FREEHAND 2173

By JAMIE SIMS COAKLEY

In "Freehand 2173," reporter Dorothy Holiday is on assignment in a cold, rainy, dystopian Los Angeles with only a few weeks of breathable air left on Earth. The climate crisis of the 21st century has spiraled out of control, millions have died, millions more have been displaced, and everything is falling apart, including Dorothy. She drinks too much and not enough, and every day she wakes up grasping for just one reason to keep going. The end is near, and everything is bleak… until she discovers a mysterious notebook at the Freehand Hotel.
That same night, astrophysicist Thomas O'Connell opens a wormhole and travels through time. Now, he must figure out how to use time travel to save what's left of humanity. Dorothy can barely speak when she first meets Dr. O'Connell. He's intelligent, tall, dark-haired, Irish, and has the kindest blue eyes she's ever seen. When an accident pulls them together, their ensuing connection becomes undeniable. Dr. O'Connell soon discovers the mysterious notebook in Dorothy's hotel room, and the equations inside give them a real chance at a future.
After catching a hyper-jet to Geneva, Dorothy and Thomas team up with Thomas' longtime friend and mentor, Dr. Grace Turner, to get Thomas back in time. It's a long shot, but if they can intercept Einstein on his visit to CalTech in 1931, perhaps they can enlist his help to decipher the equations and save the future. After a miraculous trip through the time-space wormhole, Thomas finds himself not only in 1931, but in the basement under the 60-inch telescope at Mt. Wilson Observatory with Albert Einstein, George Hale, Robert Van De Graaf, and Niels Bohr. The scientists are secretly testing Van De Graaf's first particle collider in the hopes of opening a wormhole, and their attempts brought Thomas directly to their point in time.
A power failure at CERN collapses the wormhole, leaving Thomas stuck in the past. Dorothy has no choice but to go after him and see pre-climate change Los Angeles for herself. Collaborating with the greatest scientific minds of the twentieth century can't last forever, and Thomas and Dorothy must head back to 2173. As terrible as the future may be, Dorothy must face her worst fears and try to save what's left of humanity. If they fail, it means the end of humanity forever, and no one's really sure what it will mean if they succeed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350907506

Book preview

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CARMELITA PUBLISHING/NADINE RECORDS MEDIA

LONG BEACH, CALIFORNIA

NADINE RECORDS MEDIA

2892 N. BELLFLOWER BLVD. STE 303 LONG BEACH, CA 90815

Copyright © 2021 by Jamie Sims Coakley

All Rights Reserved

Printed in the United States of America

Originally published in 2023 by Carmelita Publishing/Nadine Records Media Carmelita Publishing/Nadine Records Media Paperback

ISBN # 979-8-35090-749-0

ISBN: 979-8-35090-750-6 ebook

DESIGNED BY STANLEY SOULTAIRE

HEADSHOT BY JENXPHOTOGRAPHY

jamiesimscoakley.com

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Contents

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

1 ANOTHER FUCKING SUICIDE

2 DR. THOMAS O’CONNELL

3 YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME

4 WE ARE STILL LIVING, AREN’T WE?

5 THE HUNTINGTON LIBRARY

6 ALBERT EINSTEIN

7 THE NOTEBOOK

8 MOUNT WILSON OBSERVATORY

9 DOROTHY, PLEASE DON’T CRY

10 THE LARGE HADRON COLLIDER

11 1931

12 TARZAN OF THE APES

13 WE HAVEN’T GOT A SECOND TO WASTE

14 ZERO HOUR

15 I SHALL FEAR NO EVIL

16 THE FREEHAND SOCIETY

17 SPOOKY ACTION

18 CHOCOLATE CAKE

19 I REALLY DON’T WANT TO LEAVE

20 ALBIET IN THE PAST

21 LOCKDOWN IMMINENT

22 LUI BAO

23 BENEATH THE SURFACE IS THE KEY

24 THE PICKLE HOUSE

25 CHARLOTTE

26 YOU HAVE TO GO DOWN THERE?

27 TARZANA RANCH

28 EVERY WRETCHED BLOCK

29 DADDY, I DON’T FEEL VERY GOOD

30 DEAR GOD, PLEASE LET THIS WORK

Author’s Note

The idea for FREEHAND 2173 came to me over a 24-hour period, starting the evening of May 22, 2019, while staying at the Freehand Hotel in downtown Los Angeles. I was exploring the idea of writing a travel blog of fictional stories set in and inspired by real-life hotels around the world, and the Freehand was the first place on my list.

