Deborah Pt. 6: Saturday

"What do you mean I'm black?"  I look down at my hands, they are white.  My arms white.

"I've taken some drugs in my day but your black ass must really be soaring right now."

"Do you have some sort of compact or something?"

She looks at me like I'm about to attack her.  She digs in her purse and takes out a camera.

"I don't have a compact but I do have this.  Smile motherfucker."

Click.

She hands the camera over to me.  My hands are shaking almost to the point of palsy.

I look at the viewscreen.  The man in the camera is about six feet five.  He has dark hair and 
dark eyes.  His expression is...confusion?  Bewilderment?

The man is not me.  This man is indeed an African-American.  I've never seen him before.

As the possibilites fill my mind, I feel dizzy, then a sharp crack on my head.

Groggily I hear Deborah asking me if I was ok.  I'm lying on the ground.

As she kneels over me she seems further away.  My vision is growing darker.

"Everything will return to the start...it is almost over" a whisper on the breeze.

Deborah Pt. 5: Saturday


"You are really starting to freak me out..." Deborah eyes are wide and her arms are crossed.  She is scared.

"I'm sorry, let me explain.  Um, where to start?"  Here we go again.  Explaining this situation never gets any easier.  "A couple of years ago I came to in an alley.  I have amnesia.  The bad kind.  So I can't remember who I am or where I'm from."

"Yeah right.  Dipshit."

"I'm serious, I'm here because somebody came across the name Sam Conners and his missing persons report.  They say I look just like him, and I was hoping, somehow some way, I am him.  Can you possible understand what it's like being me?  I wake up every fucking day and I don't know anything.  I had to relearn what the fuck toilet paper is.  I just need something, a name, an identity and all the dominoes will fall into place.  I have to believe this otherwise I will go crazy.  Does this make any sense to you?"

"You ain't making anything but nonsense.  What the fuck makes you think that you are my brother?"

"I matched a police profile that sent me to Bethelhem.  His old girlfriend said she thought I was a friend of his she's seen around.  But then I went to his old bar he hung out in and the bartender said I could be a twin.  Then I saw a picture of Sam and it looked just like me.  So I went to find the sister, to get some validation."

"Mmmhmmm.  Look, Ricky, I don't know what kind of bullshit you are playing at.  Last I heard you were supposed to be going to Iraq.  Is that what this is?  You playing crazy?  You scared of fighting for this country?"

"Please, just tell me, am I your brother?"

"No."

"I don't look anything like him?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes!"

"How?  I look just like him in this picture."

"Look again."

"Why?"

"Because asshole, my brother is white."

"What?"

"You are black, dipshit."



Deborah pt.4: Saturday

Deborah Pt. 3 Saturday

"This may sound weird, but what's my full name, Deborah?"

"Fucking Retard."  She laughs and snarls smoke out of her mouth.

"Seriously, humor me."

"Ricky Davidson."

It just hangs out there.  Growing and mutating.  A snapping snarling bastard, eating calm and harvesting discord.

A name only.

Two words, that don't even smack of originality.

A small sentence.

A great divide.

To the police officer in Pittsburgh, I am Sam Conners.

To the jilted ex I'm some friend of Sam Conners.

To the bartender I'm his twin.

To the sister, I'm somebody completely different.

I'm struggling for a throughline.  Something to grasp onto.  Some dark shore to collapse after beaten by the storm.  

Who am I?

Who really is that bastard in the mirror?

Deborah pt 3:Saturday

I don't know a lot of things.  Most of which is my identity.

I know a girl back in Pittsburgh that plays guitar.  Once she was setting up in Angels for an acoustic show, before the main crowd got in.  She futzed around for a bit, picking up things, plugging things in.  She seemed at peace with a myriad of tiny details that made the hobby she loved so very much.

I tend to be inquisitive and fascinated with process of things.  You get to be that way when everything in your life is a fucking mystery. 

So I made my way over to her, slowly, non-directly.  I didn't want it to be obvious I was checking her out.  

She was tuning her guitar.  We have bands here all the time and they all had tuners and what not.  She was doing it one string at a time and letting it ring out while she turned the machinehead.

