The plastic surgeon’s pickup service wasn’t exactly what I expected. Stepping out into the busy city street fronting my building, I’d thought there’d be a car to meet me. Probably one of those shiny black Lincoln sedans with tinted windows, or something like a limo.

But, stepping from my lobby’s refrigerated air, out into the morning’s simmering humidity, I saw only an idling motorcycle. A big pink Harley.

The driver, wearing what looked like a pink wetsuit and a bright pink helmet with a mirrored visor, began nodding for me to jump up on the bike’s backseat. Each of the driver’s nods, to me, felt calming as infusions of Xanax. And so, casting any initial apprehension aside, I hopped on.

The motorcycle taxi set off like a racehorse. Went from fast to warp speed. Riding pillion, I nervously gripped the underside of the seat, clinging for dear life.

The bike’s engine roared, loud as death metal, and we were weaving furiously through traffic, then took a turn at what must have been 30 MPH. But the pink driver didn’t even wince. Dude just kept plowing forward, threading through oncoming traffic, cars, busses ... The big bike riding roughshod, the Harley to city traffic as a lion is to the jungle...

But my heart skipped a beat when we jumped a curb, went from the busy road to a crowded sidewalk. Fortunately, the driver slowed once we hit the pavement.

After almost running over a rough sleeper, the bike stopped suddenly, causing me to rock back and forth. Thankfully I didn’t tumble off the pillion.

The pink driver wordlessly nodded to an unusual sight. An ornate doorway. A doorway sandwiched between two shadowy, interconnected skyscrapers that resembled darker glass versions of Kuala Lumpur’s Petronas Towers. Perplexed, I dug out and checked my phone, seeking to confirm the address, my Google Map dot.

Yes, I was at the right place ... The dot directly between the two dark towers...

So I slinked off the bike’s backseat, and as soon as I did, the man in pink gunned his engine, sped off down the sidewalk.

Turning on my heel, I again laid eyes upon the doorway. How was this a plastic surgeon’s office? I’d have expected the doctor to be up on an upper floor of one of the dark skyscrapers. I’d have expected his office to be palatial, overlooking a park or a river. But instead, there was simply this doorway.

But it was no ordinary doorway. The door was bejeweled. Bedecked in glittering diamonds, rubies and sapphires. What’s more, the door was rimmed with solid gold, a sparkly gold that shone as if electrified, and even the door’s handle was an L-shaped rod of the precious metal.

Stepping closer to the door, listening to the laps of traffic buzzing by, like insects, I felt more at ease. My anxiety, my aversion to whatever strangeness might be behind that door, all of that was leaving me like water down a drain.

Once I was about an arm’s length from the door, it opened on its own. It creaked, loudly, as it drew back and a glance inside revealed a scene that could have been printed on a postcard...

A gorgeous, tropical beach.

Trepidation washed over me. How could a tropical beach exist in the middle of a bustling city?

But before I could ponder this peculiar occurrence, a force pulled me inside and the gilded door squeaked before it slapped shut behind me.

For a second, I felt completely alone. And terrified. There was no one in sight on this beach. It was as if I’d been marooned on an island in the far Pacific.

Up in the water-blue sky, twin suns glowered like a buttery pair of eyes. Lowering my gaze, I scanned the endless horizon and limpid seas, watching the tides’ tongues slide back and forth over marble-white sands.

But I didn’t see anyone or anything, anywhere.

It must have been 20 degrees hotter inside this realm and my clothes, my T-shirt and jeans melted like butter plopped into a hot skillet. My clothes’ collective residue began dripping off my body. Then my shoes dissolved, slid off my feet, their slime the same marble-white color as the sand. Next my socks and Sheath underwear similarly disintegrated.

Standing completely naked, I strolled the shore, unsure where my plastic surgeon might be. He’d been highly rated on Google, had loads of followers on social media, and had once appeared at cricket matches and on a popular reality TV show. The guy was famous. Yet neither he, nor anyone, was anywhere in sight.

Plodding along the beach, I shouted his name. “Dr. Patel!” “Dr. Patel!!!!” “DOOOOOCTOR PAAAAAAATEEEEEEL!!!!!!”

But there was no reply.

The skies above began to haze, morphing into a mauve-ish color I’d never seen. The seas, too, stirred and stewed and took on an entirely artificial pinkish hue.