The XL Code

FACT: The Last Debate is a real blog that was founded in September 2004. It is headquartered in a secret apartment in the exclusive Washington Heights neighborhood of Manhattan. All of the artwork, architecture, gay bars and secret rituals depicted in this story are real.

1.

Andy had only just closed the front door when he felt the buzz against his left thigh; a single vibration lasting only a couple of seconds, indicating a text message, rather than a call. He knew it would be important. Only a few people in the world had access to this number. Opening the phone, he beheld the bold black letters:

XL 630

2.

Andy glanced at the clock. 5:38. If he understood the code correctly, he had less than an hour. Quickly he changed into a white, black and blue Banana Republic shirt and slipped on a pair of polished black Kenneth Cole shoes. He rinsed his face quickly using Duane Reade-brand knockoff Cetaphil, then knelt on the parquet floor of his living room in the gold-tinted late-afternoon light and genuflected before the ancient Italian crucifix that hung on his wall.

Then he was gone.

3.

Mark tapped his foot anxiously against the plain grey concrete floor of the international arrivals area at John F. Kennedy Airport’s Terminal 2, watching the parade of identical black rolling suitcases file past him on the conveyor belt. He glanced at his watch: 5:42.

Only four minutes had passed since he sent the invitation to Andy. Excited to be back in the United States, but tired from the journey, he had estimated he could easily get to Manhattan within the hour in a cab, assuming there were no difficulties with customs. Yet as he waited for his bag, anxiety mounted. He did not want to be late for this.

At 5:44, Mark spied his bag, grabbed it, and headed for immigration.

4.

The Brooklyn-bound A train thundered into the arched, mouldy 181st Street station with a roar that drowned out the recording of Renee Fleming singing “Cäcilie” that Andy was listening to on his iPod. It squealed to a stop under the stalactites forming on the ceiling, and he boarded, carefully selecting a seat that wasn’t under the system map. Distracted by the gleaming glory of Fleming’s high-B at the climax of the song, he did not notice the shadowy figure that ducked onto the train at the back of the car just as the doors were closing.

5.

“Where to, sir?” said the cabbie, in a lilting Caribbean accent.

“West 16th and 9th Avenue, please,” said Mark, as he tossed his bag into the backseat of the taxi and slid in beside it. His watch said 6:03. Since traffic was mostly outbound at this time of night, he figured he would just make it on time.

6.

The silent figure, with a hat slung low over his brow and a black trench coat, regarded Andy suspiciously from the back of the train. At one point their eyes met, and he raised the corner of his lip in a silent but menacing snarl. Andy rolled his eyes, shrugged, and went back to reading The Last Temptation of Christ.

The cloaked man got off at 42nd Street, and Andy never gave him a second thought.

At 6:28, Andy arrived in Chelsea, getting off the subway at the 14th Street station. He headed toward the rear of the tiled, mustard-colored platform and up the concrete stairs, then doubled back through the stainless steel turnstile. His heart pounding, he virtually leapt up the stairs in the back left corner of the station behind the attendant’s booth, and, emerging in the pinkish twilight of the warm late spring evening, he strolled eagerly west down 16th Street. He could not believe what Mark promised him was about to happen.

Even from the curb outside the tall white door Andy could hear the pounding bass of the music inside. As he passed through the set of double doors, he inhaled the unusual, antiseptic bleachy odor of the bar. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness – the vast space was lit mostly by undulating rainbow projections on the ceiling and the glow from mini television screens showing videos of nude French rugby players – he scanned the small crowd for any sign of Mark. “I hope he shows up,” he thought.

Taking a seat on a stool at the bar underneath a large, crème-colored fabric palm tree, he ordered a Stoli Ohranj and soda. The bartender, tall, slender but muscular in a tight black tank top, smiled as he served the drink. Taking a sip, Andy could barely detect any soda, so he left $2 on the counter.

7.

His watch read 6:41 as he stepped out of the cab on 16th Street. He hated being late, but all things considered had made pretty good time from JFK. Fortunately there had been no problem at customs and traffic had been steady.

He spotted Andy instantly, sitting under the fake palm tree, two-thirds of the way through a vodka tonic. Typical. He strode up to him with a broad smile. “Andy!”

“Hey Mark, nice to see you again! How was your trip?”

“Yeah, it was pretty good. I’ll tell you all about it. So, are you ready?”

Andy took a deep breath. “Well, yeah, I guess.” He nervously took another large gulp from his drink. “Let’s go.”

“Okay,” said Mark. “I told him to meet us upstairs.”

Together they walked around the back of the bar toward the staircase that led to the glass balcony and lounge overlooking the rest of the bar. There, alone on a sofa in the back, was a solitary figure with olive colored skin and curly dark hair.

“Andy,” said Mark proudly, “this is Jesus.”

TO BE CONTINUED