ticket, offered unnecessary apologies for the inconvenience. I wasn’t overly interested in the bulk of the museum. I’d been here several times before and had politely acknowledged what these halls offered. I’m a museum nerd, but today I had a more specific fetish to indulge. 

Besides, this particular museum didn’t move me except to rattle my nerves. I crossed quickly through the Hall of African Mammals and People, and along the perimeter of the Birds of the World on my way to a certain flight of stairs. I glanced at the glass displays containing century-old mummified corpses, plastic mannequins, and cheesy watercolor panoramas. These exhibitions were not enlightening or inspiring. They were dated and vaguely depressing, artifacts themselves.  

This place was a museum of a museum. It should be called the American Museum of Museums. It was one big exhibit of how our ancestors experienced museums. Eighty years ago, visitors would have been understandably rapt. Not anymore. Discovery and History channels, the Internet, globalization, and rapid affordable travel had long since removed any sense of wonder or awe that skilled taxidermy, dim lighting, high ceilings, and sterile text had once been able to conjure.

But I was getting older too, and I sought a specific nostalgic ritual from my youth which only the basement of this place could produce for me. I stepped into the IMAX theater knowing full well that one day, this too, would join the rest of the museum as an outdated mode of absorbing visual/aural stimuli. The line between nostalgia and fossilization is quite thin, and likely described in great, boring detail in Cambria Gothic font in some darkened corner of the museum.

The IMAX was larger and less spaceship-like than the Omnimax at the science museum in my hometown, with its curved screen wrapped above, below, and around the audience. This AMNH theater was more like a normal cinema with a much larger screen, but the pre-movie music consisted of the ambient synths I needed. This would do.

I settled into my seat and immediately shut my eyes. The soft whooshes of muted drum machines and synthesizers enveloped me. The air was soothingly cool and recycled. The screen loomed large and invisible above me. Every few minutes, the music was punctuated by what was possibly, hopefully a whale -song. For the first time in days, I relaxed completely, my strange fetish beginning to become fulfilled.

I imagined an entire blissful lifetime spent within this theater, falling asleep on the floor between the seats to the hushed synthetic rhythms, hosting parties in the aisles with scientists and artists and long-gone family members. I could imagine this building was a starship that would never get to its destination. There was no need to reach anywhere in particular; interstellar travel itself was enough. I sensed the lights dim, and the screen showed a field of limitless stars. A soft hum emanated from the invisible speakers. I smiled and exhaled a contented sigh.

This movie was called The Hubble Eyes. I had seen it many times before, in similar theaters around the country. I gleefully gripped the armrests as the earth came into view. Leonard Nimoy’s voice referred to a tiny blue oasis in a limitless empty desert, spinning silently and defiantly against the darkness. Our home. I prepared to let myself be overwhelmed and turned thrillingly, imperceptibly small.

The synths dropped away, replaced by the ukulele version of Somewhere Over The Rainbow⁴. The camera held steady, holding all of humanity in its lens through the first verse of the song. 

Nimoy spoke again, This is the last familiar sight you will see for a while. Everything from here on out will be nearly infinite, or quite possibly actually infinite, in number and vastness. Everything will be new and strange and alien, but much older than our minds can comprehend. So hold onto this image of our home, our cradle, for one more moment before we depart.

The ukulele faded out, replaced again by more urgent synths and the hum of a half-imagined superliminal engine. The camera panned away, swinging us past the moon and towards the dark expanse of space. We began to accelerate. We passed Mars with barely an acknowledgment, approached Jupiter, paused for a moment to take in the view, then shot through the icy rings of Saturn, whipped by Neptune and maneuvered through the asteroid belt at the edge of the solar system.

We paused, as if taking a deep breath, and then accelerated again. A few seconds went by and as Sirius passed below us, Nimoy remarked that we would soon be speeding up to 50 trillion miles per second. Countless stars whipped by. We moved further and further through the Milky Way, pausing to witness the genesis of a solar system much like our own, birthed from a black cloud of gas and rock circling and muting the light of a white star. Then, on to a gassy nebula—a nursery for thousands of newborn stars. We sped up even more and passed through the outer arm of the Milky Way, momentarily in complete darkness until a few points of light emerged in the distance, and then grew to reveal themselves as other complete spiral galaxies. The galaxies soon became as incomprehensibly numerous as the individual stars we’d left behind.

