Well, That Escalated Quickly

As the semester concludes and sleep deprivation takes its toll, you feel as if you’ve reached your own end. Shakily, you step forward onto a moving escalator, and because your sense of vertigo worsens, you wearily sit on a cold metal step. Feeling your pulse roaring in your ears and seeing your peripheral vision swirling, you immediately close your eyes and unintentionally doze off from your accumulated fatigue into the song of your subconscious.

A tugging force causes you to awaken. There’s a sudden, sharp, teething sensation eating away at your shirt and biting into your back. You look behind your shoulder and see that the escalator is eating away at your clothing! You’re too far from the emergency brake to slam it. No one is around so you begin to panic. Horrified, you flail your arms outwards and open your mouth to shriek.

Suddenly, the teething sensation is replaced by a gentle embrace. Someone else’s hands cover your eyes. Giggles erupt from these escalator Sirens before they aggressively pull you downwards. This moment is short lived, as you open your eyes and find yourself in the middle of a hallway.

You groan in annoyance. Stuyvesant was your Life, but was it necessary for it to be your Death, too? However, a quick look-around makes it evident that this Stuyvesant Purgatory has abnormalities that distinguish it from the real deal: the hall’s expanse is desolate of people, but scrunched up paper wads litter the tiles like tumbleweeds. The grand portrait of Peter Stuyvesant that faces the half floor is replaced with a collage of textbooks vandalized beyond recognition. The senior bar is covered in neon chewed gum in every shade imaginable. A torn banner hangs above the fiasco, and the only legible gold letters imprinted on it say “DYSTUYPIA.” You scream.

“Can you sHuT uP?!” says an underclassman emerging from behind the senior bar counter. Her arms cradle a bucket of cell phones. Peculiarly enough, the identification cards on each phone are that of teachers and not students. With a vigor that you haven’t seen since junior high, she pelts you with the devices, knocking you into another dimension.

Well… another room, that is. The second floor has disappeared around you, and now you’re standing awkwardly in the center of the cafeteria. Hearing the sirens’ familiar laughter, you turn and find several pairs of eyes staring at you in twinkling amusement. A clique. The leader sits at the center, and he beckons for you to come closer. It is then that you notice that everyone except yourself is semi-translucent, shrouded in a peaceful aura. Apparitions!

“Surprised?” he asks, noting your surprised expression. “Ah, Stuyvesant! You guys know how to open your books, but no one is ever really an open-book about how they feel or know about anything.”

Another member rolls her eyes and says, “Spare them the credit. They procrastinate in looking through their material.” She shakes her head. “Can’t blame ‘em. They forget everything they shove into their heads, and neglect what they love most. It makes them feel so purposeless.” Her tone is sardonic.

“Well, that doesn’t change the fact that I would have had a presentation next period,” you say. You extract several chicken-scrawled index cards from your pocket. “All this ‘last minute rehearsing’ was probably useless though. I can’t believe I died via an escalator.”

The clique leader rolls his eyes and says, “Nah, you’re not dead. You’re just lost.” He pauses. “I mean that in more ways than the obvious, you know.”

“We dragged you here because we know that there’s still some hope left for you,” the Sirens confess. “It’s kinda drastic, but knowing Stuy’s opposite could really give you a more holistic idea to life apart from routine and academia.”

“Ugh, what world are those words from? Ancient Greece?” you ask.

The clique leader is disgusted, saying, “Being wise isn’t going to make the kid any smarter. Bring it back to Stuy.”

Reluctantly, you allow the Sirens to take you home. They snap their fingers, and the three of you are transported to a floor you don’t recognize. The scent of chlorine is overpowering. The entire area resembles a condensed ocean and its aura is eerily spiritual. The eleventh floor pool.

“Ah, our River Styx. Unlike those who live in it, the Styx is devoid of all shallowness and superficiality. It’s perfect for practicing necromancy, just like we did on you,” the Sirens joke before pushing you outward.

Time slows before you hit the water, and you have time to ask your most important question:“If this is the River Styx, then is it Stuyvesant or Dystuypia that is the Underworld?”

“Maybe it’s both, maybe it’s neither, and it’s ultimately up to you to decide,” they respond.