That night, I was having dinner at The Exchange, the hotel’s on-site restaurant, and researching the history of the building when a wave of peaceful exhaustion came over me. Around 7:00 p.m., I retired to my room, 1007, on the 10th floor, and quickly fell asleep. I woke up the next morning crying, which is not my usual behavior, and although I found it to be a strange occurrence, by the time room service had brought up my morning coffee, I was lost in my research and began writing what would ultimately become the first draft of the first chapter of FREEHAND 2173.

It was an incredibly surreal morning. One where I felt as if I was experiencing time in a different way than I ever had before. One that led me to a deeper understanding of Edgar Rice Burroughs and his John Carter of Mars series, Albert Einstein, Neils Bohr and their quantum discoveries, as well as the magnificent Robert Ellery Hale, who was directly responsible for the formation of Cal Tech, the preservation and growth of The Huntington Museum, Library and Botanical Gardens, and both the 60-inch and 100-inch telescopes at Mount Wilson Observatory. The process of writing this book completely changed my understanding of Los Angeles as not only the movie capital of the world but also as one of the most important cities of science in the first half of the twentieth century.

It was a miraculous morning creatively for me. By the end of the day, it shifted to tragedy in the form of a phone call that contained devastating news from which I will never be the same. One of my best friends and a fellow writer, a person who had been a confidant, champion, joy and endless inspiration to me, had taken his life the night before.

Suddenly, the strange wave of fatigue, the tears first thing in the morning, the surreal experience of time, and what I call divine inspiration all made sense to me. Somehow, in ways as difficult to understand as quantum physics, I believe the idea for this novel was a gift to me from my dear friend as he passed through the vale of this life onto whatever lies beyond.

It has been my mission ever since to honor him and his memory by telling this story to the absolute best of my abilities.

Although this story is fictional, I spent endless hours researching the science and the key people and locations featured here in order to manifest a more fully formed story. What I came away with, and what I hope you come away with too, is a profound new respect for and fascination with Los Angeles and its impact on the groundbreaking science of the twentieth century. It is my sincere hope that in reading this novel, you will be entertained, inspired, enlightened and encouraged by the characters and their journeys, and that you will put this book down with a renewed sense of hope, optimism, courage and wonder at the miracle of life—its many twists and turns, and its endless opportunity for change, discovery, and progress.

Acknowledgements

First and foremost, endless thanks to my best friend forever and husband Brian for a lifetime of support, encouragement and patience as I have endeavored to create, practice and hone my craft.

My son Liam, whose very life has been my greatest inspiration for living, loving and creating.

The wonderful women who edited various drafts of the novel and without whom the book would not exist: Dena Brooks, Joey King Grissaffi, Eileen Nielubowicz, Mary Ellen Hill and Jennifer Boedeker Elmore.

Thomas Meneghini and everyone at Mount Wilson Observatory who keep the history of that most important place alive for future generations to be inspired.

The A-List at Ace Hotel, DTLA, for making space for creatives and for those 13 days in the middle of the pandemic where the first 100 pages of the novel came to life.

The people at the Cal Tech Archive for the important work they do to preserve Los Angeles’s scientific legacy and ensure its access to the public.

The Huntington Museum, Library and Botanical Gardens, where I spent hundreds of hours writing, exploring and finding inspiration.

Lacey Hendrix and the Beard and Lady Inn, Chester, Arkansas, for the inspiring work of art that is the Inn and for giving me the time and space as an artist in residence to work on the novel.

Cillian Murphy and his Mixtape on BBC 6, which offered me endless comfort and inspiration as I birthed the first draft of the novel.

Nils Frahm and his incredible album Empty, which became part of my process as I was writing the novel. And finally, to the Freehand Hotel, DTLA for preserving, restoring and sharing the Commercial Exchange Building with us all..