She caught me looking at her.  "Hi, what's up?"

"I've never seen anybody tune a guitar like that.  How does it work."

"I'll show you."

She stood and motioned me over to the stool.  She sat me down and gave me the guitar.  She pressed it tight against my sternum.

"Now focus your attention at your chest.  Can you feel this?"

She plucked a string and I felt a tiny continuous wave of sound hitting my solar plexus.  A pulse.

She turned the machinehead back and forth and changed the frequency of the wave.  Faster and slower.

"So how do you know when it's in tune?"

She smiled and turned the knob just a tad.  

The pulse stopped being an object that was passing through my body.  It became my body.

The wave rocked me from my feet to my hair.  My body became rhythm.

She saw the surprise in my eyes.

"That's how you know it's in tune."

And that's how the name Sam Conners fucking felt to me.  Part of me.  A rhythm, a channel for my identity.

Ricky Davidson is not a pulse in time with me.

Ricky Davidson feels wrong.


Deborah pt. 2: Saturday

"Are you Deborah Conners?"  I repeated the question as clearly as possible.

"My dick, you fucking cut my dick!"  It looks really painful.  She squeezed him so hard her nails dug into the flesh.

"Shut the Fuck up Johnny.  You," she points at me, "outside, now."

I do what she says.  You never argue with a woman during her emasculation of another man.  Never.

The weather is turning colder outside.  My breath comes in clouds.  The two bars I've been around are right near a riverbank and a slow night fog is starting to roll in.

The door bursts open and Johnny stumbles out.  She follows slowly, calmly pulling a tissue out of her purse.

She eyes me up and down like a predator and she cleans the blood and cum off of her hand.

"Follow me."

We walk down an alleyway between the two bars and end up on a walking path that Mick had told me used to be an old coal train track that the city paved over.  Supposed to be cool exercise trail for Morgantown, instead it became a homeless and hooker mecca.

We walk in silence.  Deborah lights a cigarette and walks ahead of me a few steps.  She constantly looks over her shoulder.  

"So, Ricky?  Why do you honor me with your prescence after all this time?"

I stop dead.  "What did you call me?"

"What are you high?  I called you Ricky.  That is your fucking name?  Dipshit."

I find it difficult to breathe, to think, to feel anything other than panic.

"I swear, you can be such a dumbass."

"This may sound weird, but what's my full name, Deborah?"

"Fucking Retard."  She laughs and snarls smoke out of her mouth.

"Seriously, humor me."

"Ricky Davidson."

Deborah pt 1: Saturday

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i'm in a hospitale

fcukin bicth stabbed me

Elias

I've been down in West Virginia for most of a week now and still haven't found that woman.  I think my liver is about to explode.

I spend my days walking up and down the main thoroughfare of Morgantown.  It's not a big town, quaint I suppose is the word.

There's only about 30,000 people here and 70% of them are college kids.  So, in short, it's full of assholes.

There's a poolhall underneath a renovated theatre called the Met.  It's at the bottom of this long narrow staircase.  And it's as cliche and wonderful as a poolhall could ever be.  I fell in love.

An older woman is always posted at the 50's era cash register.  Behind her is the low hum of four beverage displays full of cheap American beer.  For a quarter you can buy some Doritos.  

The tables are old and lopsided.  The sticks are bent.  The sitting is ratty, reclaimed theatre seats.  It is in every possible sense of the word perfect.  This is a kingdom of American hopeful abandon.

It's king is Elias.

He's not from around here, at least that's what the old timers say.  He showed up a couple of days before I did and set up shop at table number fucking one.  When he is not playing he leans against the wall with his elbow resting on the chest high ledge, installed only for beer and cigarettes.

He is a dark black man, large in every sense of the word.  He has a scar from the back of his bald head running through his milky left eye and ending in his lip, giving him a look between Elvis and a harelip.

I tried to play against him a few times but he's just too good.  A hustler.

The only thing he's ever said to me was, "Figuered you be coming around, but I'm waiting for another."

He eyes me like I'm a meal.  He makes me very nervous.  

I think I like him though

Morgantown, West Virginia

The Brew Pub is a small dingy, damp smelling bar that has a swampy river as a back yard.

