Martin Reid Sanchez’s spectral, illuminating story asks a straightforward question: if you could go somewhere and have your deepest fantasy fulfilled, would you?
Featuring the matter-of-fact manner of Murakami and carefully framed images out of Hitchcock, and a maybe-Red Hook bar that we couldn’t pass up.
Open the door,
The Editors
Nathan said it was the sort of club where you went to get exactly what you wanted. Where people went to have their deepest fantasy fulfilled. There were only two rules, he said — you couldn’t touch anything without permission, and you had to arrive alone.
“Don’t you usually have to go to those places with a partner?” I asked.
“Believe me, there’s nowhere quite like this place,” Nathan said, grinning.
“I’ve heard something about that kind of club,” I said. “That — well, that the people who actually go are rarely the people you’d want to be there with.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Nathan said. “Why would the other people matter?”
I thought for a moment, then just shrugged. Nathan and I had never talked about anything like this — we’d only ever crossed paths at dinner parties and game nights, and this was the first time we’d hung out one-on-one. Any follow-up seemed likely to elicit details I didn’t want to hear.
I made my excuses soon after that, regretting the attempt to expand my social circle. I did ask him for the club’s address before leaving, though. Be honest — wouldn’t you be just a little bit curious, too?
* * *
I finally visited the club late one Friday night, about a month after my conversation with Nathan. I’d needed the month to work up sufficient courage, and I hoped arriving late would help me blend in. Being the first guest at an ordinary party is awkward enough — imagine the feeling at a club like that.
The club’s entrance was an unmarked metal door on a quiet side street in Brooklyn Heights. I’ll admit I was a little surprised to find that kind of club in such a tony neighborhood. When I rang the bell, the door opened into a dimly lit foyer, which was entirely empty save for a black-suited receptionist. So much for blending in.
I gave the receptionist my driver’s license, my vaccination card, and five twenties in an unmarked mailing envelope. After examining the former two and accepting the latter, he scribbled something in a leather-bound notebook and offered me a coat hanger. I hung my coat on it — then hesitated, letting my hand drift to my top shirt button. Before I could do anything more, the receptionist took the hanger back and hung my coat in a nearby closet.
I felt a surge of relief for having hesitated, and a surge of anxiety about not researching the proper etiquette in advance.
The receptionist led me down a narrow hallway, past several tarnished brass sconces and a dozen or so sturdy-looking doors. The air was still, and smelled faintly of lamp oil and varnished wood. Eventually we stopped in front of one of the doors, which the receptionist unlocked and held open. The room on the other side was quite dark — I couldn’t even see the far wall.
“So, I go in?” I whispered.
The receptionist nodded.
“What happens then?” I asked.
“Your deepest fantasy will be fulfilled,” the receptionist said.
I peered into the darkness. There was no sign of other doors or hidden people.
“Well, hold on…” I began, but the receptionist lifted a finger to stop me.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” he said. “You can leave whenever you’d like. But if you go in, I promise you won’t regret it.”
He smiled calmly. I squinted into the room even harder. What the hell, I thought — I’ve always secretly wanted to be the guy who will try anything once. What better time to start than now?
I stepped inside. Nobody emerged from the shadows to seize me. The receptionist smiled again and closed the door. The room was utterly silent and completely dark.
But it didn’t stay that way for long.
* * *
It was like a movie projector turning on in slow motion. Clusters of dim blurs appeared on the far wall, gradually brightening and sharpening to form a tableau which stretched from the floor to the ceiling.
The tableau showed me standing in that very room. Aside from a lingering blur around its edges, I might as well have been looking into a mirror. But when I lifted my hand, my mirror-self didn’t do the same.
Instead, it turned, opened the door, and stepped out into the hall. The camera, if that’s the right word, followed it as it made its way back to the foyer and out onto the street. As it stood on the sidewalk, I heard accompanying noises — passing cars and rustling leaves, the gentle continuo of anonymous city sounds.
Soon a taxi pulled over in front of my mirror-self — in front of me. Without hesitating, I opened the door and got in.
The images blurred briefly then. When they focused again I was stepping out of the taxi and approaching a tavern in an unfamiliar neighborhood — somewhere in Red Hook, maybe. I opened the tavern’s door and strode in confidently. Nathan was waiting there for me, smiling warmly and waving me over to an open seat at the bar.
Hold on. This was my deepest fantasy? Nathan was just a friend, and even ‘friend’ was…
But no — we just shook hands, ordered drinks, and began to talk.
It was a simple enough conversation — work, hobbies, idle gossip about mutual friends. Rather like the last time we’d seen each other in real life — only this time, we seemed to share a baseline understanding of each other’s lives. Each of us knew precisely which follow-up questions the other was hoping to hear, and which affirmations would make the other feel heard. Occasionally the image would blur and the conversation would leap forward, but I could always follow the thread.
These jumps meant I could watch an entire evening pass. I saw other people enter and leave the tavern, sometimes pausing to chat amiably with Nathan and me. I saw the bartender amble around the room, lighting candles and collecting empty glasses. It was strange seeing myself so comfortable in such an unfamiliar setting. A sort of dissociative feeling I otherwise know only from dreams.
But I didn’t want to look away. I watched in silence, soaking in the scene’s warm bustling energy, until the club’s receptionist knocked on the door to my room and said my hour was almost up. I kept watching as the images began to fade, and even when they were gone.
I also realized, quite belatedly, that this ‘movie’ had come with no telltale beam of projector light in the air. Somehow, it had appeared on the wall from nowhere at all.
* * *
Nathan invited me out for drinks in Clinton Hill the following week. I hadn’t decided yet whether to reach out, but it felt wrong to actually turn him down.
After our second round, I told him about my visit to the club. Or rather, I told him that I had visited — not what I’d actually seen.
“You know, it’s funny,” I said. “When you first told me about it, I thought you were talking about a, well…”
“A what?” he asked with a perfectly innocent smile.
“Never mind,” I said. “I am glad I went, though. Even if I can’t quite explain why.”
“I know the feeling,” Nathan said. “And you don’t have to tell me what you saw, for the record. But I’m happy to listen if you’d like to.”
I realized we were sitting rather like we had in my supposed fantasy. The bar was different, but not in any meaningful way. The other patrons’ conversations were a gentle background murmur. Nathan was still smiling, his head tilted forward slightly in order to hear me better.
I took a sip of beer and wondered what to say.
-30-
Martin Reid Sanchez was born in California and studied English at UC Berkeley. His fiction has previously appeared in The San Franciscan and at his short story blog UnseenSanFrancisco.com. He lives in Brooklyn.