Muscle Memory

by Stylo Fantome

  He'd quit the job, but by the time he'd gotten to the bar he was supposed to meet her at, she'd been long gone.

  He had no real excuse for the other two times, though. He'd gotten high as fuck and simply forgotten.

  Not that day, though. Something about this chick, she was special. He didn't want to let her slip away, so he was trying to be a good guy for a change. Maybe not a great guy, but at least better than he was before – so he'd shown up for their afternoon date totally clean and sober.

  Well, for now, anyway.

  Though they'd spoken on the phone a lot and messaged each other quite a bit, they'd only gone on a handful of dates since they'd first met. She'd played hard to get – he'd had to extort her number from one of her friends. Then, between their two schedules, it had been difficult to find times to meet. They both lived in Brooklyn, but not close together. In the month and a half since their first run in, they'd only gone out alone maybe three times total.

  Three times was enough, though. He was going to marry this girl someday. She was sexy, she was funny, she didn't take any shit, and she liked to party. Jay loved to party. He'd been afraid at first because upon first introductions, she came off so clean and wholesome. Now he knew it was just the way she looked. She could drink like a fish and cuss like a sailor. It was awesome.

  “So where do you wanna eat?” she asked, moving away from him so she didn't have to walk through a pile of slush.

  “Hey, you asked me out, so it's your choice,” he pointed out. She laughed at him, but he didn't care. He loved the sound of her laugh. It was almost like she was singing.

  “Yeah, but I didn't think you'd come! I don't know, do you like Thai?” she asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Okay, sushi? Or there's this great Korean place by my apartment.”

  Her apartment, hmmm. He'd hadn't gone there yet, didn't even know her address. Just knew she lived close to her school. Maybe if they went to Korean food, they could go up to her place afterwards, and he could finally relieve some of the sexual tension brewing between them.

  “Korean sounds good,” he said in an innocent voice. She snorted.

  “You're not getting laid, jack ass.”

  He barked out a laugh. Another awesome thing about Delaney, she was fairly psychic. It was either that, or they shared a brain. She often seemed to know exactly what he was thinking.

  “Okay, okay, fine. How does Mexican sound?” he asked, eyeballing a festive looking sign for a restaurant a couple shops ahead. She nodded.

  “Mexican sounds great. You wanna grab a table while I run home and put this stuff away?” she asked, holding up her makeup “tool kit”.

  “Yeah, sounds good. Want me to order drinks?” he asked as they came to a stop in front of the restaurant. He rubbed his hands together, trying to create friction.

  “Yeah, just get me a beer.”

  So unpretentious. He loved it. He didn't even care that he could in no way afford to treat her to dinner. He'd figure it out later, after he made her fall in love with him.

  “One beer, coming up,” he said through chattering teeth.

  She laughed her awesome laugh again, then she stepped up close to him. She fussed with his collar, forcing it upright again, then she buttoned his jacket all the way to the top.

  “You never dress for the weather,” she said, unwinding a black knit scarf from around her neck and looping it around his. “I worry about you, you're gonna freeze to death one of these days.”

  He stared at her while she tied the material in a knot around his throat. She wasn't looking at him, she was concentrating on what she was doing, the corner of her mouth crooked up into a sideways smile.

  He didn't pause to question his next move. He leaned down and covered the distance between them, catching her off guard with a kiss. She didn't pull away though, just gasped softly, then leaned closer. They didn't touch anywhere else, just their lips.

  Just our souls.

  “So a beer, huh?” he asked in a scratchy voice when he pulled away. But only a little, his nose was still brushing against hers. She didn't move, either. Just stared up at him with wide eyes.

  “Yeah. I'll be back as fast as I can.”

  “You better.”

  3

  Jon twisted his fingers together. What he really wanted to do was chew on his nails, but he was trying to break the habit. He thought it was grossly unfair – his brain couldn't remember his own name, but it could remember he liked to chew his fingernails? What was that bullshit?