Then the shapes became less and less defined, blurred circles and streaks of light, and we paused again. Nimoy told us we were at the edge of the known universe, and the objects we were seeing were the remnants from the beginning of Creation—partially formed thoughts whose future conclusions we had already passed through. We circled around and began our journey back, even faster this time, the scale dizzying and humbling, before returning to where we began, hovering in front of our planet.

The jolly fat man’s ukulele returned.

Nimoy said to me, You are small. Nothing you do matters. Nothing will last, neither pain nor love nor life nor death. You are merely one random permutation of an infinitude; an accident. Yet you are also the tiniest flicker of Creation attempting to imagine itself, comprehend itself, and wake itself. You are nothing, and you are the universe itself. You are made of stars, and you are made of dust. You are small and you are large. Everything and nothing you do matters and matters not at all.

The credits rolled. I sat there silently for a few moments while the families streamed noisily into the main museum. I trembled with awe and humility and hope and despair, hoping my wet eyes would dry before the lights returned. My ritual had concluded.

The man sitting in front of me stood, stretched and turned around. His eyes beamed bright in the darkness. He grinned.

Watch out man, he said as he turned to leave the theater. Or else the universe is gonna catch you.

***

I went outside to the terrace to have a smoke and clear my head. The sun was bright again, as high as it would get this time of year, making short work of melting the remaining snow. I slipped on my aviators.

The tree-lined promenade was pleasant during the summer, with its graceful, precise landscaping, impressive fountains and monuments meant to evoke the celestial spirit of the planetarium behind it. The winter sun exposed the plants as bare, spindly, desperate impostors. The crudely molded metal and concrete felt cold and sterile. I allowed my eyes to drift up above the tops of the dormant gingko and pagoda trees to the buildings towering over 77th street. A seasoned jumble of mysterious, sexy, and glamorous scenes from movies, TV, and books had instilled in me a belief that these buildings overlooking Central Park were the most enviable places in the world to live.

Even now, surrounded by sloppy puddles of dirty snow on an uninspiring terrace, I wished I lived up there. I would like to have a place of respite to nurse a cocktail by the picture window, gaze upon the city, reflect on the past, and contemplate future battles.

I had a couple hours to kill before I needed to head to the airport, so I pulled the museum map from my back pocket. I checked to see if anything else here was worth another look.

I recognize you, don’t I? a voice behind me asked.

I was the only person out here, so I assumed the voice must be addressing me. Directed to most people, that question would be oddly phrased. I was used to it, or used to be—that vague, uncertain (ugh) sense of recognition. I turned around reluctantly.

The guy who had been seated in front of me in the theater crossed the patio toward me. The winter sun treated this man differently than it did the landscaping.  His features became assessable. The first detail I noticed was the deep tan disconcertingly at home under this unexpected sun. He wasn’t a New Yorker. He stood a couple inches taller than me and maybe a couple years older; probably just shy of six feet, early thirties. He wore a plain gray t-shirt and jeans, without a coat. His shoulders were broad, muscles tight against the fabric of his shirt. They were lean, sinewy muscles, more the product of natural labor than weight training. His short brown hair was sun-starched in places, his eyes bright and blue.

I couldn’t say, I said.

The man stopped and grinned. Instead of saying, would it be too much to ask for a smoke?

Sure, no worries I said.

I always brought several packs with me when I came to New York, to avoid the insane prices. I handed him a cigarette.

Much obliged, the man said.

He waved off the offer of a lighter, and retrieved one from his own pocket. He lit up, took a drag, and said, Yeah I definitely do. You’re in a band... The Amends. What’s your name again?

Tyler.

Tyler... what? What’s your last name?

Don’t make me say it, I said.

Say it, he said, amiable but insistent.

No thanks, I said, trying to match his tone.

He held the cigarette gingerly, like an amateur. I suspected he came out here more for the chat than the smoke.

Tyler, Tyler, Tyler... he repeated slowly.