The place is dead at noon but pack with wall to wall college kids at night.  The popularity of this spot is a combination of the fact they brew their own beer and it's the one bar in town where you have to be 21 to get in.  Every other bar apparently allows 18 year olds to drink so not having so many freshman around is a pleasure.

I showed up around 2.oo pm.  The lunch crowd was in but it's a little early for the hard core drunks.  I ordered a sandwhich and a pint of Appalachian Ale.  The beer was fantastic, refreshing with a horribly bitter bite.  I'm going to have to talk to Logan about trucking it in.

Ever since I talked to Sergeant Rosenbaum I've been on this roller coaster of hopeful disappointment and I really hadn't the time to comtemplate what it is I've learned.

The Pennsylvania Police Department unofficially believes I meet the profile of a five year old  missing persons report.

The former girlfriend of said missing person says I look nothing like him.

The bartender where this guy hung out thinks I'm his brother.  And he gave me a picture that shows me, well...me or at least a twin.

And now I'm in a shitty little college town in West by God Virginia looking for his/my sister.

I never even called in sick at work.

I asked around the Brew Pub and they said the sister comes in after work.

So I have nothing to do but try some more of that delicious beer.  I ordered a tall Blackwater Stout and looked out over the muddy river...

The Manger, Bethlehem

After leaving Naomi's I headed towards that bar she mentioned, The Manger.  She said that the night before Sam Conners disappeared he was talking to somebody dressed in black.

I walked through the door and I was home.  The Manger looked almost exactly like Angel's back in Pittsburgh.

Complete with the unwashed noontime masses.

I sat at the bar and signaled the bar tender.  When he saw me his face goes white.  He turned to the mirror behind the bar that is covered with snapshots.  He found a particular picture and goes even whiter.

He walked towards me as though he trudged through glass and lava.

"C-can I help you?"

"Yeah get me a beer."

"No problem."

His entire body relaxed as though a huge weight had been lifted.  When he came back he avoided eye contact.

"Thanks, hey, I was wondering if you could help me?"  The bartender stiffened up.  Something strange was going on.

"What'cha need, friend?"

"I'm looking for someone..."

"Who's that?"

"Sam Conners."

Ever see an old western, when the Stranger comes in and says one name and everything just stops.  The music, the laughing, everything just hangs on that breath.

I quite suddenly had many sets of eyes on me.

"Why are you asking about Sam Conners?"

"I heard he hung around here a lot.  In fact I was told he was here the night before he disappeared."

"Are you a cop or something?"

"No, just a...friend."

"Well if you are a friend of his, you ain't real close.  Sam's been gone for five years."

"I know, I talked to Naomi Rose before I came here."

"Well, that bitch ain't all there."  He scoffed and started cleaning a glass.

I was losing his interest, they weren't going to tell me shit.  "Well, if he hung around here a lot, I see you have a ton of pictures on the mirror, any of him?"

"Maybe, maybe not."

"What was that picture you looked at when I first sat down?"

"None of your fucking business."  He moved down the bar away from me.  

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a fifty.  "What do I owe you for the beer?"

"Three seventy-five."

I waved the bill in the air, he relunctantly grabbed it.  I tell him to keep the change.

He stood for a moment, as if his next movement was the most important thing in the world.  The bartender turned and grabbed the picture he was looking at earlier.

"Here, this is the only picture I have of Sam.  Though if you really wanted a picture that bad you could have saved us all time and looked in the mirror.  You two could be twins."

I looked at the picture.  I looked into the mirror.  It was me, but something was different.  I wasn't Sam Conners, but I had to be a brother.

"Why didn't you give this picture to the police?  His sister put in a missing persons report but didn't have a picture..."

"Sam's sister is a bitch.  She drives up here all the time for some ectasy and oxycotin.  No one took her seriously.  Sam had a habit of disappearing from time to time."

"Where is she now?"

"Morgantown down in West Virginia.  Some place called the Brew Pub is where she drinks every night."

Publicity

I'm hungover in Morgantown right now.

