As I do most nights (and as she described in this lovely article), I was reading to my wife in bed. This time, it was a very strange story about a community of people who believe a ’90s children’s movie starring Sinbad has disappeared, possibly due to a crossover with other dimensions, a glitch in the computer simulation we’re all living in, or simply a conspiracy (read it yourself, it’s amazing). Then the doorbell rang.
We were expecting our friend Jennifer to arrive from Los Angeles around 2 AM, but it was only 11 PM. Who could it be? I hurried to put on my pants and ran down the stairs. A young man in a black leather trench coat and black leather gloves was waiting at the door.
“I am looking for the Inspector General,” he said. We know everyone on the block, and I’ve never heard of an Inspector General. I asked him what address he was looking for, as Queens can get pretty confusing with its numbered streets, avenues, and places.
“They told me it was this house,” he said. “My apologies.” Then he turned around and left.