For Tim Tori

Part One

1

ANOTHER FUCKING SUICIDE

It’s midnight when I finally get back to the Freehand hotel. My CO2 filter mask is cutting into my ears and my feet are cold and wet from the never-ending rain. Luckily, the Freehand’s air filters still work, so I can sit down at the bar, take off the heavy mask and have a drink. The bartender is handsome—in his early forties with salt and pepper white walls and a strong body. I wonder what he tastes like.

What can I get ya? he asks.

Whisky?

Synth Rye okay?

Do I have a choice?

He turns to the wall behind him which I imagine was once full of hundreds of bottles of booze; now there are only about 10.

Not really, he says, reaching for the rye. He takes a rag and a glass, wipes it clean, then pours it half full and sets it on the bar in front of me.

I’m only supposed to fill it about two fingers, he says gesturing to the glass. But I figure at this point, what are we saving it for?

I nod and take a big drink, the whisky warming my tongue. It tastes good. I finish the rest in one big gulp and push the glass back towards him.

May I have another?

Sure thing…

Hey—what’s your name?

He turns to me. I’m Mike. How about you? He pours another tall drink and slides it across the bar to me.

Dorothy…Dorothy Holiday.

He gestures towards the street. You’re awfully brave to be out there so late.

Brave or stupid— I take another big drink. I had work.

"Ah—work…yeah, that is stupid."

I gesture to the bar. You’re one to talk.

He smiles and comes over closer to me, leans in.

It’s funny, isn’t it? Some of us are still working like everything’s just fine. What do you suppose that’s about?

I lean in closer to him and gesture as if I have a secret.

I think we’re idiots, I say.

That we are—Dorothy, was it?

That’s right.

He smiles, then hesitates for a moment as if contemplating what to say next.

So what kind of work do you do that has you out so late?

I’m a reporter—International Public Media.

He grabs a glass from behind the bar and drops a hydration tab into it and a teaspoon of soda, then watches as the chemical reaction fills the cup with water.

You should drink this too. He hands me the glass.

Thanks.

"So, what kind of stories do you cover for IPM?

Science mostly—right now astrophysics. Something top secret so there’s not a lot of information coming my way. They’re still trying to save us.

He chuckles. Wouldn’t that be nice?

So what’s your story? I take a sip of my whisky.

Mine? Not much to tell really. Same as everyone, I suppose. Born into this shit world, choking on foul air and living this shit life for as long as I can for some unknown reason.

No drug-crazed, sex-fueled end of the world party for you then? I say, gesturing to the street outside.

He smiles flirtatiously. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve given that life a try, wasn’t for me. I’m more of a fighter, I guess. What about you?

Yeah, I guess I’m more of a fighter too. But the sex-crazed part isn’t always so bad.

I gulp down the last of my whisky and look around. The lobby bar is empty except for us.

So, Mike…what time do you get done here?

He chuckles. In about 30 minutes…

I lean in again and lower my voice, the whisky starting to work its magic. I have a room here. I mean, obviously I have a room here—but I was just wondering, maybe…maybe you’d like to come up and, um…talk some more?

Yeah… he says with a wicked smile. I would absolutely love to come up to your room…Dorothy, and uh ‘talk’ some more.

My blood races at his reply, chills run up and down my spine and I smile seductively. I’m in room 1007.

He picks up his com and makes a note. Room 1007. Got it.

I’m gonna head up, then, I say. I need to freshen up.

Sure thing, shall I charge this to your room?

I hold my wrist out. No, C-Coin’s fine.

He scans the chip in my wrist and smiles again. I’ll see you soon, then?

I nod smiling. That would be nice.

When I get up to leave, the room is spinning. The high ceilings and dark wood of the lobby embrace me as I half-walk, half-stumble toward the elevators and push the call button. It’s freezing in the marble hallway and I’m shivering as I watch the analog hands of the ancient elevator tick off the floors. It’s moving more slowly than I thought possible. Suddenly, there’s a loud buzz and then a snap, and then everything goes dark. What the fuck? I say, waiting for the backup generators to kick on. I hate the dark, and now it, combined with my drunkenness, has me dizzy and disoriented. I vaguely remember a bench against the wall and stumble in its direction. Miscalculating, I reach it too soon—falling over it and knocking the bench into the wall and me onto the floor.

