“You talking to me?” he asked.
He watched as a bubbly looking brunette hurried towards him.
“Yeah, yeah, hi,” she panted when she finally came to a stop.
“Do I know you?” he continued, blowing a stream of smoke over her head. She was a lot shorter than him. He was fairly tall, but she only reached to maybe the middle of his chest.
“No. I'm Delaney,” she said, raking her fingers through her thick hair. She had massive amounts of it, and it was all wavy and coarse, like it wanted to curl, but couldn't make up its mind.
“Good for you.”
She was hot, he'd give her that, but he didn't know her, and she had “good girl” rolling off her in waves. He wasn't into good girls, and he wasn't into people wasting his time. Whatever she wanted, he wasn't interested.
“Okay,” she shrugged her shoulders and continued on. “Um, you were at Crash's party tonight.”
That surprised him a little. What had a girl like her been doing at Crash's?
“Yeah, I was.”
“Yeah, I saw you leaving.”
“Look,” he sighed, flicking his ashes at their feet. “Is this going somewhere? I have a train to catch.”
“It's just ...” she seemed nervous. She fiddled with a strand of her hair, and her big blue eyes were looking everywhere but at him. “Okay, I'll level with you. I've only lived here for a few months, so I don't know how this works.”
“Jesus christ,” he muttered, rubbing at his eyelids with his free hand. “How what works?”
“I heard you were holding,” she said, leaning towards him and speaking under her breath. His eyebrows shot up.
Is this chick for real?
“Holding?”
“Yeah.”
“What? My dick?”
Her cheeks turned a faint shade of pink, but to her credit, she didn't back down.
“I was hoping for something more exciting,” she snapped back.
I'm almost impressed.
“What is it you want. I'm not a cop, so just say it,” he sighed.
“Coke. I heard you had some coke, but before I could ask you for some, you left the party,” she blurted out. He barked out a laugh.
“You want some coke? Have you ever even seen drugs in real life?” he asked, deliberately looking her over. The blush on her face grew stronger, but she still stood her ground.
“Have you ever seen a hair brush in real life?” she asked back, staring up at his unruly mop of hair. It was a lot like hers, thick and course and a little wavy. He couldn't be assed to go to a barber shop, so it had grown down to his shoulders.
“Alright, tough guy,” he said, and he stepped closer to her before chucking his cigarette into the gutter. “Let's say I do have some blow. What are you gonna give me for it?”
“I don't know, how much money do you want?” she asked.
She was actually very hot. She had an angelic face with dark lips – he could already tell they looked most natural in a big smile. Her blue eyes popped against her porcelain skin and dark hair. She was wearing a pair of skinny blue jeans, Chucks, and a thin tank top. It was only early March, but New York was having a very unusual heat wave. Jackets weren't necessary on that night. He let his eyes wander over her body. Her rounded hips and high, firm breasts.
“Maybe I don't want money,” he replied. She snorted.
“Well, I could kick you in the balls a couple times, then check your pockets. Sound good?” she offered.
“Kinky.”
“Look, are you going to sell me the stuff or what, douchebag?” she asked in an impatient voice.
“Hey, I don't gotta do shit – I'm not the one looking to score,” he snapped back. “So if you want to get high, you better learn how things work around here.”
“Enlighten me. How do things 'work' around here?”
“It means if I say you need to suck my dick for blow, that's what you're going to do.”
She slapped him across the face, hard. He felt the sting long after she'd started walking back towards the party.
“Suck on that, ass wipe!” she yelled back, holding up her middle finger in the air.
He rubbed his hand against his cheek and realized he was smiling to himself.
Goddamn. I like her.
His smile turned into a full on grin and he started walking after her.
“Hey!” he called out. She didn't acknowledge him, so he jogged to catch up.
“Go away,” she snapped when he reached her side.
“Let's start over. What was your name again?” he asked, having already forgotten her introduction.
“Bitch Who Will Mace You,” she replied, and he was a little surprised when she started reaching for her back pocket. They'd stopped at the front gate to the party, so he grabbed her arm and gently pulled her aside.
“Seriously. Sorry I was an asshole. Really. Take pity on me, I'm not well.”
“That's obvious,” she snorted, yanking her arm away from him.
“Look, I'll give you the coke,” he said. “Just tell me your name again, I wasn't paying attention the first time.”
She glared at him through narrowed eyelids for a moment, then she let out a deep sigh.
“Delaney,” she said.
“Delaney. Unusual.”
“Give me the coke.”
“Don't you wanna know my name?”
“Not really. Drugs, please.”
I like her a lot.
“Jayson,” he offered, taking her hand in his and forcing her to shake it. “Jayson Fairbanks.”
“Lovely to meet you. Coke. Now. In my hand,” she replied, holding her free hand out, palm up.
“You know, Delaney,” he sighed her name as he grabbed her other hand. She glared and pulled at his grip, but he didn't let go. “I think you and I are going to be good, good friends.”
2
Things I Know About Myself:
I am most likely somewhere between the ages of 24 and 28.
At some point in time, most likely when I was young, I broke my leg. I still have a scar.
I have four fillings, all in molars. Most likely done when I was young.
