by Nico Laeser
My legs still feel weak, and my lungs and chest are tight. I make my way to a park bench and slouch down on it. I pull out the notes that I made in the hospital and read the name, Daniel Wolfe.
There is a public phone booth outside of a pub on the corner a few streets down. I make my way there, hoping that there is a phonebook so I can look myself up, but when I get there, the phone has only half a receiver and a chain that hangs empty, where I assume a phonebook once hung. I rest a second then enter the pub.
“Excuse me, do you have a phonebook?” I say from the end of the bar.
“Hold on a second, dear, I’ll be right with you,” the woman says through bright red lips.
I sit and wait on one of the bar stools, ignoring a few strange glances from people that look like they’ve been here for a while.
“Sorry, what can I get you, dear?” She turns to me and her oversized gold earrings reflect all the colors of the neon beer signs through stiffened blonde curls that look like they would shatter if touched.
“Do you have a phonebook?” I ask.
She reaches back, grabs a phonebook and puts it on the bar in front of me, then returns to the drunk who is tapping his empty glass on the bar. I open the book, thumb through the pages, and run my finger down the names. I have pen and paper poised, ready to copy down all the information for every Wolfe that is listed when the woman behind the bar comes back and says with a well-practiced smile, “Just take the page hon, nobody uses those anymore.”
“Oh, okay, thanks, I really appreciate it,” I say.
“Looking for your relatives?” She bends down to put away the clean glasses.
Her bleached blonde curls hang parallel to the floor, seemingly defying the laws of physics, and through a smirk, I say, “I’m trying to find out where I live.”
She frowns and says, “Most people forget where they live on the way out of here, not on the way in.”
“I was in a coma; I got out of hospital today. My memory is still a little hazy.”
“Really?” She stops what she is doing and regards me like a riddle.
I nod.
“Wow, and I thought I had problems. You want a drink?” she asks.
“I have no wallet, no money, and no ID,” I say and pull the lining from my pocket as if she needs proof.
“I’m pretty sure you’re old enough to drink,” She winks at me. “It’s on me; what’ll it be?”
“I ... ” The image of the vodka bottle projectile pops into my mind. “Vodka?”
“You don’t sound too sure,” she says with a grin.
“I’m not,” I say.
“Vodka it is, neat?” she asks and pulls a bottle from a shelf on the back wall.
“I guess so,” I say.
She puts the glass down in front of me, pours the clear liquid, and asks, “So what do you remember?”
“My name, and a few disjointed childhood memories, not much,” I say.
“So are you just going to call all of those numbers until someone recognizes you?” She replaces the bottle.
“I was thinking about maybe going to some of the addresses listed, to see if it jogs anything.”
“That sounds like a lot of walking around,” she says raising one eyebrow.
“I think I’m a journalist for a magazine, or newspaper, or something,” I say.
“You look like a journalist,” she says with a bright red smirk.
I chuckle, “That’s what I thought when I caught my reflection.” I sip from the glass and wince a little.
“You want me to add coke?” she asks, empathizing with a subtle imitation wince of her own.
“Sure, thanks.”
“My name’s Barb,” she says.
“I’m Daniel.”
“You could call around the local newspapers to see which one you work at?” She sets the mixed drink back down in front of me.
“That’s a good idea.”
“Have you tried looking yourself up online?” she asks.
“No, I got out of hospital about an hour ago,” I say and gingerly sip from the glass.
“Let me just serve Gerry, then I’ll look you up on my phone,” she says and rushes away.
I say, “Thanks, Barb.”
“You’re welcome, hon,” she says and pours another pint for the bearded old guy at the other end of the bar.
She pulls her phone from her bag and returns to me. “Daniel what?”
“Daniel Wolfe,” I say.
She types it in and starts scrolling through the results. “There are a lot of people by that name. I’ll do an image search. That might be easier.”
She scrolls through page after page and then says, “I think that’s you.”
I look at the photo. It is a black and white headshot.
“The photo is kind of small, but it looks like you.” She clicks on it and regards it for a second. “Yeah, it’s you, but your name isn’t Daniel.”
“What?” I say.
“It’s David,” she says.
“David Wolfe?” I say it out loud.
I say it again, “David Wolfe,” hoping that it will clear away some of the fog but it just adds to my confusion.
“You’re a writer, journalist, thirty-six years old, or at least, you were when you last updated your profile. It has some of your articles on here too. ‘Super hero or superfluous heroism.’ A passer-by intervened when he saw a woman and a man arguing. The argument between the woman and her boyfriend turned violent, and the Good Samaritan, Karl Wallace, stepped in to protect her. The woman refused to give a statement to police, and Mr. Wallace was arrested for restraining the boyfriend; however, charges have since been dropped after security video from a nearby gas station corroborated Mr. Wallace’s initial statement to police.”
“What else does it say about me?” I ask.
“It says that you are a former staff writer for Hierarchy Magazine, now a freelance journalist, your work has been published by all the newspapers,” she says.
“Does it have an address or anything?” I ask.
“It has your e-mail, David-Wolfe-@-journalist-profile-dot-com and your phone number,” she says.
