Gordy's little black book

The funeral was difficult for me. My best friend, the eccentric Gordon Peterson, passed away after a car accident. He was young, 36.

He never was a great driver but what he was, was a bonified genius. He amazed me anytime we talked.

His forte was theoretical physics, theoretical computer science. Stuff most people couldn't possibly grasp. Me, included.

Not too long ago, he found out was being considered for the Gödel Prize. He was as nervous as a cat waiting. I told him he was going to wear a hole in his carpet if he didn't stop pacing and obsessing about it.

Maybe that's why he ran off the road, into a tree.

Distracted, perhaps?

I went to the reading of Gordy's Will. As it turned out, Gordon had willed all of his possesions to me, making me his sole beneficiary to his life insurance policy. A sizeable sum of $20,000.

I had no idea. He'd never said anything about it.

He didn't have much as he lived a minimalist life in a small apartment. He put more stock in books and computers than silly material things.

Gordon didn't even own a CD player or a television. It took a lot of coaxing by me for him to get a cell phone.

A few days after I found out I was his beneficiary, some of Gordon's things arrived at my house by courier.

As I had expected, boxes of books, papers, a couple really nice computers, a few odds and ends and a carrier with his Siamese cat, Nicola Tesla, inside.

I knew Tesla and like cats so, he was a welcome guest.

I felt like I was intruding on his privacy but, that night I decided to go through one of the boxes.

Inside, stacks of papers, note books, a laptop, his birth certificate, his wallet with his driver's license, $7, a hotel room key with number 312 on it and, oddly enough, a little black book held against the wallet with a rubber band.

I actually said aloud, "What was Gordy doing with a little black book?!"

He wasn't a ladies man. He was more interested in old Star Trek reruns than women.

I mean, he wasn't a bad looking guy. Women took notice but, they simply didn't hold a high position with him. I'd always suspected that Gordon might have been a virgin.

So, as I held this little black book, I made the decision to look through it.

It was pretty much what I expected, an address / phone book of nothing that surprised me.

Inside were numbers for his mother, his sister, the planetarium, Comicon convention places for the past decade, different science departments for several universities and a line entry under P: The Port Hole with an address.

Hello.

"The Port Hole?" I said to myself. "That's a dive bar I had frequented years ago." I didn't even know Gordon then.

I thought it had been torn down, replaced with a massive convenience store chain.

It just didn't seem like a place he would have gone to. He was in highschool during that time.

I was gob smacked. Truly.

I looked at the address. It wasn't the same address as the old Port Hole or in the same part of town.

It was somewhere downtown in a rundown section where old seedy, decaying hotels still stood, mostly frequented by drunks, ladies of the night and junkies.

The address was on N. Walker, room #312!

I was stumped. I thought, "The Port Hole in some seedy hotel?" Huh?!"

I decided that I was going to do a little investigating but during the day. That part of town was not a place you want to be at night.

The evening before, I rummaged through more boxes, looking for clues, with a little help from Tesla, who sat on my lap, gently purring, sniffing the air as the papers wafted the familiar smell of Gordy into his nose. He looked up at me, squinting his eyes, purring louder. 

I couldn't find anything that gave me one hint. Nothing. Just more papers with scientific theory and equations scribbled in pencil on sheet after sheet of college ruled paper. Diagrams for machines that were on da Vinci's level.

He was into some stuff that went over my head. I'm a smart guy but this was light years above my pay grade.

The following afternoon, I decided to drive by the address.

This particular hotel was once a big, swanky place in it's hay day. But now, it looked like it should be torn down if it didn't fall down on its own pretty soon.

As I drove by the hotel, I saw nothing that indicated a bar or building named, The Port Hole.

Strange.

Ok. Enough. I'm going to park somewhere and go inside to check this room out.

I parked 2 blocks down in front of a thrift store that was open for business. I fed the parking meter.

I had 30 minutes.

While walking to the hotel, my mind was going over every scenario I could think of.

My penchant for overthinking is my achilles heel. A habit I was working on stopping.

Maybe it's an underground gambling and liquor joint, like the old speak easies in the 1920's, where you knock on the door then some guy slides a small door open, asking you for the password.

Password! What do if I need a password?!

Nah. He didn't even drink or buy lottery tickets, why would he go to a place that needs a password to get in. I was going way off into left field.

I told myself, "You're overthinking, again Rex. Knock it off"

Finally, I arrived at my destination.

I stood just outside the lobby door, flipping through the black book, one more time for any clues I may have overlooked.

Luckily I had the foresight to bring it with me.

A, B, C, D....nothing, nothing. Nothing! No passwords. I probably won't need anything but a shower after I was through.

I was having second thoughts but, I gathered my courage, grasped the door handle and pulled the big, smudged glass door open.

