An Absolutely Remarkable Thing (An Absolutely Remarkable Thing #1)(60)

The fuselage was wrapped entirely in a honeycomb pattern with randomly placed red hexagons among the white ones.

I finished walking around the plane and could find nothing else of interest. It was way too big to even think of trying to get up to the door. I could reach up over my head and brush the underbelly of the plane while I walked under it, but the only places I thought might be a hatch I could open wouldn’t open. There was no landing gear to climb up, so I tried to climb up the engine. I started on the front, but that definitely wasn’t going to happen. The engine was twice as tall as me and there was nothing to hold on to.

I went around the back and started trying to climb. I’m not super in shape, but at least I’m light. I wedged myself between the engine’s outer and inner levels and tried to shove myself up. I managed to wiggle my way up to the point that the engine was curving back toward the plane and was almost on top. Now I just had to get my hands spun around so I could get a grip on the engine’s outer casing.

As I tried to do this, my butt slipped, and suddenly I was toppling a full fifteen feet, out of control and panicking. I woke up before I hit the ground.

The next day, when I debriefed Maya, she had a couple of suggestions for me, the biggest of which was that I wasn’t going to solve this whole thing on my own and that I really needed to stop pretending that I was the only hero of this story. Her argument was that it wasn’t just slowing us down; it was dangerous. The more I made it look like I was the center of this story, the more people who hated me would hate me.

My argument in reply was that those people were unstable douchebags, so we shouldn’t listen to them. Maya’s argument was that they were cray . . . so we should.

July 8

@AprilMaybeNot: Today I met a literal billionaire and he gave me a prompt and thorough critique of the way I introduced myself to him, so . . . fuck that guy.

I just went to the fanciest party of my life. Miranda, Andy, Maya, and I had been interviewed in this documentary film a very famous guy made, and we got invited to the premiere. We got to buy extremely expensive clothes that made us feel (if not look) like movie stars. And then we walked down a literal red carpet while hundreds of professional photographers took pictures of us.

By luck, the movie premiere also fell on the day when the 4,096th (and, as far as we could tell, final) sequence in the Dream was solved, though we didn’t know that at that point.

We watched the movie in a historic theater and then went to a bar that the movie people had rented out. It was dark and all the lights were red-tinted and the bar was giving away free Carl-themed cocktails.

Of course, as with any party like this, the invite list was narrow but deep. Lots of people who weren’t involved in the movie but were nonetheless A-list celebrities had decided to come because it was a social event.

They all wanted to talk to me.

And that was great, except I really had to pee and there was a line for the bathroom that was about forty people long. You’d think they would have planned for this . . .

Robin and the rest of the gang had all set up shop at a booth, being significantly less in-demand for selfies than me. Miranda was wearing a dark green cotton affair. It was half knitted, half flat. The sleeves hugged her arms tightly all the way down to her wrists and the dress flared out above her waist and ended just above her knees.

Cute. Cute. Cute.

But Miranda’s cute isn’t my kind of cute, I reminded myself.

Anyway, I started to walk toward them before getting swept back into the glory and adoration, and the filmmaker introduced me to a literal billionaire.

The majority of my interactions that night were cool people telling me they thought I was cool, while I had three drinks, which put me very near to out-of-my-comfort-zone drunk, but not quite. There were a couple of other people at the party who mostly created for the internet—I could actually have conversations with them, and I did. The traditional Hollywood people just had absolutely nothing in common with me.

So, basically, it was extremely fun, but then time passed and eventually I was in my hotel room and it was over and I didn’t know what to do. I was still drunk. I didn’t want to go to sleep. The only thing that was waiting for me there was an unsolvable mystery plane that I’d been working on for almost a month. I’d explored every inch of the exterior of that plane. Maya’s efforts to help within my limitations had been fruitless, but I wouldn’t let her spread it any further than that. I didn’t want to watch hotel TV. I tweeted about the party a bit, but it didn’t give me anything. It all seemed deeply, deeply normal and that wasn’t supposed to be me anymore.

My feel-good brain goodies had been going all night and now it was over. You’d think I’d peacefully cuddle into my fancy hotel bed and drop off to a delicious sleep, but no. This is what rock stars feel like after their concerts . . . This is why they have after-parties with groupies and cocaine. You want to keep the high going, but you can’t rock forever, I guess.

I picked up the phone and dialed the operator.

“Can you connect me to Miranda Beckwith’s room?”

“One moment please.”

And then Miranda was on the phone.

I was well aware that hooking up with Miranda would make my life more complicated. I wasn’t even that attracted to Miranda, but (and I realize I was coming at this from a position of extreme privilege) I was terrified of the aching loneliness of this cold hotel bed.