  And also, Sloany would slap him if he did it.

  “So you really think I'll like this place?” he asked, trying to keep his nerves out of his voice. She glanced over at him, then went back to concentrating on driving.

  “Yeah. I took a tour a couple days ago. It's not the Ritz, but it's nice, Jon. The people were nice, too.”

  He was officially no longer a ward of the hospital. Dr. Anand had claimed they didn't just “kick people out”, but it had only been a half-truth. If a person was seriously sick or injured, no, they would not kick them out.

  But if a person was healthy and could fend for themselves, like Mr. Jon Doe, then the hospital sent them packing without so much as a backward glance or saying “good luck”.

  Since he didn't know anyone and couldn't remember his family, there'd been no one to call to pick him up. Sloany had gotten his clothes cleaned, so he'd put them on and then a nurse rolled him downstairs. Sloany had been waiting for him in the parking lot with her silver Corolla.

  “Can I start calling you Mom?” he asked. She made a choking sound.

  “God, no! Jesus, Jon, I'm probably only ten years older than you, at most!” she snapped. He shrugged.

  “I don't have a mom, really. And you take care of me,” he pointed out.

  “Because it's my job,” she reminded him. He grinned at her.

  “C'mon, admit it. I'm your fave.”

  “I admit nothing.”

  She was smiling when she said it, though.

  She parked a couple blocks away, then led him to a nondescript building. It was in a fairly nice area of Harlem. Not upscale, but not run down, either. Solid middle class. Both the Lincoln Correctional Facility and Edgecombe Correctional Facility occasionally sent former prisoners to the Benson House, as it was situated somewhat between the two of them.

  It also wasn't terribly far from Lenox Hill, so he could go for check ups easily. He still had physical therapy for his arm, and doctors and therapists still wanted to see him regularly to check in on his amnesia.

  The house was large and clean, if a bit shabby. A woman greeted them at the door, shocking Jon a little. Where was the scary parole officer? This woman looked like she could be Everyman's mother. She was on the heavier side, with a floral pattern dress and an apron, and he had an overwhelming urge to hug her.

  She led them into the building, where they met Mr. Gary Tupper. He ran the house alongside the woman, Ms. Gaines. She showed up at six every morning and was gone by seven o'clock, and did all the cooking.

  Mr. Tupper was surprisingly nice. He was older, probably in his sixties, but he was a retired Marine. He had a loud laugh and a great smile, but Jon could tell the man could kick his ass six ways to Sunday and not even break a sweat.

  “I know you're not from any of the rehab centers or prisons,” Mr. Tupper was saying as he took them upstairs. “But I expect you to follow all the same rules as our other inhabitants. You certainly won't be treated any different.”

  “No, sir, I wouldn't want to be,” Jon said quickly. Mr. Tupper glanced approvingly at him, then nodded and unlocked the fourth door down the hall.

  “This is your room – it will never be locked again while you stay here. If you attempt to change the lock, or to block the door in anyway from the inside, your door will be removed for a week long period. If you attempt either again, you will be expelled. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  They walked into the room. It was s
mall, with a full sized bed, a scratched dresser, a filmy mirror, and a tiny closet. There was a window, though, and it looked out over the back garden. Ms. Gaines kept an herb and vegetable garden out there, so it was actually a pretty nice view.

  “Take a look at this room as it is right now – whenever you aren't here, it should look like this, okay? Failure to keep your room in an orderly manner will result in losing your door. Repeated failures will result in expulsion. Understood?”

  “Yes.”

  “No weapons, drugs, or alcohol are allowed in this house. We do weekly random inspections of all the rooms. If we find anything like any of those in your room, it will result in immediate expulsion. If you are found to be using drugs or alcohol, inside or outside of the house, you will be expelled. If you are engaging in criminal activity, inside or outside of the house, you will be expelled. Understood?”

  Jon felt like he was going through boot camp, but he still answered, “yes, sir.”

