Clean Slate by Harley Crowley
Chapter 3
Evelyn Emerson's office was definitely more comfortable. And she was efficient. In no time she'd lined up a motel room, and issued him some vouchers for the motel's restaurant. She asked if he knew his clothes sizes, and he shook his head. She rummaged through a cupboard and found him a fleece-lined windbreaker, a pair of jeans that looked like they would fit, a clean pair of grey sweatpants, and a couple of new colored t-shirts still in their plastic packages. Also a three-pack of underwear, which she chose from the shelf after appraising his behind apologetically. Last she pulled out a plastic bag with a disposable razor and deodorant, and a comb. She put all this in a big plastic bag with handles, and then they sat down on either side of her desk. More forms.
"What should I call you, do you think? John Doe is such a clich?. How about Bob?" She smiled. "My son's name is Bob. After Bob Marley." There was something else he knew. He knew who Bob Marley was. Maybe his memory was intact about everything that wasn't related uniquely to himself.
"I don't know. Bob doesn't sound right, but then neither does anything else. But I did have the feeling for a second at first that my name starts with 'B.' "
"Okay, Mr. B then." She thumbed through some papers on her desk, then looked up. "I think it would be a good idea to have a doctor see you."
"What can a doctor do? I don't want to see a doctor." He didn't think he could stand being questioned again right now. He just needed a shower, and to take a nap to get away from all this. Maybe if he slept, he'd remember everything when he woke up. Maybe by dinner time he'd have his life back.
Evelyn was patient. "It doesn't have to be today. You look healthy enough. This may be psychological amnesia. Sometimes our brains just shut off to protect us from a trauma, or a conflict that can't be solved. But there could be an organic reason, and that's what we'll want to rule out."
"You mean like a brain tumor?"
"A brain tumor is only one possibility. Some sort of stroke, or an atypical migraine. Something we wouldn't know without an examination. The brain is a wonderful, complicated thing. But then, I'm not a doctor." She sounded so matter of fact, talking about a potential disaster inside his skull that way.
"I don't want to think about it right now. I'd rather get cleaned up, and I'm tired and hungry." He had fallen into a pleading tone. He had too much to think about already, and at the same time, this frustrating lack of details. He was suddenly exhausted, and desperate to be alone.
"Of course you would. It can wait. Why don't I drive you to the motel now and you can get some rest."
It occurred to him that he didn't have any idea of the time of year, except it wasn't summer. "What day is this?"
"It's the third of November. A Thursday." Of course it was fall. There had been red and yellow leaves on the trees, and brown ones on the grass in the park.
"What year is it?"
She looked at him consolingly. "It's 2011." And she added, "This must be difficult for you."
"No shit. Excuse the language. You're very kind."
She smiled. "Let's go get you settled in." The phone on her desk rang, and she had a brief conversation.
"That was Sergeant Wilcox. They ran your prints, but no match came up. So at least we know you're not a criminal."
"Or I'm a smart one."
Another of her warm smiles. "Yes, I suppose there's always that possibility."
The motel was over a hill and next to the freeway. As they drove, Evelyn pointed out landmarks as if she were a tour guide, which in a way she was. The historic theater. The library. The college. She seemed to understand he needed orientation.
"This is Interstate 5, and the Canadian border is that way. And this direction you can get to Mexico without a stoplight. Does any of this sound familiar?"
"It's vague, but I have the feeling I knew that."
"Good. That's a start."
Just off the freeway she pulled into the motel parking lot and parked under the carport next to the lobby office. The building had two stories, and a wooden exterior. Black streaks of moss or mold clung to the north side, away from the pale sun that was trying to penetrate a thin layer of fog above them. In the lobby the blue carpet was stained and stretched in places so that it rumpled. A coffee urn stood on a shelf at the edge of the room and on a metal tray there were a few miniature sweet rolls, drying out. He realized he was ravenous. Did he have breakfast before he headed out for his run? He didn't think so. He looked up at a clock over the counter. 10:45 a.m. It seemed like it had been days since he had first found himself in the park.
While Evelyn made arrangements with the turbaned Indian desk clerk, he wandered over and took one of the rolls, and poured a cup of the hours-old black and bitter coffee.
His room was down an inside hallway on the ground floor. Evelyn stood outside his door to say goodbye.
"It's not the grandest of accommodations," she said as she peered into the room. The furniture was dark plastic laminate with no discernible style. The double bed was covered in a garish flowered bedspread. He flipped on the light switch and it didn't improve things that much.
"It's fine. All I need is a shower and a bed. And food."
"Believe it or not they have room service from the restaurant next door. You don't have to go out if you don't want to. There should be a menu here somewhere. You can charge your food to your room and pay with the vouchers when you leave. You have enough to last you for a couple of days, and I can give you more if you need them. Hopefully we'll get you home well before then."
He nodded, but home seemed inconceivable. It felt like this was the only home he had. He pushed away a feeling of doom.
"I'll call to check on you before I leave the office for the day, and you can call me any time. If it's after hours the service will contact me. You're sure you want to be alone? I could stay and have lunch with you."
He was more than ready to be alone. After being questioned by others and coming up with so many blanks, he needed some time to question himself, to make his own acquaintance. Maybe he'd know the right questions to ask that would trigger memories. And if they were gone for good, he needed to think about what that would mean. There was a notion growing in the back of his mind that this could be a good thing. No mental baggage. Fresh start. Did he need one?
"No, alone is fine. But thank you for everything. For helping." He gestured with the plastic bag in his hand with its charitable contents.
She handed him her card. "Keep this handy in case you need me. I'm sure everything will come back soon, but I'm here in the meantime."
She waved back towards him as she headed for the light at the end of the dreary dark hall, and he raised his hand goodbye, closed the door and clicked the deadbolt.