Rog is a big geek piece of shit.  He said that trailers are all the rage when promoting your blog.  So he and some other dick in California, conspired to make an overly dramatic commerical thing for this ugly, blog.



Dreaming Awake

A while back I had this dream.

I got a call from Clover earlier today.  Some guy that comes into the bar every once in a while, usally with Michigan was shot in a gas station robbery last night.

I didn't get why she was calling me until I saw the news report later.

That guy, Charlie Bunk, was the dude from my dream.

They showed the security camera footage and there he fucking was in grainy black and white.  Huddled against the chips and tic tacs to the immediate right of the door was a small dude fumbling in his pockets.

After thirty seconds or so, I walk in.

What in the name of puberty Christ?

Last night I was in West Virginia.  The television is reporting Murder in Lebanaon, PA.  That's like 250 miles away.  Check for yourself.

I watch myself on tv and I look into the security camera square.  After a beat I turn and brush my hand against Charlie Bunk's jacket.  I exit and a minute later Bunk draws on the clerk who got to a shotgun quicker.

Bunk is shot dead from a slug to the heart.

That's it, I'm off the Nyquil.


Dreams

When traveling in the Keystone state I suggest you scout out your accomodations before hand.  Just hoping an affordable room in Western PA will miraculously open up and be...what's that word...clean, well that just isn't going to fucking happen bucko.

I couldn't get to sleep last night to save my fucking life.

The mattress was lumpy, the pillow smelled like dry...fluids.

The god damn air conditioner/heater made a thumping sound all fucking night and the lack of a comfortable tempature made Gobi Desert in my nose.

But, Son of a Bitch Mitch taught me the secret to insomnia...Robotussin and Old Grandad.

I woke up in the air, singing a sad song, a culling song.  The wind is my hair and divides it.  A thermal current comes up and allows me to rise on my outstretched wings.  

Tonight is the Exodus, and I am Mavet.

He will deliver you and I will destroy.

Mavet and Avaddon

Malach ha Mavet

The streets are rivers and mountains walls.  I swoop into alleys and leave tears.  

I am The Instrument.

I wake up on the floor.  One leg still in the bed.  My fucking nose is bleeding.

Mitch is an asshole.



Naomi Rose

She's around five ten and full of anger.  Her lower lip basically chapped in front of me.  Her shoulders were hunched and her spine contracted as though she's about to leap right through me.

She is beautiful.

She was going to kill me.

"I'm sorry miss, I just thought..."

"Thought what asshole?  You show up with a message from some prick that left five years ago and think I'd invite you in for some cake?  My kid is inside the house and you want to come down here and make her go through this shit again?"

Until this point the man had been silent, "Honey, maybe we should call the police."

"Fuck the police, Carl.  Get your ass inside, I have nothing to fear from this limp dick cracker.  Do I?"

"No...just let me explain..."  God, let me explain lady.

"You got five minutes and then I'm going to go in the house and get a gun, and shoot you in your ugly face?"

"Fair enough."

"Clock is ticking..."

Where to begin?  Apparently, I'm not Sam Conners, but maybe a friend?

"Do you know who I am?"

"No, other than some skinny ass white guy talking about bullshit from the grave."

"What do you mean grave?  Is Sam dead?"

"Shit, I don't know."  The tension was broken and she sat down on the porch.  "Sam just disappeared.  No note, no fight, nothing, just poof and he was gone.  I had some friends that said they thought they saw him here or there but no real proof."

"So, this is hard to ask without sounding crazy, I'm not Sam Conners am I?"

"What?

"I have this problem, amnesia.  I came down here because I don't know who I am and I just....I guess I was hoping I could fill in some of the margins."

"I'm really sorry for you, but you don't look anything like him.  Not that I could prove it.  How does a man get to be thirty with out a single picture?  I tried getting him to call his family but they were all gone.  All he had was the one bitch of sister and she had so many drugs in her, I'm not even sure she knew what she looked like."

"So he just disappeared?"

"He used to hang out at this bar in town called the Manger.  The night before he left somebody told me he was talking to a man dressed all in black.  They were arguing about some sort of debt.  In the morning he was gone and that other guy was gone too."

"Any theories?"