I have four tattoos – one on the inside of my left forearm, by my elbow. One on the top of my right hand thumb. One on my back at the bottom of my neck. One on my left rib cafe, right under the pectoral muscle. No one recognizes them or what tattoo shop they may have come from. None appear to be new.
I fell (or jumped or was pushed) off a subway platform in Brooklyn on October 31st. I was waiting for the L train at the Bedford Avenue Station (though I don't know if I was coming from somewhere, or going to somewhere, or what I was doing in Brooklyn).
I was taken to NYU Langone-Cobble Hill Emergency Room in Brooklyn directly after the accident. They were unable to provide the medical care my injuries required. Due to the holiday, all affiliate and surrounding hospitals were overcrowded and/or couldn't provide the medical care I needed.
On November 1st, I was transferred to Lenox Hill Hospital in New York, because they were the closest hospital that had an open bed and a neurology team ready to take my case on immediately.
On November 16th, I woke up. I have virtually no memory of anything before that day, except for basic things like eating, walking, writing, reading, speaking, etc.
On November 29th, I was told I would be discharged within a few days. I have no identity. No social security card, and no possibility of getting a new one, which means no job. I have no name, no birth certificate, no credit score, no references. I HAVE NO IDENTITY.
On November 30th, I fully realized I was totally and completely fucked.
“You are not fucked,” Mrs. Sloan sighed.
Jon had discovered hospitals assigned social workers to certain patients, to help with their cases. Jon was one such patient. She was tasked with keeping his medical file organized and helping him understand it. She also helped him schedule meetings with different doctors and specialists, as well as getting
him in touch with a pro-bono attorney to help him understand his rights and what he could do about his situation.
That meeting hadn't gone very well.
“Explain to me how I'm not fucked, Sloany,” he snapped, throwing a file full of papers onto his bed. “The U.S. Government won't issue me a new social security number because technically I already have one. It's not their problem I can't fucking remember it. With out that number, I can't get a job. I can't even get a fucking I.D.! So what the fuck am I supposed to do? They're making me leave here in a couple days! How am I going to survive?”
“Your case is unique, Jon,” she said in her calm tone of voice. He figured that's how Sloany had gotten her job. She had a very soothing voice which matched her very soothing appearance. She was thick and curvy, always wearing tailored pant suits or professional skirts with heels. Her blonde hair was most often swept up into some type of twist or bun, but that particular day she'd left it down. Her warm hazel eyes were usually smiling at him, never hinting at the razor sharp wit and sassiness that hid behind them.
“Yeah. Amnesia is pretty fucking unique,” he grumbled.
“No it's not – a lot of people suffer from retrograde amnesia after brain trauma, but they usually, eventually, remember. The amnesia is almost always temporary. What makes you unique is your memories haven't made any sign of returning. Despite what movies and books would have us believe, it's not a common occurrence. You could get your memories back tomorrow, or never. We just don't know, and so ... yeah, the U.S. Government can't really help you.”
“See? Fucked.”
“No,” she insisted. “You're lucky they sent you here. Lenox Hill is a great hospital, and a lot of people here want to see you do well, and none more than me. I have some plans for you, and I want to go over them today.”
“Oh, good,” he groaned, falling into his chair. He ran his hand over his head, scratching at the ever thickening coat of hair, but avoiding his scar.
“Okay. You're healing up great, as you know. Spectacularly, even. You should be able to use your arm on its own in the next week or so. Your head is fine. So really, there's no reason you can't work,” she said, opening a thick binder she had sitting on her lap.
“Except for the whole I don't have a fucking identity part,” he snarled. She clicked her tongue at him.
“Attitude gets you nowhere, Jon. You must have been an annoying little shit in your last life.”
He gave her a hard time, but he really did like Sloany.
“I wouldn't doubt it,” he chuckled.
“Now, this is kind of wild, and not by the books at all. I had to call in a few favors, and we may have to fudge some stuff on your file, but I think I can get you into Benson House,” she told him while she put on a pair of reading glasses.
“What's Benson House?”
“It's a halfway house.”
“A what?”
“Technically, it's a residential reentry center, but let's be real, no one calls them that – everyone says halfway house. It's where they put prison inmates and recovering drug addicts prior to full release. Sort of reintroducing them to society,” she explained.
“You want to put me in a house with a bunch of criminals,” he clarified. She shrugged.
“Better than sleeping on the streets. You're right, there's nothing I can do about a job, and that's usually a requirement for the house. But you can also volunteer, so that's what we'll have you do. You must do at least fifteen hours a week in order to keep your room. Breakfast and dinner are provided for in the home, and you'll have assigned chores that will need to be done. There's a curfew, and no women allowed. If you break any rule, even once, they can kick you out, and there's nothing I can do for you then,” she said.
God, it sounded awful. He was picturing some broken down piece of shit building, complete with a leaky roof and flickering lights. A parole officer bursting into rooms at random hours, shaking people down and looking for drugs in mattresses. A curfew? Chores!?
Would you rather sleep on the streets?
“How long do I have to stay there?” he sighed, rubbing his fingertips against his eyelids.
