The scent of coffee is rich in the air as the café door closes itself behind us. Inside, the atmosphere is tense, as if the building holds a secret. I know this used to be a regular coffee shop. A day like today should have every booth full of happy patrons, enjoying the company of others, studying, working, eating and drinking. Today, it’s mainly used for transit. I try to shake the thought. Currently, I’m focused on only one thing — my destination. I’ve never jumped before and I’m not sure what to expect.
“Wait in line, I’ll be right back.”
Suddenly, left alone with my thoughts, I begin to reflect on how I got here and wonder why I’m now feeling a twinge of anxiety. Growing up impoverished requires one to approach new opportunities with a healthy amount of skepticism. It’s my nature to doubt the best possible outcome from the unknown, and, truly, things never seemed to work out for the kids who come from my neighbourhood. I think maybe that’s why I never tried jumping before. Sure, there’s the cost, and I’ve never had a lot of money. I’ve certainly had and passed on the opportunity many times, however, and listening to others tell stories — of their first, fifth, hundredth jump — it doesn’t take long before you get awfully jealous of the experiences you’re hearing about.
I wonder if I should have tried this sooner, and I can tell I’m not the only one in line who’s having this thought.
Three years ago is when the city first converged. A man — Gerald Somethingorother — vanished into thin air. Literally. He entered a building while a friend, John, waited outside. When Gerald opened the door to return, he took a step out and his body disappeared. John watched as the door closed softly over the empty entryway. If this had been just a few decades prior, there would have been panic among the public and talk of the apocalypse being upon us. There was fear, no doubt. John felt terrified. His friend had just disappeared and no one else seemed to be reacting. Had he imagined the whole thing? Was Gerald even real? John had to tell himself not to be stupid — of course Gerald was real. He tried to calm himself down but was too distressed.
Standing there alone, processing a wave of emotions, John wondered what happened to his friend. The skies today were overcast, but looking to the heavens he could see the clouds parting just enough for the sun to beam down directly on his face. Now, it felt as though he were standing in a spotlight. All eyes on John. Sounds that are recognizably downtown core — the cars, the chatter, the birds chirping, the people fighting — they all faded away as John stood there, scared and alone. He started to sweat. Suddenly, his phone rang. He would have missed the call if not for the startling volume of the ringer, and, looking down at the phone, he almost had a heart attack.
John answered the phone and heard a familiar voice on the line. To him, currently, after what he’d witnessed, it was the most beautiful voice in the world. It was Gerald’s voice.
A million questions raced through John’s mind. He didn’t know where to begin. It didn’t matter, though, as Gerald had plenty to say.
Not long after, government agencies arrived to investigate, and scientists arrived to research, but at that moment, outside the café in downtown Vancouver, it was just the two of them. Well, just John. Gerald had discovered the first gate. He was in Seattle.
“Oh shit.”
Several people turned to look. It was not my intention to be so loud, but I couldn’t help it as I recognize where I’m standing. This is the same café. This is where Gerald jumped for the first time. Suddenly, I’m feeling my own little connection to history. Excitement rolled over my body as the anxiety and doubt disappeared. I should make more of an effort to look around, I tell myself, and start to admire the space while I wait for the line to move.
The café looks so different now than it did in the pictures from that day. It’s no wonder I didn’t recognize it. What used to be a cute, modern spot for coffee and pastries now looks overly industrial and rundown. The vinyl records on the wall, once hand-selected by the staff and proudly displayed as conversation starters, are now covered in dust, untouched and unappreciated. The assortment of plants that used to hang from the ceiling, vibrant and adding an air of life to the interior, have disappeared, either removed or long dead. Music no longer plays over the speakers, and the only sounds I hear are the occasional spoon stirring a drink, or the light hum of background conversation as people wait to be on their way. It’s cold.
Shortly after the first gate appeared here, a handful more began popping up all over town. Slowly at first, maybe one every week or two, but within months they would start appearing in groups. The investigation and research that took place on this spot would move to each new gate. And when a new gate opened, when research followed and completed, the spot would remain forever changed. A new industry would be born. Vancouver had always been an international hub; ideally positioned for a major airport that connected to the eastern world, and a seaport that provided goods to the rest of the continent. Now, though, it would be connected to more places than previously imaginable. Vancouver became the international hub, connecting everyone with everywhere. Instantly.