  “Curfew is ten o'clock at night, sharp. That does not mean ten-oh-one, or ten-oh-two. That door locks at ten o'clock on the dot, and if you're not inside it, you have to find somewhere else to sleep. You break curfew once, you lose your door and your curfew changes to seven o'clock. You break it twice, you're expelled.

  “On the bottom floor, outside the kitchen, you will find our chore board. You are assigned weekly chores. You will do them, and you will do them well. All the men here are required to have jobs, and they report to me with proof of hours worked. You will do the same with volunteer hours worked. I understand you've already found a volunteer job, you will need to get a supervisor to sign off on your hours each days. If you fail to bring me your hours or keep up on your hours, it will result in -”

  “Expulsion,” Jon finished for him. “I'll make sure to keep on track with them.”

  “I'm real sorry about your situation, son, but it has to work this way. The other guys see someone getting special treatment, and it turns into Attica in here. Besides, room and board aren't free anywhere. You want to eat, you gotta give back to society somehow. But as long as you play by the rules and do everything you're supposed to, I think we'll get along just fine,” Mr. Tupper told him. Jon nodded.

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Oh! And one more thing,” the old vet said as he started to leave the room. “Absolutely positively no women, you hear me? I know it's hard for good looking guys like yourself, but it's the rules. Ms. Gaines is the only woman allowed on the premise, with the exception of parole officers and social workers visiting. If you're caught with a woman in here, well ... let's just say I can think of more embarrassing things to do to you than removing your door.”

  With a wink and a cackle, the man disappeared around the door frame and they listened to him stomp down the stairs.

  “Charming, don't you think?” Mrs. Sloan asked, smiling big at Jon. He stared back at her with wide eyes.

  “I'm going to die here.”

  “God, you're such a baby!” she groaned. “I mean, look! Nice big bed, and hey! I think they're growing tomatoes out there!”

  “Oh my god, tomatoes!?” Jon explained, pressing his hands against his cheeks. “Fuck what I said before, this is like heaven adjacent.”

  “I suppose I could find you a nice bridge to sleep under. Ever been gang banged by homeless dudes? I bet it's super fun,” she offered. He grimaced and sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “No,” he sighed. “No, I'm sorry. Really, it's great. I have nothing to compare it to except where I've been, and it's a lot better than that, and certainly a lot better than being homeless. They're nice people, I'll get used to it. Thank you, honestly.”

  Mrs. Sloan smiled at him, then sat down on the bed, too.

  “It's not forever, Jon,” she assured him, bumping him with her shoulder. “And in three days, you start volunteering. It'll be fun, you'll see. You'll get to socialize, and I know a lot of the volunteers are right around your age. Won't that be nice?”

  “Sure. Just like summer camp. Can't wait.”

  While he'd been in the hospital, he'd done what Sloany had asked. He'd thought long and hard about things he thought he might like. Cars didn't spark much interest in him, but food did. Despite being pretty trim, he had a voracious appetite, and he'd watch the Food Network a lot. So he'd written down chef/cook as a job option.

  After Sloany had gotten conservatorship over him, he'd had her use some of his donated funds to buy him a cell phone, as well as a decent laptop. He'd remembered how it worked, how to open it, turn it on, and surf the web, but that was about it. He was pretty sure being good at watching cat videos didn't qualify him for anything, so he hadn't written down computers.

  He was, it turned out, pretty good at math, though. Algebra seemed very familiar to him, and anything with weights and measures. Had he worked in a lab? He'd written it down as a possibility, as well as accountant.

  Then he'd written down his Spanish speaking abilities, and the fact he seemed to have an obsession with cartoons – could he have worked in a daycare? Been a babysitter? He was pretty sure no, because the idea of being around kids made his skin crawl, but he'd written it down anyway.

