Last place I stayed in was a petite room in a historical Massachusetts hotel built sometime in the late 1920’s. To enter my room I had to open what looked like a white, silver-handled refrigerator door using what at this point I can only describe as a magnetized Don Quixote. My first instinct was that I’d soon be arriving inside some sort of DeLorean Icebox. The room was cold but not chilly and with a pounding headache, tired mind and full belly, I quickly dozed. Hours later upon awaking, even colder, I was convinced it was 2047, that I was floating above my absolute zero thread count sheets, that the Ibuprofen next to my bed were intergalactic breakfast pills and the once drab walls were walk-throughable portals into rooms where sneaky political figures and free spirited celebrities engaged in illicit affairs. My plaid pajama bottoms which had gone out of style eight years ago were now back in fashion and my memories over the past 33 years were zipped inside a universal consciousness bus (UCB drive) at the bottom of a tall glass of cerebrospinal fluid near the foot of the bed. Outside, interstate-transportation tubes flew past my window, money trees attempted to feed the homeless and all my dearest friend’s babies pushed carriages of their own as my widow flashed her AARP card to get into the latest movie half-price, a screening of, “The Boy Who Cryogenized Wolf.” However, in reality the heat was blasting, I was sleeping soundly, I was still unmarried and this movie had yet to be written. My hotel bill was slipped through the door outlining my expenses, “$1,205,300 for 12,053 nights, if you choose to stay. Free for Now,” along with the following message: “Don’t sleep through the next half of your life.”
I left before checking out in search of what else was out there.