Clean Slate by Harley Crowley
Chapter 4
He opened the blackout drapes for more light and turned to the mirror above the dressing table at the foot of the bed. Who are you? He stared at his unfamiliar reflection. How could he not know what he looked like? Was this really him? Of course it was; no one else was here. He saw the rangy guy he'd glimpsed in the police department door, maybe six feet tall and long limbed. The jacket Evelyn had given him was a little short in the sleeves and exposed the bones of his wrists, and an inch or so of his arms. He took it off.
"Hello," he said to himself in the glass. His hair was sticking out in places and he ran his fingers through it to smooth it. It was a sandy blond color, darker at the roots as if it had been sun-bleached over the summer. His shoulders were broad, and there wasn't much fat on him-just a little roundness at the belly.
"Is that a beer belly?" he asked the reflection, and suddenly a beer sounded good. It probably was a beer belly. He flexed his muscles but it wasn't very impressive. He leaned closer to look at his face. His eyebrows were darker than his hair, and there was the scar over his left eye running vertically through his eyebrow. It looked like he'd run into something or been hit by something hard that had split it open. It wasn't an old scar, still had some redness to it. Maybe he did have a head injury that caused him to forget everything, a delayed reaction.
He didn't know how to judge age, but Officer Peck's guess of mid-thirties sounded about right. The only wrinkles were laugh lines around his eyes. He had a good straight nose, not too big, and he rather liked his mouth. He tried a smile but it was more of a grimace. His teeth were straight, and he pulled his lips back with his fingers. Couldn't they identify people by their dental work? He had only a few fillings in his molars. So, pretty good teeth. And a firm, squarish jaw.
All in all he was satisfied with himself. Not a bad looking fellow, someone he might take a liking to at first sight. Come to think of it, he'd just done that. For the first time since his arrival in the park that morning he felt a bit of comfort in his own skin.
The room service menu was on the dressing table and he perused it, but kept glancing back at himself in the mirror. He picked up the phone and pushed the button that was marked "restaurant," and ordered a BLT and a cola. "Pepsi okay?" asked the voice on the other end. "Fine. And could you charge this to the room, please?"
By the time the food came, brought by a pretty teenage girl wearing an orange uniform and a wary look, he'd been back out to the reception office and picked up an outdated summer issue of a local tourist guide, with a cover story about U-Pick berry farms in the area. It seemed appropriate, since he felt like a visitor here. He'd been thinking about a shower, but the bathtub looked deep and comfortable. He ran it full of hot water while he was eating the sandwich and the potato chips that came with it.
He took off his shoes and then went in the steamy bathroom and stripped off his clothes, dumping them on the floor. He started to step into the tub but there was a tug of curiosity that took him back to the bedroom and the mirror, where he surveyed himself naked. The equipment looked healthy. He turned around to check out his backside, and flexed his buttocks, and then laughed at himself. I guess I'm a little vain.
The hot water did its work, and he was feeling comfortable and mellow for the first time in recent memory. Very recent memory. After toweling off he got dressed in the new sweat pants and one of the t-shirts, spent some more time communing with his image, and then pulled the pillows out from under the bedspread and flopped on the bed. He stared at the telephone on the bedside table and felt like he should call someone to report in. I'm here. Come and find me.
He picked up the remote control for the TV and flicked it on, ran through the channels. Soap operas mostly, a giddy talk show host, an old black and white Western series, and the weather channel. He studied the map on the weather channel for a while, and located approximately where he was on the northwest coast. No rain until Sunday. He went around the dial farther and found a movie on HBO. He'd already seen it.
Wait a minute! He sat up, startled. It was a bullfight scene. He remembered the movie was funny. He picked up the little TV guide and found the listing. Matador, 2005. He had no idea how long ago he'd seen it, but it was recent enough to make him feel connected to his own life, and he could actually believe he had a past. He hadn't just spontaneously appeared on the planet.
He clicked off the TV and lay back on the pillow. He closed his eyes and let his mind slide around his memory of the movie, trying to imagine where he'd seen it, and who was with him. And fell asleep.