"I don't know the mob?  I just told him the week before I was pregnant, so I just assumed he couldn't hack it and split town."

"Well I apologize for bothering you ma'am."

"I'm sorry for yelling at you, I wasn't very ladylike, just a sort spot you know?"  A chill wind picked up and we both shivered.  "I wish I could help you more, what was your name?"

I snort, "uh...Sam."

"You don't sound sure."

"I'm not really, especially after today.  Well I'm not going to waste any more of your time.  Thank you again Miss Rose."

I walked a little slower to the car than I had left it.

I drove off.  When I looked in the rear view mirror I saw Naomi staring off into the Heavens.

Blessing of the Sun

It was cold this morning.  The fog coiled and filled every crevice of the town, probably the world.  My vision is blocked, and my breath is heavy.

Air has become a device.  

Every element was trying to tell me to turn, don't go.

Every sense a warning.

My feet were concrete walking up those front stairs.  My face was covered in sweat on this cold frigid morning.  My hands were palsied, cracking like oak after a frost.

Oddly, my mind was blank.  But than again that's the norm for me.

Three smalls steps up to the porch and the front door.  Three small steps.  Those steps have become my Everest.

As I was standing like a pervert with one leg hovering over the first step, my cell phone rang.

Who the hell would call me at 7.00 in the morning?

Also, you might ask yourself, why would I be going to this house this early in the morning?  Because I scouted it out yesterday and around 7.15 is when the people inside go to work.  Stop interrupting me, it's fucking rude.

So anyway, my phone was ringing...

The caller ID said Rabbi.

"Uh hello?"

"Sam, Sam my boy this is Rabbi Levi."

"Yes, I know, what can I do for you?"

"I tried to find you last night but you weren't at the bar.  Something is going on this morning that I thought you might want to take part in."

"Can you call me later, I'm kind of in the middle of something."

"Actually no, it might be too late already.  Just look toward the sun and repeat after me.  Baruch atah Adonai eloheynu melech ha olam oseh ma aseh b'reshit."

I repeat the words looking into the newly risen sun.  Something began to flicker in my peripheral vision.  When I looked directly towards the whatever it disappeared, when I returned to the light it came back.

He said one word at a time allowing pauses for me to repeat.  Towards the end of the sentence I heard another voice louder, more persistent, but still yet just a whisper, "Everything will return to start....It is almost time."

When I said aseh b'reshit the flicker seemed to become solid and was a hazy outline of a man with wings.

"My boy, my boy that was the Brikat Hachama, the Blessing of the Sun.  Did you recognize it?"

"A little."

"Every twenty eight years the sun returns to it's exact position the day Adonai made the world.  Only every twenty eight years, I didn't want you to miss it."

"Thanks, Rabbi...uh...did you say anything else while doing that blessing?"

"No.  I have to go my boy, Pesach is tonight and all.  Next year in Jerusalem."

My vision was spotty due to the sun and I sort of drifted off in my thoughts.  

When I finally returned my gaze to the house, there was a woman and man staring at me.

"Can I help you...sir?"  She looked apprehensive as though she was debating helping me or calling the cops.

"Are you Naomi Rose?"

"Yes, how do you know my name?"

"I'm Sam...Sam Conners?"  My voice rising at the end.

"The hell you are, that motherfucker didn't look anything like you and if you know that prick and are trying to pull some kind of joke on me, then you and your boy can both go fuck yourselves.  You and your mother."



Bethlehem, O Bethlehem

I toke the week off work after Cisco told me to check up on a lead in Bethlehem, PA.  You thought I was going to Palestine didn't you?

Bethlehem is one of those former steel glory towns that watched it's money wash on down the rivers to another state.  Blue collar break down.

I did some research before I went to the address.  Didn't want to get, I don't know, shocked by flooding memories or blankness.

I went to the public library and looked up newspapers and articles from around the time the missing persons report was filed.

Sam Conners of Bethlehem, Pennsylvania was almost a fucking ghost in this town before he disappeared.  