And then the memory clicked into place. He laughed. So you’re sticking with that name then.

I sighed.

It appears so.

I’m Sam Merard, nice to meet you.

Recognizing his preferred mode of formal communication, I nodded in lieu of offering my hand.

Sam said, "I think I have one of your albums. Haven’t listened in a while. I remember it was decent. What We Should Have Been maybe?"

Thanks, I said. "Close enough.⁵"

Are you guys still playing? I haven’t heard anything recently. I used to kinda keep up with that sort of stuff.

I’m in Investments now.

But of course you are, Sam said.

His grin was a silent and appreciated acknowledgement marking the end of that particular subject. A few seconds of silence passed as we both inhaled smoke. Sam’s appearance was enough to provoke at least a cursory inquiry.

You visiting the city? I asked.

Yeah, but I’m working.

What do you do for work?

My business is here, at the museum.

Are you a scientist or something?

Sam laughed.

No, not at all, he said. Quite the opposite. I occasionally work with them, though.

The cryptic vagueness of the answer was clearly intentional, so I didn’t pursue it.

A few more seconds passed, and then Sam asked, What do you think of this place?

The museum?

Yeah.

Um, it’s good for what it is I guess.

And what is that exactly?

He paused for a second before laughing to show that he wouldn’t take offense to whatever the answer may be.

It’s a bit dated. If you want to see animals from around the world, you can go to the zoo. If you want to learn about other cultures, you can go to the library or turn on the Discovery Channel.

Yeah I think I saw a couple wax reproductions of the stars of that show, ‘Sextuplets on a Crab Fishing Boat,’ Sam deadpanned.

You know what I mean, I insisted. I’ve come to think of it as a museum of a museum.

I was proud to give voice to the first original thought I’d had in ages—never mind that it was about the very idea of staleness.

I continued, This place used to be something. Eighty years ago if you came here as a kid, there’s a good chance something would inspire you and inform you and maybe even change the direction of your life or philosophy. I guess that could still happen, but it’s more random; it’s just as likely you’ll get your epiphany when browsing on the Internet. Now you just hover around uncomfortably watching Asian tourists meticulously photograph the text and displays of ‘Japanese Rituals & Culture.’

Sam laughed, whether politely or genuinely I didn’t know or care. I gestured inside toward the yellow tape and plaster cover-ups, continuing my rant.

I mean, what the hell is all this construction for? What’s the point? What are they updating? This place is sterile. What are they gonna do? Change the font of the text? Re-paint the backgrounds? Just leave it be. Let it become what it is. The artifacts aren’t the point anymore. Call it the Museum of Museums. Let it become an artifact itself. Know what I mean?

You’d be surprised, Sam said.

The joviality was gone. He leveled his gaze at me. You really would.

I doubt it, I said, shaking my head and exhaling through my nose.

I squeezed out the cherry of my cigarette, and rubbed it out against the stone with my shoe. When I looked up again, Sam was still staring, studying me.  

What? I said, a bit flustered. I’m sorry—are you involved in the construction?

That may explain the sun tan.

I’m sorry if I offended you.

No, and I’m not offended, Sam said. "You’re a little bit right and a lot wrong. You will be surprised. Let me show you something."

He extinguished his own cigarette in the same way I had.

What?

You’re bored with this place, so what are you gonna do, wander around the exhibits for a couple more hours applying the same cynical pseudo-intellectual bitterness you applied to your music? Or do you want to catch a glimpse of something real?

The grin had returned. It wasn’t cocky or facetious or condescending. It countered the harshness of the words, neutralizing them, offering something more than simple peace.

Follow me, Sam said. I’m supposed to be meeting up with someone anyway. You can tag along. Might do you good.

I obliged.

I followed this odd man back into the museum—past the perimeter of the Hayden Planetarium, and its ridiculous attempt to scale the universe, through the rotunda and the Asian mammals and peoples. Our journey was not quite as inspiring as the interstellar expedition set to replay in twenty-two minutes.

The sign for the Near East section was partially obscured by a taped piece of paper reading: Temporarily Closed for Construction. The light was dimmed in the Near East, but there were no barricades. Sam halted. Most of the area was under construction, the displays covered by plywood, white paneling, and apologetic text.