He opened the blackout drapes for more light and turned to the mirror above the dressing table at the foot of the bed. Who are you? He stared at his unfamiliar reflection. How could he not know what he looked like? Was this really him? Of course it was; no one else was here. He saw the rangy guy he'd glimpsed in the police department door, maybe six feet tall and long limbed. The jacket Evelyn had given him was a little short in the sleeves and exposed the bones of his wrists, and an inch or so of his arms. He took it off.
"Hello," he said to himself in the glass. His hair was sticking out in places and he ran his fingers through it to smooth it. It was a sandy blond color, darker at the roots as if it had been sun-bleached over the summer. His shoulders were broad, and there wasn't much fat on him-just a little roundness at the belly.
"Is that a beer belly?" he asked the reflection, and suddenly a beer sounded good. It probably was a beer belly. He flexed his muscles but it wasn't very impressive. He leaned closer to look at his face. His eyebrows were darker than his hair, and there was the scar over his left eye running vertically through his eyebrow. It looked like he'd run into something or been hit by something hard that had split it open. It wasn't an old scar, still had some redness to it. Maybe he did have a head injury that caused him to forget everything, a delayed reaction.
He didn't know how to judge age, but Officer Peck's guess of mid-thirties sounded about right. The only wrinkles were laugh lines around his eyes. He had a good straight nose, not too big, and he rather liked his mouth. He tried a smile but it was more of a grimace. His teeth were straight, and he pulled his lips back with his fingers. Couldn't they identify people by their dental work? He had only a few fillings in his molars. So, pretty good teeth. And a firm, squarish jaw.
All in all he was satisfied with himself. Not a bad looking fellow, someone he might take a liking to at first sight. Come to think of it, he'd just done that. For the first time since his arrival in the park that morning he felt a bit of comfort in his own skin.
The room service menu was on the dressing table and he perused it, but kept glancing back at himself in the mirror. He picked up the phone and pushed the button that was marked "restaurant," and ordered a BLT and a cola. "Pepsi okay?" asked the voice on the other end. "Fine. And could you charge this to the room, please?"
By the time the food came, brought by a pretty teenage girl wearing an orange uniform and a wary look, he'd been back out to the reception office and picked up an outdated summer issue of a local tourist guide, with a cover story about U-Pick berry farms in the area. It seemed appropriate, since he felt like a visitor here. He'd been thinking about a shower, but the bathtub looked deep and comfortable. He ran it full of hot water while he was eating the sandwich and the potato chips that came with it.
He took off his shoes and then went in the steamy bathroom and stripped off his clothes, dumping them on the floor. He started to step into the tub but there was a tug of curiosity that took him back to the bedroom and the mirror, where he surveyed himself naked. The equipment looked healthy. He turned around to check out his backside, and flexed his buttocks, and then laughed at himself. I guess I'm a little vain.
The hot water did its work, and he was feeling comfortable and mellow for the first time in recent memory. Very recent memory. After toweling off he got dressed in the new sweat pants and one of the t-shirts, spent some more time communing with his image, and then pulled the pillows out from under the bedspread and flopped on the bed. He stared at the telephone on the bedside table and felt like he should call someone to report in. I'm here. Come and find me.
He picked up the remote control for the TV and flicked it on, ran through the channels. Soap operas mostly, a giddy talk show host, an old black and white Western series, and the weather channel. He studied the map on the weather channel for a while, and located approximately where he was on the northwest coast. No rain until Sunday. He went around the dial farther and found a movie on HBO. He'd already seen it.
Wait a minute! He sat up, startled. It was a bullfight scene. He remembered the movie was funny. He picked up the little TV guide and found the listing. Matador, 2005. He had no idea how long ago he'd seen it, but it was recent enough to make him feel connected to his own life, and he could actually believe he had a past. He hadn't just spontaneously appeared on the planet.
He clicked off the TV and lay back on the pillow. He closed his eyes and let his mind slide around his memory of the movie, trying to imagine where he'd seen it, and who was with him. And fell asleep.