“Would you mind calling the number?” I ask.
“Sure.” She dials the number. “It’s your voice, and your mailbox is full.”
I take a sip of my drink. “So how can I go about finding out where I live?”
“Can I get another, please, Barb?” says a guy wearing a cowboy hat, standing at the bar with his empty glass.
“Be right with you, hon,” she says and turns to me, “I’ll be right back.”
I pick up her phone and look at my profile. I notice the date on the most recent articles. They are all more than three years old, which coincides with the last updated heading, which is also three years old, which makes me thirty-nine years old.
I write down the contact information for all the newspapers and magazines associated with the articles. Barb returns, and I ask if I can make a couple calls to the newspaper on her phone.
“Sure, hon, good luck,” she says.
I call the first number I have written down, the articles editor for Hierarchy Magazine. A woman answers, “Hierarchy Magazine, Janet speaking.”
“Oh, hi, Janet. I’m calling on behalf of David Wolfe,” I say.
“Okay, what can I do for you?” she pauses.
“Daniel,” I fill in the space.
“What can I do for you, Daniel?” she says.
“I am just calling around to all of Mr. Wolfe’s regular publishers to make sure they have his current contact information on file. I am Mr. Wolfe’s personal assistant; he moved recently, and I’ve been chasing and cancelling checks that have gone to his old address. It’s been a nightmare, Janet,” I say.
“Okay, let me put you through to Admin, Daniel, just a sec,” she says.
It rings again, and another woman picks up, “Hierarchy Magazine, Amy speaking.”
I repeat my pitch, and she tells me to hold wh
ile she checks the records for my contact information. Barb looks at me and I give her the thumbs up. When Amy comes back onto the phone, she reads off the information, and I write down the address. I tell her that the information is correct, not to worry, and thanks for her time.
“I got an address,” I say to Barb.
“Do you want another drink?” she asks.
“No, I think I should probably go. I’ll come back and pay you for the drink though,” I say.
“Alright, hon,” she says.
“See you, Barb. Thanks for all of your help.”
“Here’s my number; call me if you need anything,” she says and writes her phone number down on the paper in front of me.
I smile at her. “I will.”
“Do you want me to look up the address on my phone before you go?” she asks.
“That would be great,” I say.
She writes the directions down on the paper in front of me, and we say goodbye.
CHAPTER 26
I am home
I push the building manager button, and an elderly female voice answers, “Hello?”
“Hi, it’s David, from apartment 604; I’ve misplaced my keys. Can someone let me in?” I say.
“Hold on a minute,” her voice crackles when she speaks, and I can’t tell if it is because of the intercom or her age.
A couple minutes pass, and then an older woman comes slowly to the door and opens it.
“David. I haven’t seen you for ages,” she says in the same crackly tone.
“I was in the hospital; I was let out this morning,” I say.
“Hospital? Are you okay?” She looks up at me like she is regarding a giant.
“I hit my head or something; I lost my memory and my keys,” I tell her, avoiding eye contact as I do so.
“You lost your memory?” she asks and I’m not certain if she is checking to make sure that she heard me correctly or if she wants me to elaborate.
“It’s starting to come back, I think,” I say.
“Well, at least you remembered where you live,” she replies with a smile that fits perfectly between all of the lines on her face, a task that would seemingly take a lifetime of rehearsal to accomplish.
I smile as an automatic response. “Can you let me into my apartment?”
“No problem, dear. Did you report your keys missing?” She turns and starts slowly toward the elevators.
“No. I wanted to check the apartment to see if they were in there first,” I say.
“Okay, well, if they’re not, I will cut you another set, but you will have to report them missing if your door fob is on your keys,” she says.
“I will,” I say.
We wait for the elevator in silence. I have no idea who she is, other than the building manager, but she is staring at me like she is expecting conversation. I pretend like I’m checking my pockets for something, even though I know that they are all empty save for the folded paper containing my notes.
The elevator door opens, and I have to stop the door from closing on her multiple times as I wait for her to shuffle inside. I join her in the elevator, push six, and the doors close. I keep my eyes on the buttons, but out of my peripheral vision, I can see her staring at the side of my face.
We trade a couple uncomfortable smiles as the door opens to the sixth floor, and I wait for her to exit the elevator and follow her to the door marked 604. I try desperately to remember her name, or anything at all about her, but my mind is blank.
She pulls a large set of keys from her cardigan pocket and fumbles through them with trembling hands for what seems like an hour before saying, “I think it’s this one,” and tries it in the lock.
I am both relieved and grateful when I hear the lock open. “There you go, dear,” she says.
“Thank you so much. I will let you know if I find my keys,” I say.
“You’re welcome, dear,” she says and begins the long shuffle back to the elevator.
I don’t feel good about leaving her out in the hallway, but I walk into the apartment and close the door quietly behind me.
