Tunnels and Codes...

I can't stress enough how much better Webster got after he burned down the apartment with his chemistry set, forcing the family to move into a house full of secret passages. Call it a load of Papadapolis if you must, but I stand by my comment. The notion, especially to my impressionable 10-year-old brain, that any bookcase, clock, or dumbwaiter could lead to places inside the walls was an exciting one, and I spent a lot of time inspecting my own home, comparing the width of our hallway to a pair of adjoining rooms to see if any space was unaccounted for. Sadly, I found nothing, though 22 years later adding such spaces to homes is an option, evidenced by this link found over at Sean's.

At my Middle School, a legend persisted of tunnels running beneath the school, connecting it to the neighboring elementary school, and possibly anywhere else in my hometown our young minds could imagine. My friends and I would speak of expeditions, pondering riches or two-way mirrors to the girls' locker room. There were two possible entry points to The Tunnels, located at the back of stairwells, solidly locked and at times guarded by a janitor or a security guard. Through the grapevine, eyewitness accounts trickled down of one of the security guards spied emerging from one of these doors, looking around, and discarding a cigarette. Getting in was impossible, unless of course a weak spot could be located. Fortunately, being a musician would prove useful.

My break was discovered in the auditorium, where a staircase led below the ground level of the school to a place the theater group could store props and costumes. There were a pair of bathrooms, used only for changing since they had not been maintained, and word reached me from my band contacts that the girl's bathroom had a hole in the wall, a section of collapsed bricks that led to a very plain and mysterious room with nothing but dust and pipes. One day during a break in our rehearsal, I crept quickly down those stairs and darted in to that restroom. Sure enough, light streamed in from a curved wall of bricks, and stepped through into a strange room between rooms. The only other opening was a rectangle on the opposite wall, no more than a foot or two high and three feet across. Beyond it only darkness and humming thrived. I got the hell out of there and back up to my seat on stage, before I was missed.

My friends were very excited when I relayed the news. Plans were quickly set in motion as our group leader determined we'd need rope and flashlights. We had no idea what sort of labyrinth awaited us, and the rope would help us retrace our steps should we become lost. After school, I took them to the place I'd found to assess our mission, where the bravest of our trio immediately crawled into the dark space. His voice soon echoed that we had to check it out, and I crawled in followed by our other friend. After a few claustrophobic feet we reached a place where we could stand again. It was very hot and the only light came from the room we'd left behind. All I could make out were pipes running along the walls. My sense of adventure dwindled. In 7th grade, I found myself in a transitional state between a risk-taking MCF and an overly cautious MCF. What if I got kicked out of the band? It didn't matter to my friends, but I was part of something other than classes, something that, if I lost, I might finally see my dad get as angry as my mom usually did. After five years of getting in trouble in elementary school and seeing the inside of a principal's office several times a week, I was determined to change my stripes. Punishment wasn't my only concern. I'd seen Scout's Honor; I knew the dangers. No way was I going to end up trapped in a cave-in like Gary Coleman.

Convincing them to leave, I knew my cowardice had driven a wedge between my closest friends and I. They were determined to return, with or without me, at the end of the week with the rope and flashlights. Threats were made, and even if I didn't join them I had to keep their secret, or they'd let everyone in school know I was chicken. Logical flaws in such a threat, while evident to me as an adult, escaped me then. I already felt like I was the school nerd, the biggest of our group, and the one that brought everyone else down. They already blamed me for their status with girls and cool guys, and I had no desire to become an outcast among the outcasts. Friday rolled around, and I kept my silence. A long weekend ensued, during which time I imagined my friends trapped or missing. I'd have to say something, even if I got in trouble, in order to save them. Yet if I spoke, I wouldn't be cool. I kept my mouth shut, and the transition to my future self clicked forward.

Friday long past, Monday morning wasn't so bad. Both friends were alive, well, and accounted for, and I discovered that only one of them carried out the plan while the other quietly backed out. We listened wide-eyed to his tale of following the pipes and discovering the boiler room, and then emerging in a subbasement of the elementary school where he found old colorful chairs. There were several other places where the tunnels were too low to stand, where he considered turning back but would have had to move backwards to do so in the confined areas. Miraculously, he found his way to one of those doors behind the stairwell, and escaped unharmed and undetected. I regretted missing the adventure, even though I now realize he was very lucky, assuming of course his story was true. To this day I have no way of knowing if all three of us backed out. After four years at a different high school and seeing them only on weekends, we all grew apart. They went away to college while I stayed local, and I only saw them once at a party one of them threw, after which I was given misleading directions to an ice cream parlor. They told me to make a left, while everyone else turned right.

It's no surprise that I ever considered exploring The Tunnels, since I always craved adventure as a child, even before I delved fully into comic books in high school and college. I devoured young adult mystery novels, and took The Young Detective's Handbook as my bible. No glass or surface was safe from me sprinkling talcum powder and collecting fingerprints with scotch tape. I called myself a detective and carried around a magnifying glass, one more invitation for classmates to pound the crap out of me. I solved “mysteries”, like the Case of the Missing Cat, in which I told a neighbor I heard meowing in the woods and two days later their missing cat showed up. I was wholly and completely delusional, or simply lost in a boyhood fantasy.

Writing codes fascinated me, and I passed coded messages to friends at every opportunity, usually mundane things about what games we'd play at lunch. Sometimes I'd write in numbers, with each number corresponding to a letter(A=1, B=2, etc.). Sometimes I'd use a reverse alphabet, in which A was Z and Z was A. Sometimes I'd write with lemonade, which was invisible until the paper was held to a flame. Later I'd move on to more concealed messages, such as writing a paragraph that required a key, a piece of paper with spaces cut out that only highlighted certain words and parts of words when placed over the fake message. Then there was the ever popular “take the first letter of every paragraph” technique. That’s one I’ve never gotten completely tired of.

Renting National Treasure last year, I spent some time on the special features, exploring the different ways messages have been concealed historically. Not only did they cover some of the techniques I used as a child, but one feature covered Heiroglyphics in great detail. I wouldn't say I became fluent, but I did get an idea of the complexity of the ancient Egyptian language. Single symbols could represent words, or anywhere from one to three latin characters.

In last night's episode of Lost, a crucial scene, which I won't spoil here, involves the appearance of hieroglyphics. I was reminded of my childhood fascination with code breaking, and set about surfing the web to attempt to translate what I'd seen.

This soon proved to be a challenge. I only found two recognizable characters that were Egyptian for sure, and it took another friend surfing today to discover someone who had figured it out. If anyone is interested, the screenshot from the episode can be found here while the translation is here. I can't guarantee how long those links will be valid, so check them while you still can.

Every once in a while I realize how much better life was when most of it stemmed from my imagination. I probably won't be writing any complex coded messages any time soon, and I definitely won't be climbing around in underground tunnels, especially ones with a symbol like the one my Middle School tunnels boasted. At least television, movies, and writing provide an outlet for those old pleasures.