Evelyn Emerson's office was definitely more comfortable. And she was efficient. In no time she'd lined up a motel room, and issued him some vouchers for the motel's restaurant. She asked if he knew his clothes sizes, and he shook his head. She rummaged through a cupboard and found him a fleece-lined windbreaker, a pair of jeans that looked like they would fit, a clean pair of grey sweatpants, and a couple of new colored t-shirts still in their plastic packages. Also a three-pack of underwear, which she chose from the shelf after appraising his behind apologetically. Last she pulled out a plastic bag with a disposable razor and deodorant, and a comb. She put all this in a big plastic bag with handles, and then they sat down on either side of her desk. More forms.
"What should I call you, do you think? John Doe is such a clich?. How about Bob?" She smiled. "My son's name is Bob. After Bob Marley." There was something else he knew. He knew who Bob Marley was. Maybe his memory was intact about everything that wasn't related uniquely to himself.
"I don't know. Bob doesn't sound right, but then neither does anything else. But I did have the feeling for a second at first that my name starts with 'B.' "
"Okay, Mr. B then." She thumbed through some papers on her desk, then looked up. "I think it would be a good idea to have a doctor see you."
"What can a doctor do? I don't want to see a doctor." He didn't think he could stand being questioned again right now. He just needed a shower, and to take a nap to get away from all this. Maybe if he slept, he'd remember everything when he woke up. Maybe by dinner time he'd have his life back.
Evelyn was patient. "It doesn't have to be today. You look healthy enough. This may be psychological amnesia. Sometimes our brains just shut off to protect us from a trauma, or a conflict that can't be solved. But there could be an organic reason, and that's what we'll want to rule out."
"You mean like a brain tumor?"
"A brain tumor is only one possibility. Some sort of stroke, or an atypical migraine. Something we wouldn't know without an examination. The brain is a wonderful, complicated thing. But then, I'm not a doctor." She sounded so matter of fact, talking about a potential disaster inside his skull that way.
"I don't want to think about it right now. I'd rather get cleaned up, and I'm tired and hungry." He had fallen into a pleading tone. He had too much to think about already, and at the same time, this frustrating lack of details. He was suddenly exhausted, and desperate to be alone.
"Of course you would. It can wait. Why don't I drive you to the motel now and you can get some rest."
It occurred to him that he didn't have any idea of the time of year, except it wasn't summer. "What day is this?"
"It's the third of November. A Thursday." Of course it was fall. There had been red and yellow leaves on the trees, and brown ones on the grass in the park.
"What year is it?"
She looked at him consolingly. "It's 2011." And she added, "This must be difficult for you."
"No shit. Excuse the language. You're very kind."
She smiled. "Let's go get you settled in." The phone on her desk rang, and she had a brief conversation.
"That was Sergeant Wilcox. They ran your prints, but no match came up. So at least we know you're not a criminal."
"Or I'm a smart one."
Another of her warm smiles. "Yes, I suppose there's always that possibility."
The motel was over a hill and next to the freeway. As they drove, Evelyn pointed out landmarks as if she were a tour guide, which in a way she was. The historic theater. The library. The college. She seemed to understand he needed orientation.
"This is Interstate 5, and the Canadian border is that way. And this direction you can get to Mexico without a stoplight. Does any of this sound familiar?"
"It's vague, but I have the feeling I knew that."
"Good. That's a start."
Just off the freeway she pulled into the motel parking lot and parked under the carport next to the lobby office. The building had two stories, and a wooden exterior. Black streaks of moss or mold clung to the north side, away from the pale sun that was trying to penetrate a thin layer of fog above them. In the lobby the blue carpet was stained and stretched in places so that it rumpled. A coffee urn stood on a shelf at the edge of the room and on a metal tray there were a few miniature sweet rolls, drying out. He realized he was ravenous. Did he have breakfast before he headed out for his run? He didn't think so. He looked up at a clock over the counter. 10:45 a.m. It seemed like it had been days since he had first found himself in the park.
While Evelyn made arrangements with the turbaned Indian desk clerk, he wandered over and took one of the rolls, and poured a cup of the hours-old black and bitter coffee.
His room was down an inside hallway on the ground floor. Evelyn stood outside his door to say goodbye.
"It's not the grandest of accommodations," she said as she peered into the room. The furniture was dark plastic laminate with no discernible style. The double bed was covered in a garish flowered bedspread. He flipped on the light switch and it didn't improve things that much.
"It's fine. All I need is a shower and a bed. And food."
"Believe it or not they have room service from the restaurant next door. You don't have to go out if you don't want to. There should be a menu here somewhere. You can charge your food to your room and pay with the vouchers when you leave. You have enough to last you for a couple of days, and I can give you more if you need them. Hopefully we'll get you home well before then."
He nodded, but home seemed inconceivable. It felt like this was the only home he had. He pushed away a feeling of doom.
"I'll call to check on you before I leave the office for the day, and you can call me any time. If it's after hours the service will contact me. You're sure you want to be alone? I could stay and have lunch with you."
He was more than ready to be alone. After being questioned by others and coming up with so many blanks, he needed some time to question himself, to make his own acquaintance. Maybe he'd know the right questions to ask that would trigger memories. And if they were gone for good, he needed to think about what that would mean. There was a notion growing in the back of his mind that this could be a good thing. No mental baggage. Fresh start. Did he need one?
"No, alone is fine. But thank you for everything. For helping." He gestured with the plastic bag in his hand with its charitable contents.
She handed him her card. "Keep this handy in case you need me. I'm sure everything will come back soon, but I'm here in the meantime."
She waved back towards him as she headed for the light at the end of the dreary dark hall, and he raised his hand goodbye, closed the door and clicked the deadbolt.