I’m all right! I say, but there is no one around to hear me. The lights kick back on, revealing a piece of marble tile has fallen from the wall, exposing a little hiding place, and on the floor next to it, is a leather notebook. That’s weird, I think to myself as sirens blare outside and police speeders fly down the dark street. Then the elevator chimes its arrival and the doors slide open. I hop up, grab the notebook and pinball my way onto the elevator just as the doors close. I hope the fucking power stays on. The 10 floors creep by slowly so I open the notebook to the first page and skim it quickly. Handwritten at the bottom is the date 1931 and a signature, Albert Einstein.

The elevator chimes and the doors slide open. I stumble down the long dark hallway to my room, unlock the door and put the notebook on the nightstand next to the bed. In the bathroom, I drop a hydration cube into the sink and undress. I dip a washcloth into the basin and rub the soap cube on it, then give myself a PTA bath (pussy, tits and ass) as my mother used to call it. This hotel is so old there’s still an actual shower in the bathroom even though most of us haven’t had running water for years. I stand there for a moment, imagining how marvelous it would be to take a hot shower, feel the water run over my skin, wash the filth away. I finish my PTA bath and stand there looking at myself in the mirror. I’m too thin now. Bones sticking out at my hips and my shoulders. I touch my breasts, barely a handful left. I check the time on my com and then crawl into bed naked. Mike should be here in 15 minutes.

I fall asleep and dream a wonderful dream where the skies are blue again. All around me the Earth’s alive and vibrant with the most beautiful greens and reds and purples. I can hear birds singing and children laughing and all of the people are healthy and happy. I wake up to a knock on the door. It must be Mike. I get up, pulling the blanket around me, and head to the door. I barely have it open before he is in my room and kissing me. He cups my chin in his hands and pushes me against the wall as the door closes. It feels so good to have his warm mouth on mine. He steps back, takes the blanket from my hands and lets it drop to floor.

My god, you’re beautiful, he says and then his lips are back on mine. His hands are on my bare flesh searching for my desire which he quickly finds, and then he picks me up in his strong arms and carries me to the bed. It doesn’t last long but it’s enough to make me forget everything else. The constant dialog in my mind is quiet as he works and I focus on the warmth of his chest pressing against mine, his strong hand on my thigh, pulling my leg up so he can get deeper. Him, deeper…my eyes open and close, open and close, open and close. When we’re done, he gets up and gets dressed, leaving me naked and spent. He grabs his com and then comes over to the bed, leans down and gives me a long, slow kiss.

Nice to know you, Dorothy. Good luck…

Good luck, Mike.

He lingers for a moment and then is gone as soon as he came, leaving me to fall asleep alone in my bed.

At four in the morning, I wake up crying. My head is thick from drink and no food and I roll over, noticing the notebook next to me on the end table. Still half-drunk, I pick it up and flip through its pages. They’re full of handwritten diagrams and formulas I don’t understand. Scribbled on the last page in handwriting that matches the first is a list of names:

Niels Bohr

Edgar Rice Burroughs

George Ellery Hale

Robert Van De Graaf

And then these words: For D and T.

Just then my com buzzes. It’s a video message from my friend, Wayne. Hey, Dorothy. His eyes are red and swollen. I know you’re in LA and it’s the middle of the night there, but I’ve got more bad news. He pauses and I notice he looks like he’s aged a decade since I last saw him. He takes a deep breath. Jim’s dead—another fucking suicide. Megan found him in his apartment last night. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and takes a swig off his flask. I really wish I could say I was getting numb to it all, but it just never gets any easier, does it? This fucking world—honestly, I don’t know why any of us are still trying. He’s choking back tears now. I gotta go, Dorothy. Message me as soon as you can. I wanna know you’re okay.

I roll over and pull the covers over my head. Another suicide. This was the fifth one in the last six months. But Jim…I didn’t see that one coming. He was always so full of life. You know, one of the ones that gives you hope. This is why you don’t let yourself love people, Dorothy. You know this. Part of me is so angry that I want to scream and part of me is like Wayne—I can’t really blame him. More than once I’ve stood on the edge of that decision—after mom died, and after Sissy died—when the storms got worse and the horrible flooding came—when they told us we had only six months of breathable air left. I close my eyes and let the grief wash over me, then I go numb. The weight of sadness and exhaustion comes heavy upon me and I fall back into a deep sleep, dreaming again. This time I watch as my atoms break apart into millions