It could have been a minute, an hour, a day later, when blackness lightened to dark gray and then to a spinning light gray, which slowed until it stopped.
I opened my eyes and lifted my head from folded arms. My last memory was looking down the barrel of a gun inside Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks diner—and seeing it flash.
And now I appeared to be sitting on a stool inside a modern minimalist bar, shades of red. Hell-o.
I looked down, checking to see if I’d been shot. No blood, no pain.
Then a young guy appeared behind the bar, kind of scruffy in a tee shirt and baseball cap. “I was just about to wake you,” I he said. “Gotta close.”
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Eddie, the bartender.”
“Am I in Hell?”
“Sometimes it seems like that.”
“Then where?”
The bartender chuckled. “Wonder Bar.”
“Wonder Bar? Where’s that?”
“Funny, boss. Asbury Park.”
“Asbury Park, New Jersey?”
“There’s only one.”
“But what the hell am I doing here?”
Eddie shrugged. “Never saw you come in. We were busy. Time to go.”
I got off my barstool. “C’mon,” I said, looking around the empty bar. “I’m not in New Jersey.”
This amused the bartender. “Whatever you say, boss. Where do you think you are?”
“Chicago,” I said. “The Art Institute.”
Eddie smirked, shaking his head. “I. don’t. think. so.”
“What time is it?”
“Closing time—a quarter past three.”
“In the morning?”
“How much did you have to drink?”
“Nothing! I was looking at a painting.”
“Uh-huh.” Eddie paused. “I really gotta go.”
I peeked out the door and chill salt air massaged my face. I had a thought, turned around. “What year is it?”
“C’mon, man,” said the tired bartender “This isn’t for real.”
“What do you mean, not for real?”
He shrugged. “I give up. It’s 2023. Okay?”
I walked out, found myself on the corner of Ocean and Fifth. Dark, empty. No people, no cars.
It looked like a painting by Edward Hopper.
I poked back into the bar. “Any chance of calling a taxi?”
Eddie shook his head as he sleeved his jacket on, keys in his hand. “I’m leaving, man.” He saw me out and locked up. “Aw, shit. You wanna lift to the Berkeley?”
“The where?”
“It’s a hotel, a few blocks away. You can get a cab—or a room.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
I climbed into his old clunker, colder inside than out. “How long was I in your bar?”
“Told you, busy night,” he said. “Went by like a blur. Didn’t notice you till the place cleared out.” He paused. “You really think you’re in Chicago?”
I nodded. “I was. Maybe I still am. Could I be dreaming?”
“I hope not, boss. I’m for real.”
“You sure?”
Dreaming was the only thing that made sense, given the circumstances.
“I’ve seen a lot working that bar.” The bartender shook his head, grinning. “But this beats all.” A minute later he pulled up in front of an eight-story building that looked like a prison. “This is it.”
“Thanks,” I said, and he was off.
I entered the lobby. It was lit low, no one around. I smacked the desk bell. A young guy doing graveyard shift came out.
“I just want to be clear about something,” I said. “Am I in Asbury Park, New Jersey?”
He nodded, as if this was the one thing in life he was certain about. “Yup.”
“I need a room.” I handed him cash, accepted a card key and made my way to a boxy room. I got into bed, convinced I would wake up in Chicago.
But upon awakening I found myself in the same boxy room. I buzzed down for the desk to phone a taxi.
“Where are you going?”
“Where’s the nearest airport?”
“Newark International.”
By mid-afternoon I was back in Chicago. I cabbed directly to the Art Institute and consulted the young woman at Admissions. “I want to know about your Nighthawks exhibition,” I said.
“The Hoppers are in the American department.” She grabbed a map and offered it to me.
“No-no-no-no-no. I want to know about the special Nighthawks deal, virtual reality, where you think you’re in the painting and it feels like real life.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know anything about that.”
“Is there somebody else who knows?”
She shrugged. “You can ask when you get to the American department.”
I followed my footsteps of the day before until I stood in front of Nighthawks.
Not taking any chances, I stood further back this time, studying it for a minute before consulting a security guard standing nearby. “How would I activate the hologram—or whatever it is that gets you inside that painting?”
“Huh?”
“You know, virtual reality, or whatever it is.”
He looked at me blankly.
“Who’s in charge of this department?”
He shrugged. “Ask the front entrance.”
I returned, got the runaround, until the curator’s assistant came out to see me.
“I really think I’m owed an explanation,” I said to her.
She smiled sweetly. “For what?”
“For what you do with your Nighthawks painting by Edward Hopper.”
She tilted her head. “What do we do?”
“You know, your virtual reality thing—is it a hologram?”
“Is what a hologram?”
“That thing you do with Nighthawks?”
She looked deep into my eyes, as if trying to detect madness.
“I’m not crazy,” I felt the need to say. “Something happened while I was here looking at Nighthawks yesterday and I assumed it had something to do with a museum innovation.”
“What happened?”
“It was as if I’d entered the painting. I was there, in the diner. It was amazing. A great show. Now I feel like I know what Hopper was thinking when he painted it. So it seemed to me it was an educational tool.” I paused. “But I did not appreciate waking up in Asbury Park, New Jersey.”
She shook her head. Clearly, she thought I was nuts. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Really?”
“No. We have no such thing here.” She paused. “ But sometimes people become so absorbed by a painting they can actually feel like they’re part of it.”
“But they don’t wake up in Asbury Park, New Jersey,” I said.
“No. Now, if you don’t mind, I have stuff to catch up on.” She eased away from me.
I stood, dumbfounded for 15 seconds. Then I turned and aimed myself back to the American department.
Two security guards blocked my path. “Not today, mister,” said one.
“But I paid admission!” I protested.
“I’ll take you back for a refund.”
The Admission’s gal handed me 18 dollars in cash and the security guards watched me exit.