Sam pulled a phone from his pocket and as he tapped the keys, said to me, Just a second.

Two nearby displays were uncovered. The caption below the one immediately behind us read: Berber Merchants Attending to Camp. Four turbaned mannequins, frozen in various positions on a rocky hillside at dusk, with watchful eyes turned toward the darker part of the sky. 

Sam said, Give me a hand.

He crossed the hallway and gripped the edge of one of the big plaster panels. I glanced dutifully up and down the hall to check for any passersby. There were none. I helped him pull the paneling out to a 45-degree angle, exposing a plain white door. Sam twisted the knob and pushed open the door, revealing another hallway. 

I followed him inside. The fluorescent lighting was brighter and harsher here. The floor was linoleum instead of the thin carpet of the bulk of the museum. Ten yards in, a uniformed security guard manned a podium. He did not looked pleased to see us.

Hi, Sam said confidently as he strode toward.

The guard regarded us suspiciously. He wasn’t the typical museum lackey—he was big and bald and ripped. His right hand rested on the holster of his sidearm.

Authorized personnel only, the guard said without a trace of intonation, as if he was trying to duplicate the impassive tone of lettering on a sign.

I’m authorized, Sam said.

He reached into his pocket to retrieve his wallet. He opened it, and held it in front of him.  The guard studied it.

What about you? the guard said, nodding in my direction. I froze.

Before I could react, Sam said, He has his identification in his front left pocket. Get it out, and show it to this gentleman, Mr. Taylor.

I slipped my hand into my pocket, and indeed felt something thin and rectangular and slick. I withdrew it, and held it out in front of me.  The guard nodded.

Go ahead.

Once we had both crossed the Rubicon, I glanced down at the card I had miraculously produced. It didn’t look like any accepted form of identification I’d ever seen. It was sloppily laminated, adorned with no more than the image of a bird of prey, a halo of stars, and a few words in Latin.

What is this? I whispered. How’d this get in my pocket?

Keep quiet, Sam cautioned. And don’t look at it too long. You’ll get dizzy. A nice little trick I learned from a friend of mine.

Where are we going?

Quiet for a second, Sam said.

He paused in front of the only visible door in the long hallway. Letters on the door read: Authorized Personnel Only, in a metallic Futura font evoking mid-20th century government sterility. It echoed the guard’s neutral but vaguely menacing voice. Or perhaps, as I suspected before, it was vice versa.

Sam rapped gently. He cocked his ear towards the door for a moment before trying the plain brass knob.  As he pushed it open, he said over his shoulder, I think we’re good, but keep cool.

He opened it just enough to slip through, and then stepped aside to hold it open for my passage.

What the hell? I said as flatly as I could—considering both Sam’s instruction and the scene into which I had stepped. 

We stood in what appeared to be a large English parlor. Mahogany-paneled walls stretched twelve feet high, curving gently inward to seamlessly join the ceiling. A chandelier and four tiny lamps mounted along the walls dimly illuminated the rest of the contents of the room. Two armchairs expertly upholstered in dark green velvet sat opposite a brown leather Tudor-style couch in the center of the room. These, and the coffee table, rested atop a vaguely floral-patterned area rug. Hardwood peeked out the few inches between the edge of the rug and the walls.

A hand-carved mantle, mirror, and fireplace took up much of the far wall. There was no fire in the fireplace, but I could smell the recent remnants of one. The wall to my left held floor-to-ceiling oak bookshelves filled to the brim with volumes. Between the left and far walls a wooden staircase twisted up to a landing and then out of sight. Two windows, covered by gold curtains shared the far wall with two framed pictures—of which I could not perceive any details—and a small antique clock.

Hello? Sam called out after shutting the door gently behind me.  

On this side, the door was oak-paneled.

Merard? someone answered from wherever the staircase led.

Yeah, he said. I’m here with someone, but everything’s fine.

I’ll be down in a minute.

The accent was flat; decidedly, disappointingly, American.

What is this place? I asked. 