I stepped in.

The smell of cigars, stale cigarette smoke and stale wine greeted my nose.

Oh man, what am I doing here?

To the right, two homeless guys were noisily sleeping on the small, worn out couches. A few empty bottles of Ripple and MD 2020 were strewn about.

Lovely.

To the left was the check-in counter.

The clerk was leaning back in a chair behind the counter with his feet up, reading a newspaper with a fat cigar in the corner of his mouth.

How cliche could this possibly get?

He folded the top this of his paper, peering over it at me, narrowing his eyes, obviously put out by my presence.

"Rooms are $35 a night $260 a week. Ya want longer, ask after ya been here a coupla times. Personally, I wouldn't let my ex-wife stay here and I can't stand her!"

He burst into loud laughter, that deep smokers, gruff laugh followed by a coughing fit.

I waited for him to finish, glancing around the lobby a little more, shaking my head.

He bellowed, "Speak man, what the hell do you want?!"

I told him I was just there to visit a friend in 312 .

"Oh, you're one of those nerds" he sniped. The condescension in his tone was palpable.

I didn't reply, I just shook my head, walked towards the old elevator, muttering under my breath, "What the bloody hell am I doing here?"

"The elevator's broken, bud, ya gotta walk up!" More raucous laughter.

Figures.

The stairs were covered, if you can call it that, with heavily worn out, stained red carpet. It looked like there could have been a murder in any part of this place. I imagined bodies being drug down the stairs by organized crime wise guys. The hotel had been here since 1921.

As I ascended I thought, once again, why was Gordon in a place like this? I could not figure it out

Second floor. Nothing out of the ordinary.

I looked down each hallway, right and left. I saw closed doors to each room with low talking from one of them. It sounded like a man and woman.

Suddenly a door opened just to the right of me. A woman in a ripped, stained nightgown came out to pick up a newspaper outside her door. She had a long cigarette dangling out of her mouth, lipstick coating the filter.

"Wadda you looking at!" She angrily retorted.

I held up both hands shoulder level as if to say, "Hey, I don't want any trouble"

I kept going, making my way up the next flight of stairs.

From a distance I heard her slam her door shut.

The Third floor. I was here.

I looked at the arrows on the wall in front of me pointing each way; Rooms Left 300 - 314 Rooms Right 315 - 320.

I turned left, walking down the hallway looking for 312.

This floor has a different feel to it. Almost electric.

The closer I got to the room, the hair on my arms and neck stood up.

Was it haunted? Is that what this was about?

I found room 312.

I was hesitant to go in. I just stood there, thinking. "What was Gordy up to?"

I started saying. "The Port Hole. The Port Hole" over and over.

What does this mean? The Port Hole. Port Hole. Port toll, Port tall, portal. The Portal!

Nah. Too far out there.

I lightly knocked on the door to 312.

"Hello? I'm a friend of Gordon's" I said in almost a sing-song way.

No answer.

I listened for any movement. All I heard was coughing coming from some other room.

As I grasped the door knob to put the key in. I quickly pulled my hand back.

It was ice cold! Colder than anything I had ever felt before. It almost felt hot.

How odd. 

I used my shirttail to grab the door knob then slipped the key in all the way

In a low tone, I knocked and said, "I'm coming in, please don't shoot me. I'm a friend of Gordon Peterson"

I slowly turned the knob.

The door unlatched opening violently, sucking me into the room.

I ended up elbows over tea kettle onto the floor in the darkened room.

The door slammed behind me.

As my eyes slowly adjusted to the dark, I noticed there was no furniture, no bed.

A noise to my left startled me.

I thought, "Ok, this is it. I'm dead. Someone is over there. No one knows I'm here. They'll find my bones. Wait, did I bring my wallet?"

I heard another noise. A mechanical click then a humming that started getting louder and louder. A whirring, looping noise.

It reminded me of the instrumental section of Led Zeppelin's song, Whole lot Of Love.

Anyway, I turned to the left, trying to focus in on the sound.

A small dot of light appeared and began growing, the sound getting faster and more intense.

I couldn't move. I just sat there frozen. I'm sure my mouth was probably hanging open.

A bright, swirling mass was opening up right before my eyes. It filled up the entire side of the room.

It was hypnotic. 

Inside the vortex I could see stars and galaxies starting to appear. I was in awe. Its beauty was breathtaking.

It has to be a portal! A worm hole!

In the center a foggy image started materializing. I couldn't make it out yet, it seemed to be moving, undulating.

I couldn't think.

As it got larger, I could make out a figure of a person.

Oh my God! Is that Gordy?

The image became clearer. It was Gordy! My good old friend,, Gordon.

"Hey, Rex. How's my cat?"