“Honestly, I have no idea, but I'll be right there with you the whole time, and you know you can call me day or night. I'm going to fight for you, Jon, even if it means calling the Social Security office every damn day. And I have some other ideas – we could get the media involved again, there's always interest in a crazy story like yours. The power of the press and all that,” she said, sounding excited.
Jon frowned and turned to stare out his window. He didn't like her idea one bit. The one news spot he'd done, he'd felt like a circus freak. He got fan letters full of all kinds of strange things. Women who wanted to fuck him. Men who wanted to fuck him. It gave him the creeps. But it had also gotten him ten grand and his medical debt taken care of, so if he had to go through it all again, he guessed he could deal with it.
“Sounds peachy, Sloany. You're awesome, you know that?” he asked, looking back at her.
“Duh. So I've got homework for you, kiddo. I want you to really think about what you like doing. Do you think you're good with your hands? Do you remember anything about working with cars? Building stuff? What about food, can you cook? Can you clean? Are you any good at math? Can you do accounting? Computers, data entry, anything at all. It can help us place you somewhere for the volunteer work, and then later, help us fight to get you a job.”
“Can do. I'll start making a list.”
“Is there anything you want me to do?”
“Yeah,” he said, and he started absentmindedly chewing at the side of his thumbnail. “I was wondering – the website fund thingy? The money all those people donated? They want to release it to me, but I need a bank account for it, but ...”
“But you can't get a bank account,” she finished for him. “I've thought about this, and I have a suggestion. You should get a conservator, or possibly give someone power of attorney for you, but in a limited capacity. They can open bank accounts and manage money for you, but it should be someone you trust.”
“Someone I trust, that's funny. The only people I know are the ones in this hospital, you, and that lawyer prick,” he snorted. He could tell she was fighting not to smile.
“I'd be happy to do it for you, but I want you to really think about it. Maybe there's a nurse or a doctor you've grown close to, I don't want to seem like I'm trying to run your entire life,” she said.
“But you are running my life, and thank god because you know I'd just drive it straight into the ground. Please, it makes sense. I'll be seeing you all the time, at least until I get my memory back. If I ever get it back. If you don't mind, that is. I guess you probably have lots of sad cases begging for your help,” he told her.
“Awwww, is this a pity party I hear? You're almost cute when you're being pathetic,” she teased as she stood up. “Of course I'll do it for you. I'll look into what all needs to be done and I'll give you all the options, okay? And again, try not to worry. Stressing about all this on top of your injuries on top of your condition, it just makes things worse. You're not gonna be homeless, I won't allow it. Things will get better,” she assured him while she packed up all her paperwork.
“You keep saying that. I'm not sure I'll ever believe it,” he said, moving to chew on his index nail.
“Believe it, achieve it, dream it, whatever. Insert sunny motto here,” she said. When she had all her stuff together, she took off her glasses and looked around the room, then sighed.
“What?” he asked.
“Next time I see you, it'll be to take you to your new home,” she replied, walking towards him.
“God, my new home is a halfway house.”
“Stop complaining, you ingrate. And stop that,” she snapped, and he was shocked when she slapped his hand away from his mouth. “Chewing your nails is a nasty habit.”
Jon stared at Sloany as she walked out of the room. Then he grabbed the paper he'd been writing on ea
rlier, before she'd interrupted him.
I have at least one habit – I bite my nails.
Before
Jayson Fairbanks hurried up the stairs, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. The unseasonably warm weather from early March had disappeared. Mid-April was rainy and shitty. He emerged from the underground station and squinted as he looked around.
“Jay.”
He whirled around at the sound of his name, then broke into a smile.
Delaney Carter was hurrying towards him. She was bundled up like she was going to the north pole, wearing a parka with a fur lined hood. She had what looked like a padded tackle box hanging at her side, with a messenger bag strap holding it to her cross body style. She gingerly tiptoed around a puddle, then came to a stop next to him.
“Hey,” he said, finally pulling his hands out of his pockets and jerking the collar of his jacket upright, trying to keep out the dampness.
“I didn't think you'd actually show up,” she laughed. “I would've left my shit at school.”
Delaney was going to beauty school. She was originally from Connecticut, but Brooklyn had always sounded “cool” to her, and she liked makeup. So a couple months after her twenty-first birthday, she'd moved to the big city and she'd yet to look back.
She was actually pretty good at it, as far as Jay could tell by looking at the makeup she did on herself. Like that day she looked like a '50's pin up girl, with cherry red lips and huge wings on the sides of her eyes. Other days, she could almost look like a Kardashian. Sometimes she even had wild colors going across her lids and neon shades on her lips.
She always looked beautiful, but if he was honest, he really did like her best without any makeup at all.
“Why didn't you think I'd show up?” he asked, cupping his hands together and blowing into them. She started walking and he fell into step beside her.
“You've bailed on me the last three times,” she reminded him.
Right. The last time had been legit – he'd been delayed at his job. They'd been mad at him for being late and being high at work. He'd gotten mad because they were making him miss a date with Delaney. They'd asked what was more important, his job, or a piece of ass?
Muscle Memory Page 2