The Curator’s residence, Merard said simply. His name changed to me when I heard how the other voice addressed him. She’s not here right now, but she left us some goodies.

Who’s up there then?

A friend of mine. You can thank him for the conjured access card when you meet him. Who knows what he’s doing up there. Then more loudly, The fuck are you doing up there?

She left a note, the disembodied voice answered. I’m leaving one back.

Where does the smoke from the fireplace go? I asked, trying to focus on one out-of-place fixture at a time.

A chimney, Merard said, his tone pointing out the perceived stupidity of the question.

And those windows, what do they open up to? I often got as lost as any other tourist in the museum, but I was fairly certain we were in its belly, below street level.

Merard drew back the nearest curtain. More fluorescent light flowed in, catching my newly adjusted eyes off-guard. I blinked and saw a long narrow room, probably fifty yards long. The room was filled with neat rows of tables, wide flat desks, and computer monitors. Cabinets of varying style—some metal lockers, some glass cases—lined the walls. About half a dozen people milled about, some of them in lab coats, others in flannel shirts and jeans—the less official scientist's uniform. An eight-foot stone pillar adorned with two large horned animal heads stood near the center of the room. A woman was spraying it with some sort of aerosol. I noticed more cans of aerosol near the other artifacts scattered about.

Merard closed the curtains.

It’s a one-way mirror, he said. The Curator needs to observe in peace.

For some reason, he laughed.

I walked over to the nearest piece of furniture closest to me, the couch, and touched its surface to make sure it felt real. My eyes drifted over to the pictures hanging on the wall. I was curious what type of painting the curator of one of the most famous (if useless) museums in the world would keep in her private, impossible, parlor. I stepped toward the paintings, but Sam’s movements to my right caught my attention.

Merard squatted over a small wooden crate next to the door through which we’d entered. He reached inside and withdrew an aerosol can. He shook it, and I heard the click-clank sound associated with spray paint. I knew whatever mechanism made that noise and produced the desired mixing results must be mind-dullingly simple, but I had no idea what it was inside. A rubber ball, is that all?

What is that stuff? I asked.

Merard, still squatting, rotated on his heels, and said, It’s what we’re here for.

He tossed the can to me.

The can was plain white except for large lettering which read, in all caps, UBIQ COLD-PACK.

Okay… I began.

Remember when I told you you’d be surprised? I didn’t mean this parlor. Every major museum worth its salt has at least one apartment like this inside. But I guess its existence is one of the signposts as to why we’re here.

I just sighed. What else could I do? He was going to tell me however the hell he wanted to tell me.

Merard enjoyed the momentary frustration, knowing that he could turn my annoyance into something much more powerful with a few sentences if he chose.

He continued, You said you didn’t see the point of all this remodeling.  ‘A museum of a museum,’ you said. You’d be right if it wasn’t for Ubiq. What you’ve got in your shaky hands there produces a gas compound that, when released in aerosol form, instantly bonds with the surface of any material, and preserves its integrity indefinitely.

What do you mean ‘indefinitely’? And preserves it against what?

From what I understand, indefinitely means exactly that. Forever. Or at least close enough. Ubiq protects whatever it bonds with against all the usual causes of entropy, which are coincidentally enough, some of the same things which nurture life. Oxygen, heat, wind, water, microbes, what have you.

I turned the can over in my hand, double-checking for more text—perhaps some warning labels or directions for use.

I said, So it’s like a shield? Invincibility, immortality, in a spray can? Why haven’t I heard of this before?

Merard scoffed. Come on. Don’t be naïve. The things you haven’t heard even the tiniest inkling of could fill volumes. Maybe even those.

He gestured at the bookshelves.

He continued, It’s not magic. I’m not a scientist, but this is a science. The bond will deteriorate if it’s handled a lot or tampered with. Humans have a tendency to be more destructive in a few seconds of activity than centuries of the elements.

So, I began, what are they doing here with it? They’ve got this mysterious, top secret infinity spray or whatever, and they’re using it to what? Coat all the artifacts with it so they never have to restore them again? Save some money, cut some corners?

That explanation seemed to fit with my understanding of the development and application of technology in recent decades. Everything smaller, faster, and more efficient.