The apartment is fairly small. There are two doors leading off from the main room, and a fake granite-looking laminate breakfast bar separates the kitchen from the living room. The living room has in it an old brown couch, a non-matching reclining leather chair, coffee table with a cup and a few magazines spread over it, several large stacks of books on the floor against the far wall, and a desk with a laptop computer. Fixed to the wall behind the desk is the corkboard from my memory with countless articles pinned to it. I move toward the laptop and rub the track pad, but nothing happens. I hit the power button and still nothing. I unwrap the charger sitting next to it, plug it into the laptop and the wall socket, and continue my tour of the apartment.
Behind door number one is a bedroom. The bed is unmade, and there is a pile of clothes in the corner. I enter and look through the small closet that contains a number of suit jackets and slacks. Apart from a selection of tweed, everything else is plain black, grey, or brown.
I pull open the drawers of the dresser one-by-one, socks and underwear, undershirts and T-shirts, and the bottom drawer contains folded brown and grey corduroys and blue jeans. On the bedside table, there is a lamp, a thick book by Noam Chomsky, and a set of keys with plastic fob attached.
I leave the bedroom and check the kitchen to see if there is anything I can eat. There are a few sticky notes on the fridge with various names and numbers, and a few notes held to the fridge under magnets. I open the fridge and look through its contents. There are spoiled greens in the crisper, and bottles of water and condiments in the door. I open the cupboards, rummage through the various cans of soup, and pull out beef lentil. I read the cooking instructions on the back of the can while I search the drawers and cupboards for a can opener and pot.
After setting the pot and its contents on the burner, I continue my tour. Behind door number two is a small 70s-style bathroom with an off-white sink, square wall cabinet with mirrored door, toilet, bathtub and shower combined, and a few toiletries. I stand in front of the mirror and stare at my reflection. His face still seems foreign to me.
“Hi, my name’s David,” I say, “I think.”
I try a more confident tone. “David Wolfe, journalist.”
I remember crying in front of this mirror, but I don’t remember why. I open the cabinet and there are shelves filled with pill bottles—Doxepin, Lisinopril, Alprenolol, and many others that I cannot pronounce. I pick up the Doxepin and read the label. Printed on the sticker it says, take 2 at least 3 hours after last meal and 30 minutes before bedtime. David R. Wolfe. Dr. Hossieni. I take the pill bottle with me and set it next to the laptop. I push the power button and it whirs and chimes.
While I wait for the computer to boot up, I return to the kitchen and pull the pot off the burner before turning it off. I look for a spoon and a bowl and eventually just pour the contents into a mug that I take from the sink.
I leave the soup to cool while I open up the Internet browser on the laptop. I type Doxepin into the search engine and find out that it is a type of sleeping pill, probably the type that I tried to kill myself with. I type in David Wolfe, open my profile page, and begin to read the articles as I sip from the mug.
By the time I have finished what I can manage of the soup, there is a sharp pain working its way from eyes, up over my head, and I assume that it is from staring at the computer screen. I return to the bathroom and search through the pills until I find Aspirin, pop the cap, and take two with a mouthful of water from the tap.
I walk back into the living room, sit in the leather chair, pull the lever, and recline into an almost lying down position before closing my eyes, waiting for the headache to subside.
CHAPTER 27
I am heart-broken
I went back to the pub to see Barb after finding my wallet in the pocket of a pair of jeans on my bedroom floor. I told her that I had gone there to settle my bill, but the real reason was
that I don’t really know anyone else.
I’ve been having strange dreams since coming out of the coma, and I don’t know who she is, but she has been in almost all of them. The pale-skinned nurse that makes my heart ache. I’m wondering if she is an old girlfriend or just someone that I knew, but I haven’t seen her in any of the photographs on my laptop.
I’m starting to remember certain people and places. The kid who threw the ball in my face was named McGuire. I received almost daily punishment from him and his jock friends during high school. It would start with, “What time is it, Mr. Wolfe?” then someone would add, “Time to hand over your lunch money,” or, “Time for you to run, Davey boy.” I hated being called Davey boy.
I remember Janet, the editor from Hierarchy Magazine. According to my journalist profile, I haven’t worked for that magazine for over six years, which is probably why she didn’t seem to remember my name when I spoke to her on the phone.
***
I am sitting on my chair in the reclined position, and I’m going through my phone. I have to scroll back through text messages to find context and meaning behind conversations, a couple words in-turn, between people that I do not know and me. Almost all of the messages are work related, editors and such, and as I look at the dates, most of the text messages are over two, and even three years old. I check my voice mail, and there are several hang-ups and three messages from a man named Harry Maddox asking for me to call him back. There was a call from another journalist named Christopher Denis who wanted to know if I could put him in touch with the photographer that shot a piece I did a few years back on the homeless of the lower east side.
I scroll through the contacts in my phone and three-quarters of them are editors, photographers, journalists, and accounts departments for newspapers. Of the few contacts that don’t have work information listed in their contact, there is Aunt Sarah, Gareth Peters, and Mom, and although I can easily ascertain by name the relationship between myself, Mom, and Aunt Sarah, I would still have nothing to say to either of them if I called. I would not want to admit to my mother that I don’t know who she is, and I don’t want to worry her that her son tried to kill himself and just got out of the hospital.