The following is a direct quote:

Dateline 2/14/2004

A missing persons report was filed last Wednesday for one Sam Conners.  His sister, Deborah Grimmit of Morgantown, WV, states that the last time she heard from Sam was when called to wish her Merry Christmas and that he was going to be spending it in Bethlehem with his girlfriend, Naomi Rose.  Mrs. Grimmitt filed the missing person report due to lack of communication with Sam after the holiday.

A photo was not able to be supplied to the police nor this reporter as Mrs. Grimmit could not locate one.  She describes Sam Conners as a white male, 6' 2" with black hair and thin frame.  Mrs. Grimmit also stated that she had not seen him in over 10 years.

Police Officials at this time have no comment.

So this chick filed a missing person report on a brother she hasn't seen in a decade because he didn't call her.

That's it.  I don't even know what would cause Cisco to even give this to me.  My real life detective show is fucking lame.  The address I assume is the girlfriend's house.  I'm going there in the morning.

To kill time tonight I saw that some movie called Star Wars is on TBS.  Rog is always talking about that flick and constantly calling me a fag for not remembering it.



Sergeant Francisco Rosenbaum

Sergeant Rosenbaum is a big man.  Big body with an even bigger voice.  He says, "fuck" a lot.  Loudly.  In a food court, surrounded by children.

Some uppity women cleared her throat twenty times behinde him.  He mildly strolled over to her and fished around his pocket for a second.  He's a plainclothes officer and loves being under the radar.  He stares the lady down and then flings his badge on her table.  

He got real close to her and whispered, "drink some fucking water before you choke to death cuntrag."  Then he stole her chilifries.

"I fucking love doing that Sammy, fucking love it..."

"I believe you."

"So, Elizabeth filled me in on everything so far..." he reaches into a bag and brings out some file folders.

"I got three bits of information so far for you, Sam.  Number one is Missing Persons, number two is People with Records, number three is Morgue Records, and number four is Birth records."

"Ok, any hits?"

"A few, the birth records are kind of hit and miss being as we don't really know how old you are.  You're welcome to take a look and see if it jogs anything up."

"Why the death certificates, I'm not dead."

"Yeah but unclaimed bodies, John Does and such are sometimes unclaimed because the wrong body was buried."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning a body could be identified as Sam Conners and buried but it ain't him because it's you, dipshit.  I also looked through the computer and mug shot archive, I didn't get a facial recognition so you've probably haven't been through the system in Pennsylvania.  I need to get your prints to send it to the nerds in Clarksburg, to cross reference with the FBI."

"Ok.  Sounds like a lot of guess work right now."

"That's why I went to missing persons.  There's a guy named Sam Conners that went missing from Bethlehem about five years ago.  No real good photos of the guy were turned in but his descriptors match your frame.  Here's the last known address."

My hand was trembling as he passed a slip of paper.  Bethlehem.  It hit me as hard as Conners.  I know Bethlehem is the place.

"Well, good luck.  You aren't an official police investigation, Sam, so be smart out there.  Here's my card, professionally I can do little for you as this case isn't mine, or isn't really even open anymore.  But, as a friend, give me a call if you want me to check up on anything.  Now get the fuck out of here.  Grab Elizabeth's ass for me too."

"Thanks a lot, Sergeant Rosenbaum."

"Call me Cisco.  Now scram."




Sam Connors

Hello,

My name is Sam Connors.  Sorry if I'm getting repetitive, I just like saying that.  Most of you in the world are very careless with your identity.  You never know when you can lose it.

Just think about it, really think.  What if you felt your name didn't belong to you?  

Would that make you feel hollow?

Is your name tied to your identity?

For me, that fucking last name was my anchor.  I was capsizing in the storm.  When I heard the name Conners, my anchor found purchase.

Now it's time to fill in the details.  

Down a couple blocks is a law firm, Hoster, Stead & Carmack.  Everyone once in a while when the firm is defending some low life, they bring the guy/girl over to Angel's Bar to have some unofficial, client attorney face time. 

Not that the partners ever come her, usually it's this junior junior fresh out of law school chick named Elizabeth.  She's real hot, but you didn't hear that from me.

She came in yesterday and was stood up by I think the Road Captain of Devil's Finger.  He's trying to beat a "crossing state lines with a minor" rap.