No, he said. You’re right about one thing. This type of museum is becoming more and more useless, at least to us.

The emphasis he put on us made me uncomfortable.

Several of the world’s leading museums are in the middle of this ‘permanent preservation’ project. Upon completion at each site, the museum will close its doors to the general public. I doubt they’ll announce the true intentions then, but I suppose that depends on ground conditions at the time. Maybe it won’t even matter by then. Most likely they’ll play to your sensibilities and announce that due to decreased attendance and interest, it no longer makes financial sense to function as anything other than a private research facility. I’m sure you noticed the outdoor construction too, along the perimeter of the museum. They’re laying the groundwork for some sort of wall or barricade. I don’t know the specifics. Regardless, at that point, they’ll coat the exterior of the buildings with Ubiq, probably add in some new installations—at a bare minimum some translation tools—and then its transformation into its new and final purpose will be complete.

I found myself seduced by the breathless confirmation of a secret conspiracy focused on a secret truth for which a part of myself had always craved. The more apocalyptic-minded portions of my brain did not need much confirmation that a fall would come eventually. 

So I asked, Who is it being preserved for?

Meaning, Alien archaeologists from the far future? Survivors of a great catastrophe attempting to rebuild a new civilization, or rediscover the knowledge of the past one? Or--

Merard shook his head, and formed another amused but not quite happy smile.

I have my own theories, he said.

He concealed a lot with that sentence.

You saw the Hubble movie, same as me, he continued. It would be the height of arrogance and stupidity to believe that anyone with the cognitive or technological capacity to cross the expanse of space would have a burning desire to learn about pre-Tsarist eastern Russian shamanism, lest that’s what you’re thinking.

The setting of the conversation did wonders to allay my natural skepticism. This impossible parlor functioned as a suspender of disbelief and a nursery for childhood faith in Larger Meaning and Purpose—similar, in a weird way, to the darkened IMAX theater. For the moment, I accepted the utterly insane and yet infuriatingly vague bigger picture that Merard had painted. My mind was only able to question specific details. Yet the reasoning part of me fought on, questioning as hard as it could where it could.

I held the can of Ubiq out in front of me. I noticed that despite the lack of other text on the can, the little white directional arrow on the spray valve was there. I rested my index finger atop it.

So what happens if I spray this then?

I pointed it generally towards Merard. The act was meant to be more passive-aggressive than inflammatory.

Merard shrugged.

Nothing really. It’s odorless. In spray form it comes out kind of purplish, but it bonds clear. You could spray it on your arm and not even notice. A few hours of normal activity, and it would basically be gone. I wouldn’t drink it though. I heard someone did that once; thought he was King Midas. Internal organs don’t react well to being preserved, even for a split second. It’s not gonna make you immortal, so forget the idea.

Who’s behind this? You said it’s happening at a bunch of museums. That suggests a conspiracy, or at the very least, organization.

Merard laughed. Now I wouldn’t be a very good conspirator if I told you that, would I?

You’re not a very good conspirator for telling me what you’ve told me, I retorted.

Unless I don’t intend for you to leave this place, Merard said, stone-faced.

I tensed. My eyes darted around the room, looking for something to defend myself with before my brain even told me to.

Merard laughed again.

Relax, guy. Really, I just don’t give much of a shit.

He kept chuckling. The ceiling creaked above us, and then I heard footsteps. Caught up in the fantastical narrative, I’d forgotten about the other person upstairs. A dolly stacked with two more crates of Ubiq appeared at the top of the stairs first. Then a bearded man peaked around the corner.

Give me a hand? he called down.

Merard crossed the room and climbed the stairs two at a time. He stopped three steps from the top. He and the other man exchanged a few quiet words I couldn’t make out. The other man nodded. Sam gripped the bottom of the dolly and lifted it waist-high. They descended.At the bottom, Merard gently dropped his end to the ground and ritualistically rubbed his hands together.

I can take it from here, Merard said.

The other man shook his head.

I better, he said.

He was shorter than Merard, and even a bit smaller and scrawnier than me. His dark hair was unkempt, his beard scraggly, his skin olive. He wore khaki cargo pants, the pockets bulging, and a gray t-shirt like Sam’s. His eyes were brown and wet and rimmed red behind his glasses, as if he’d spent the past hour either getting stoned or crying or both. 