  As it turned out, there wasn't a big volunteer pool for semi-bilingual lab working accountants who babysat. There were, however, a lot of soup kitchens and food banks. Sloany had gotten him work in a huge community center that worked with the homeless. He would be assigned to the kitchen, but there would be lots of other jobs for him to do and look into, if he wanted.

  “Shut up, you really will love it. They have a gym you can use,” she told him, pulling a brochure out of her ever present binder. “A rec hall – look, ping pong!”

  “Yay.”

  “I'll come by tomorrow and we'll go shopping, get you some more clothes,” she said, looking him over. She'd grabbed him some pajamas and t-shirts to get him through the night and next day, but those were all the clothes he had. “Then before your work starts, I'll come get you and we can go get you coffee and prep you for the day.”

  “Sounds scintillating,” he sighed, putting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

  “Seriously, Jon. Get your shit together,” she grumbled, dropping the brochure on the bed and standing up. “You can either make the best of what's been handed to you, which is a bunch of awesome stuff, or you can just give up right now and lay down and die. All because you don't have a name.”

  Jon didn't say anything as she left the room, slamming the door shut behind her. He stayed hunched over for a moment, then he laid back on the bed. Stared up at the ceiling.

  ... all because you don't have a name ...

  It wasn't that simple, of course, but she was also right. He could have it a lot worse. He could be out on the streets with no one to care about him, which pretty much sounded like what his life had been like before he'd had his accident.

  Now, he had great doctors and an awesome social worker looking out for him. He had total strangers offering to pay for stuff for him. Life wasn't perfect by any means, and it probably wouldn't be for a long time, but it wasn't awful. He wasn't in control now, but someday, he would be.

  And right now, there was something he could control.

  At least I can fucking name myself.

  Before

  Jayson prowled from room to room, peering through the dark lighting. Almost every light bulb in the upstairs part of the house had been replaced with a red one, making it a bitch to see anything. Everyone's faces looked the same. But he was pretty sure Del wasn't among the crowds, so he headed back downstairs.

  She liked to play hide-and-seek. Whenever they went to a party, it was only a matter of time before she disappeared. He always threatened to just leave, but he never did. He always looked for her, and he always found her. One time hiding in a shower, the water even running. Another time in a seedy den, hiding behind a couch – the smoke trail from her joint had given her away.

  The worst time had been when he'd come upon her in a garag
e. Some other guy had found her first and had been trying to talk her into doing heroin. Jay had beaten the shit out of the guy, which had resulted in the cops being called, which meant everyone had scattered. Delaney had called him from her apartment an hour later; she'd run through a bunch of back yards, then doubled back to look for him and almost gotten arrested.

  It was the end of April and they were back at their friend Crash's place. The dude had inherited a big old house and regularly held some crazy ass parties. The houses on either side of his were condemned, so there were no neighbors to really complain.

  That weekend, it was really rocking. Most of the rooms upstairs were filled with people either dancing or getting high. Downstairs wasn't much different. The living room walls had been covered with black trash bags, then splashed with the liquid from glow sticks. Bodies danced and writhed under black lights.

  Del wasn't there, though, so he went into the kitchen. Someone was attempting to make a grilled cheese, and he prayed the house wouldn't catch on fire. A gaggle of girls were snickering by the pantry doorway, but immediately stopped when he came around the corner.

  Gotcha.

  “Alright,” he sighed, lifting his hand to rake his fingers through his hair, then stopping himself. He couldn't do that anymore – Delaney had given him dreadlocks the week before. “Game's over. C'mon out, Del.”

  “We don't know what you're talking about,” one of the girls, a blonde, said around a lungful of smoke. She passed a joint to her friend.

  “We don't know any Del,” the other girl said.

  “Delaney. Come out here. Now,” he said.

  “I told you, we don't -” the girl started saying again, but she was interrupted.

  “No!” a voice shouted from inside the pantry. “Don't come back here!”

  “What? Why not?” he asked, walking forward. The girls formed a solid wall in front of him.

  “Just ... don't come in here!”