I bought her a drink because it's just sad to see a woman with shoulder pads sitting alone in a place like this.

We got to talking, she already knows about my amnesia, when I confessed that I think I know my last name.

Elizabeth got excited for me, which is more than I can say for these other fucks.

She gave me a card for a police sergeant that helps out with her firm from time to time.  Elizabeth said that if I play my cards right I could get him to look for any information on a Sam Conners, be it an accident, or missing persons.  Hell, even warrants would get me closer.

I meet with him later today.

Peace and chicken grease

Dream a little dream

I got a cake the other night for my B-day. Some chocolate, chocolate horror show that was punishing as well as delicious.

Well, around 2.00 AM I was stumbling through my loft, scratching my ass when I spied that chocolate bastard. Four slices later I was in Never Never Land.

Another colossal mistake.

I was in a waiting room, all white, sterile. I was sitting next to this guy who's feet was tapping a jig on the white linoleum.  To call him nervous would be like to call an ant tiny.  The guy was all nerves and flop sweat.

"Will Bretton, Will Bretton, you may enter..."

Some other guy I hadn't seen before jumps up and goes out the single white on white door.  A smile crossed his face and he became relief.

All this dissappointed my neighbor horribly.

"So, uh man, where are we?"  I figure he'd be the one to know.

"Are you fucking kidding me?  Where else do you think we'd be?"

"Sorry, I just got here."

"This is the end of the line, dipshit.  And I've been sitting here two fucking years waiting to be called."

"Called for what?"

"Just leave me alone man."  With that he scurries across the room to another chair.

Time passes.

Time pauses.

"Cathy Rohrbaugh, Cathy Rohrbaugh you may enter."

On and on it goes where people are called, each name a dagger in the heart of my friend.

"Sam Conners, Sam Conners you may enter."

My friend gives a whoop and jumps up.  I also jump up because, something about the name Sam Conners resonantes in me.  

We both head to the door.

An Orderly stops me. "You may not enter, you are not eligible."

"I'm fucking Sam Conners man, let me in."

"He's Sam Conners, you ain't him."

My friend shoves past both of us and turns and flips me off.  "Later mother fucker."

"I'm Sam, come on."

"You ain't Sam, shit you ain't even supposed to be in this room."

"Not my time."

"Not your plane fucko."  The sound of the door slamming wakes me up in my loft.  

Plane?

Sam Conners, just saying it now makes me pulse.  Rog's job is a piano tuner.  So he's always carrying around a tuning fork.  He showed me how it worked one day, and that's how I feel right now, like a cosmic tuning fork is being held next to my soul.

My name is Sam Conners.  I have no memory.  I woke up in Pittsburgh.  

The TV is on, Quantam Leap is on.

Good show.

Birthday Presents

Finally awake...Don't under any circumstances chase Captain Morgan with Colt .45.

That is a mistake.

Logan, my boss, threw a party at Angel's for me last night. It was loud, sweaty, drunk, and stupid. Pretty much awesome.

Speaking of loud, sweaty, drunk, and stupid, Son of a Bitch Mitch bought me a handle of Jameson.

Sally offered me a blowjob, which I turned down.

Rog, well he just flipped me off.

Logan got me a bib and a pacifier, being as I just turned two.

Rabbi Levi, got me an appointment with his Cantor. The Cantor happens to have a day job as a psychologist who has had some success with hypnotism and repressed memories. As a man that doesn't have any memories, sounds pretty fucking scary.

I'm in a reflective mood today. Mainly because I've had the shits all day and I've been staring at my shower curtain while I shit my soul.

For two whole years I've walked as a mystery. I just don't know anything.

Pop Quiz: Do you like shoelaces or Velcro on your shoes?

Answer: I don't know.

Pop Quiz: What's better football or baseball

Answer: Clueless

God is in the details. I don't have any details. I just can't make quick decisions that everyone around me seems to be able to make. I don't have the database in my head of "that's cool," "that's gross," "I like/dislike this." I don't know what love is.

I'm fucking alone. I can't relate to anyone.

Sorry for being melodramatic.

I get this way sometimes.

I'm signing off because I have to puke.

toodles,
Sam