This is Tyler Taylor, Sam Merard said, nodding in my direction. He used to be a musician, but he’s in Investments now.

I spotted the faint outlines of a half-concealed smirk on Merard’s face. The bearded man nodded. His attempt at a follow-up smile was a bit pitiful, but I appreciated the effort. The man did not offer his own name.

Are we good to go? Merard asked.

The other man said, I think so. I left a note.

So you say, Merard said airily.

I had some questions.

You always do, Merard said, grinning genuinely.

It was a bit alarming how quickly I was able to pick up on which of his smiles were real and which were for show and which were purely for disarmament purposes.

Shall we then? Merard suggested.

The bookshelf caught the man’s attention for a moment, precluding an immediate answer. He walked over to the case and grabbed a hardcover from the third shelf. He examined the cover for a moment, running his hand over its surface. His expression suggested the cause of his countenance was tears, not drugs.

I cocked my head to see what the book was, but to no avail. I remembered the pictures on the other wall and my determination to find out what a curator would hang on her walls. I took a few steps toward the nearest one. Its frame was gold, blending with the curtains and matching the mahogany wall paneling. I noticed the details of the frame—the curved edges, the spiral patterns within its borders. The picture itself, though, was elusive. I couldn’t seem to make out what the frame held. Its inky contents seemed to swirl and shift, even as I got closer and squinted.

Yeah let’s go, the-guy-who-refused-to-be-named said.

I couldn’t bring myself to run all the way over to the wall and stare down the picture until it revealed its secret. I did notice the engraving on the small gold plaque below it, its lettering the same Futura font that was on the front door.

If destruction be our lot, we ourselves must be its author and finisher—Abraham Lincoln.

The fluorescent lighting from the hallway spilled in. The dim lamplight in the parlor was surrounded and constantly under threat of full-scale invasion. After piling the third crate of Ubiq atop the others, Merard opened the door.

When I turned around again, I saw the Beard stuffing the top of the book into his already bulging cargo pocket. I frowned. The book had been a regular-sized hardcover. It shouldn’t have fit into a pocket like that. The eyes behind the Beard’s glasses regarded me. I walked briskly out into the hallway. The dolly and its pusher followed. Merard closed the door behind them.

The guard turned to face us. The man with the dolly hurried ahead of me. He rolled up to the guard.

The guard’s expression was tense. His right hand hovered next to his holster.

What are you doing? he demanded. You don’t have clearance to transport that stuff.

What do you mean? the bearded man said.

The Beard lifted his chin to make a conscious effort of achieving eye contact. The guard looked from the crates to meet his gaze. They remained like that, seemingly frozen for a few seconds. 

These bottles of Evian?

These are not the droids you’re looking for.

After a few more seconds the guard pushed off his stool and peered into the top crate. He frowned, and mumbled, All right, and then returned to his seat without looking at the conjurer again.

Once we cleared the hallway and re-emerged into the main museum, I got a good look at the contents of the crates again. Definitely cans of Ubiq. Not bottled water. I shook it off as successfully as I’d shaken off everything else that had happened in the past hour. I followed them through the hallways. The majority of the exhibits on this floor were covered up for renovation. We took two lefts and stopped at an elevator bank.

I believe this is where we part ways for the time being, Merard said.

He pushed the freight elevator button, which led to the parking garage, and then the regular elevator button, which would lead to the surface. Then he rested his hands on his hips and turned to face the onslaught he knew was coming.

That’s it? That’s all that’s gonna happen? I nearly shrieked.

I had assumed that this would play out classically. Secrets had been revealed to me, and now a quest of some sort would follow. That’s what my suspension of disbelief had hinged upon—the possibility that legends and archetypes existed for a reason, and that I would soon become a part of Something Bigger.

Afraid so, Merard said. We’re going in. You’re staying out.

If all you’ve told me is true, I began, then what’s your role in this? What are you doing with this stuff? Where are you taking it? Who the fuck are you guys?