In the early stages, despite the unlimited resources that were given to them, scientists struggled to uncover the significance. They would ask questions like Why here? or Why did it bridge these two spots? Seemingly random, every gate connected to a different location somewhere else in the world; a door at Cambie & Hastings connected to one in Manhattan, a door at Thurlow and Robson connected to one in London. It took some time, and some truly wild guesses, but now whenever a new gate appears we’re able to pinpoint its exact counterpoint around the globe. The solution was simple: Vancouver has spent so long dressed up as other cities — Washington in 1982s First Blood, Minnesota in 2007s Juno, Alaska in 2001s See Spot Run — that the city was converging with its fictional counterparts. An individual — a passenger? user? customer? — could walk through a door in Vancouver, and walk out somewhere else, in whatever city that that location had previously doubled for in a film or television show.
There were limits, of course. The other end of the gate had to be somewhere on Earth. Fantasy and science fiction destinations didn’t exist, at least not yet.
Damn, that’d be way cooler. I think to myself.
Going through a gate also presented zero choice to the jumper, obviously. The destination was the destination. And, most importantly, it was unidirectional. Once you arrived at the other end, you were there until you decide to come back using a more traditional method. Train, if possible, but more commonly by plane. Gates could connect vast distances, and because of the cost, it wasn’t practical for someone to jump to a place within walking or driving distance.
Now I’m feeling emotional as my brain registers the significance. I knew where I was standing, but now I know where I’m standing. This is Gerald’s Gate. It wasn’t intentional, choosing this café, we just wanted to visit Seattle and this was the closest gate to us.
“You look as if you’re about to cry,” says a voice over my shoulder.
It’s Harper, back from the restroom.
“Norman, I know this is a big deal for you,” she says.
Her blue eyes twinkle in the sunlight and look directly at my own. Harper and I have been together for a year and a half now, and she’s never had trouble understanding me, but despite never trying to conceal my emotions in front of her, I can’t help feeling a little embarrassed. I may be jumping for the first time, but Harper is well-experienced at this point. She was already travelling regularly for work before the convergence, and the addition of gates was a revolution in her industry.
“A little. This is the spot, you know,” I replied.
It required a concerted effort not to ask Harper any questions in the weeks leading up to our trip. As curious as I was about jumping, I wanted as much as possible for it to remain a mystery until we walked through that gate. Perhaps I was overemphasizing the significance, but, not unlike a child taking their first flight, this changes a person and opens the world up to them. That’s how I felt, at least, so I resisted asking any questions that could spoil the surprise for me.
The line shrinks as customers place their orders, collecting food or leaving to their destination.
“I’m glad we’re doing this,” I could feel the love in her words as she asks, “What are you most looking forward to?”
Harper was always quick to extend her kindness.
“Well,” I begin to reply.
She jumped in with a smirk, “Beyond the obvious.”
I didn’t have to search my mind very long for an answer, but we’re at the counter before I can say anything.
“Hey folks, staying or leaving?”
I appreciate that whoever is working the counter has to ask that question, no doubt a directive from management, because looking at the people in line you can say pretty confidently why each one is there. Those with bags — a backpack, a suitcase or two — were only there for travel. Their interest usually began and ended with the gate, and only occasionally would they order something to take along.
It’s early in the day, and we didn’t get much sleep last night, so I order a couple of coffees while Harper asks for a banana chocolate chip muffin to go with hers.
We move to the side and stand, waiting for our drinks to be poured. I have to rub my eyes to clear the fatigue, but now I’m watching as the barista works. Her heavily tattooed arms slowly and methodically pour steamed milk into the cup. She clearly has a passion for what she does. This used to be an art-form. Perhaps, to her, it still is. A couple of minutes pass before the barista is finished and calls my name. We grab our coffee from the counter, walk back to the gate, and are ready to make the jump.
I stop to take a breath.
“You,” I say, standing there beside Harper.
“What?”
“I’m most looking forward to a month alone, with you, free from work and distractions. No agenda except the one we set for ourselves.”
We smile at each other as I reach out. The warmth of her hand is comforting, and I increase my grip as we simultaneously take a step through the gate. Instantly, we’ve arrived in Seattle, and we’re standing outside a café identical to the one in Vancouver.
Except for the brief flash of light, it was no different from walking through a regular doorway. I didn’t feel a thing. I’ve just jumped for the first time!
Water is dripping down my face now as I look around to take in the new surroundings.
“Oh, fuck.”
It’s pouring rain in Seattle, and neither of us thought to bring an umbrella.