by J.R. Bowles
CHAPTER 15
Michael O'Malley awoke on the concrete floor of the South Ferry Terminal. He stared up at the cop kicking at his foot and telling him to move along. He groaned; his body ached from the coolness of his hard bed. Slowly his mind cleared somewhat, as he remembered his early-hour awakening. The remains of alcohol still blurred his thoughts.
After he managed to stand, the cop walked away. Michael looked down at himself and was shocked at his filthy condition. He picked up a newspaper lying on a bench and read the date.
Two years! He had been living like this for almost two years. He couldn't believe it. He must have had amnesia―and then in a flash he remembered that he had been in a plane that was going to crash.
Images of his previous life began to flood in and he realized what had happened. For over two years, he had been living on the streets of Manhattan, because he couldn't remember who he was.
He half-staggered out of the terminal and made his way the short distance to Battery Park. He scanned the area and located a tree where he had been hiding money.
He felt as if he were in shock, overwhelmed by disbelief that he had lost two years. The time he had spent freezing, going hungry; how strange he had felt when he had the compulsion to hide money. He had even gone hungry for days on end, but had never touched the money he put away. During that time, when he couldn't remember anything about who he was, from somewhere down deep came a compulsion, almost an addiction to put away money.
He knelt and dug with his hands, and pulled out an old jar with a wad of money stashed in it.
Stumbling his way to the public restroom, he began washing himself and trying to sort out what he had to do.
He knew he had to buy some clothes, and then try to locate the others. After his sparse washing, he left and made his way uptown.
Even though his mind was groggy, he relaxed, allowing his sensors to reach out to the others. Most of the morning, he wandered the streets, trying to feel them.
Hours later, he came to the Castleton Hotel near Madison Square Garden. One of them was here. He could feel someone. He eased his mind and allowed his nervous system to extend beyond his immediate body; he felt the source of the energy being emitted. The person wasn't there now. He could sense it.
He knew the hotel people would give him problems because of his present appearance. He figured he must stink, too, although his sense of smell must have become numb to it. Just looking at the stains from the vomit he had unsuccessfully tried to wipe off, made him want to gag.
He pulled the wad of money from his pocket, went into the hotel and walked up to the desk clerk.
“I would like a room until the second of July,” Michael O'Malley said, flashing the roll of bills.
The clerk looked up at Michael and curled his lip. He leaned backward, trying to get out of range of the stench.
“I'm sorry,” he said “but we're filled up right now.” He fluttered his hand in a point and said, “You might want to try the Hotel Monte up the street.” He looked far from sorry as he turned his back on Michael.
Michael wasn't about to leave. He knew the man was lying, and he didn't need his sensors to tell it. Michael had spent his entire life before his amnesia living in luxury, and knew how to handle servants.
“Listen, I happen to know you are not booked,” he lied. “And my appearance may well be offensive; but you will rent me a room!”
Michael reached out with his mind to touch the other man's mind. The clerk stiffened as he turned back around and looked into Michael's eyes. He pulled at his collar to ease the sudden tightness he was feeling, and finally shrugged.
The man punched at his computer a moment, and then, facing Michael, raised one eyebrow in disdain. “Very well, I seem to have one room. It will cost you this much.” He wrote the amount on a piece of paper, pushed it with one finger toward Michael and jerked his hand away.
He thinks I don't have the money, Michael thought. He peeled off the sum and shoved it across the counter.
The clerk took the money carefully, as if it were diseased, and printed out a receipt. He then shoved Michael's change, with the receipt and the room card key, back across the counter.
“That will be room 224. There are stairs over there.”
“What? No elevator? Or are you afraid I will contaminate your other guests?” Michael looked down at the clerk's name tag and read Rudy.
“My good man, is your name pronounced 'rude,' like your attitude, or is it 'Rudy' like your fucking complexion?”
The man huffed, as Michael chuckling to himself, turned and walked off.
Once he was out of sight of the desk, Michael went up the steps anyway; he really didn't want to offend anyone, unless they provoked him first. He paused in front of room 226 for a moment. He could feel that one of the other centers had been here, but was not there now. He pulled the bag he was carrying close to him and unlocked his room next door.
He tried the connecting door to the other room but it was locked. That would be no problem though, he thought.
Michael dumped the contents of his bag on the bed and unfolded his newly purchased clothes―clothes at least good enough to allow him to go into a better store to buy more suitable ones.
Michael stripped off his filthy clothing and quickly shoved it into the empty bag for disposal. After laboriously shaving his bedraggled beard, he climbed into the shower. He spent nearly thirty minutes scrubbing his self. When he had finished he had used up all of the complimentary hotel soap.
He wiped the steam off the full-length mirror as he stood and dried himself. He had forgotten what he looked like under all the grime. He stared at the wear and tear on his body the past two years had inflicted. His shaggy red hair reached to his collar. Although it no longer was the carrot color of his youth, he was pleased it still held some luster. He couldn't believe two years of self-neglect had aged him at least five years; he looked almost thirty-five. His skin was pale from lack of sun, with red patches caused by nutritional neglect, alcohol abuse and the vigorous scrubbing he had just done. His muscles were still taut in spite of all that; it must be all the walking, he thought.
Michael slipped into new slacks—as yet he hadn't bought underwear―and pulled on a new pullover. His clean feet cringed when he slipped back into the old shoes—the only shoes he had and he left the hotel.
Michael returned several hours later with bundles of clothes and shoes. He was wearing a new suit, which had been altered to fit him while he visited a nearby salon for a haircut, facial and manicure. He had bought enough clothes to last until he could visit one of his houses to replenish his supply.
“Good afternoon, I'm in room 224,” Michael said as he approached the desk clerk. “Could you send up some more of your shampoo?”
Rudy looked up into Michael's coal-black eyes and automatically smiled. As he stared at him, his smile faded when he began to realize this must be the bum who had checked in earlier. His jaw almost dropped from surprise.
“Certainly, sir,” he answered, quickly reconstructing his smile.
“By the way, you never did tell me how to pronounce your name,” Michael said pointedly.
“I'm so sorry about earlier. You were right the first time. It's pronounced like rude, Rudy, like my attitude,” Rudy said, as he made a note and needlessly shuffled items on the counter, allowing his hand to brush against Michael's newly manicured hand.
Michael's eyes narrowed slightly as he stared at Rudy. The man shivered involuntarily and jerked his hand away when he felt a brief stab of pain run through his body.
His eyes widened and he blinked several times as he watched Michael turn to walk away.
“Thank you.” Michael said over his shoulder. Well, he thought, I guess I meet his approval after all. He smiled smugly to himself and felt the clerk watching him as he walked toward the elevator.
Back in his room, Michael hung up his newly acquired items and put away his soc
ks and underwear. He hummed to himself as he decided how to go about his search for the others. As he left the hotel, he allowed his sensors to again reach out to feel for any of the other centers, to follow their invisible trail.