Merard pursed his lips and exhaled a slow stream of air before answering, as if hoping the elevator’s sudden arrival could save him from answering.

 I don’t have the patience for science, he finally said.

Why did you show me this? Why did you tell me this? I demanded, realizing that the time for explanations would run out in seconds.

At the end of the hall, the freight elevator beeped and opened its doors. The Beard pushed the crates inside.

Merard sighed and said, The Curator wants to meet you. See you in Tropicalia?

Under the circumstances, it sounded like a threat.

Till then, Merard said.

He held up his hand and walked into the elevator.

Good luck, I managed to croak.

Merard turned to face me as the elevator doors began to close. He was biting his lip and his left eyebrow was raised. His eyes darted back and forth, betraying what might be nervousness or indecisiveness for the first time. He opened his mouth, and paused for a second before speaking.

Tell your girlfriend Liz I’m sorry about that night. I’m sorry I let her Disappear, even if it was briefer for her than the others. But I’m glad she’s back. I’m glad she’s happy.

The doors clicked shut.

What Can I Tell You?

Charles Arbuthnot Reilly & The Colonel

Fifteen months before battle

I’m here, the Colonel said. So what do you want to ask me? I’m an open goddamn book today.

Across the table, Charles Arbuthnot Reilly rotated his coffee cup a precise ninety degrees and said, I want you to tell me everything that went on at your base, everything you oversaw, everything you overheard, and everything you personally witnessed.

The Colonel took a long drag off his e-cigarette, lowered his arm slowly and tapped out non-existent ashes. Where’d you get my name? he asked.

Does it matter?

Kind of, the Colonel sighed. When you called me, it was the first time I’d picked up the phone in a month.

Charles smiled his tight little grin, flashing tiny teeth between thin lips. He resisted the impulse to stroke his beard by adjusting his glasses.

He said, Let’s say your name has been circulating around my circles.

You have circles?

The Colonel wanted to wipe that smirk off his face. He hadn’t reflected too much about why he’d agreed to meet this odd man, but crushing his unearned arrogance played a part. It didn’t work.

Circles within circles, Charles said. That smile again.

What use is telling you? I could be making it all up. I may as well just show you.

Charles cocked his head like a dog. His smile disappeared.

Show me?

I’ll take you there. Come on, I’ll drive. Let’s go, the Colonel said. He reached into his wallet and dropped a five on the table. That’s for your coffee. It’ll be the only gift I give you today you’ll be grateful for.

Charles’s beady brown eyes darted back and forth in a frothy panic. Oh no no no, I don’t think so. I won’t walk into a trap. If I go into that Air Force base, I won’t come out. You’ll Disappear me. I’m not stupid.

Scout’s honor, the Colonel said. The artificial orange glow of his e-cig blinked four times and went dark. He tried unsuccessfully to pull from the dead battery, shrugged, and shoved it into his pocket. I promise you, not a single hair on your greasy head will be hurt. I’ll show you anything you want to see. You have my word.

People know where I am, who I’m talking to, he said defiantly.

People in your circles? Shit, I better watch myself.

Charles stared hard at the Colonel for a moment. He searched for scars, traced wrinkle lines.

Let’s go, buddy, the Colonel said, flashing a well-practiced smile impossible to argue with. He stood, ten inches taller and twenty years older than Charles—but they both looked older than they actually were. They had both recently begun bearing more weight than they were used to.

So the Colonel drove Charles out to the base in his beat-up, gray Jeep. During the twenty mile drive, he listened, amused, as Charles recited everything I’d told him about the secret history of the base, starting back in 1947 with Roswell. About how the alien bodies had indeed been taken originally to Area 51, but then transported to the Colonel’s base in the spring of ’65 as a diversionary tactic. One of the alien bodies was still alive, deep in a regenerative coma. When it awoke twenty-two years after the crash, its telepathic abilities were artificially stymied both to prevent an extraterrestrial rescue attempt and to stop it from influencing the minds of its handlers.

The tiny alien was officially classified as a Gray Type IV, but named Bobby Farentino by a scientist who had recently lost a childhood friend to radiation poisoning in the White Sands desert. Over time, Bobby Farentino came