by Rob Reger
Sandwiches at the El Dungeon very tasty.
Police are easily bought off.
Local cats. Excellent!!!!
Lax security at auto impound lot.
Wastelands always visible in the distance.
Decent stars at night despite all the bright streetlamps.
Great Dumpster pickings.
School’s…out…forever! (For me, anyway.)
Plenty of unused back alleys for slinking around in.
That cozy, private, incredibly well-designed lean-to behind the El Dungeon, and that cool girl who lives in it.
Later
!!!!!!HAVE FOUND OUT MY TRUE IDENTITY!!!!!!
Must breathe. Breeeeeeeathe.
Will start from the beginning.
Had been doing some spying on Curls, who was spending the evening sitting alone at his table, trying to look very busy with voicemail, and instead looking very foolish. It seemed to me like he was only pretending to celebrate St. Clare’s Day like a local. I decided to go harass him a little.
ME:
You aren’t from around here, are you, boy?
CURLS:
Chaaa, you know I’m not. Do you mind? I’m leaving voicemail.
ME:
[Sitting down at his table.] How would I know that? C: Hi, Ümlaut, it’s me, Ripper. Hope you’re, uh, having a great St. Clare’s Day. I actually don’t know if you celebrate St. Clare’s Day or not. But if you do, Happy St. Clare’s Day. Fffffwwwwhhhh. I’ll, uh, see you later. [Hanging up.] You know, you’re supposed to call everyone in your address book that you want to stay in your address book; otherwise they get deleted.
ME:
Why do they get deleted?
C:
Oh, it’s just town policy. To…save electricity.
ME:
Do you actually believe all that?
C:
[Looking angry, then spiteful.] Do you ALWAYS have to act like you’re smarter than me, Molly? [And then he kind of mentally bit his tongue. But he saw he had no chance of a coverup, so he braved it out and gave me a “What are you gonna do about it?” look.]
ME:
[Thinking fast. Pretending to know what he was talking about in hopes of getting further information.] Oh, so you think it’s OK to call me Molly now? C: [Looking chastised.] Sorry to blow your cover, EARWIG. It’s a little hard to keep up the act for this long. It’s been FOREVER—I mean, like, two WEEKS since you rolled into town? I mean, this is the VERY first time you’ve broken character this WHOLE TIME. [Pausing. His voice shifting tone to Pal-Casual.] Did you get my voicemail?
ME:
[Keeping a disinterested face.] I’ve lost my phone. [Long pauses as I fought back hysterical laughter.] That’s why. I haven’t left you. A St. Clare’s voicemail.
C:
[Long questioning stare.] Man, you are in DEEP this time, Molly. Are you…feeling OK?
ME:
[BRITTLING FAVVWARX, he knows who I am and my name is Molly he knows me HE KNOWS ME.] [Laughing casually.] Well, you know, I have this pesky amnesia.
C:
[Rolling his eyes. Making quotey fingers.] Oh, right, the “amnesia.”
MEMOLLY:
[Giving him my notebook, open to a blank page.] Just do me a favor and write down my parents’ names and address, OK?
C:
Huh? I don’t know your parents. MM: No time for that; give me your phone. What’s my last name again?
C:
[Looking afraid, very afraid.] Merriweather.
MM:
[Dialing information, then City Hall; paging Schneider; requesting a meeting RIGHT AWAY so I can GO HOME!!!!!! Then handing Curls his phone again.] Good thing City Hall is still answering the phone. So, refresh my memory, Curls. Where’d we meet, again?
C:
[Looking aghast.] Uh, Toad Suck, Arkansas? Four years ago?
MM:
Man, so, we’re, like, friends?
C:
Um, yes? You’re the one who gave me my nickname.
MM:
Yeah…Curls. Um, I know that.
C:
RIPPER.
MM:
Oh, right, man, Ripper, listen, I gotta catch you later, gotta meet someone…Thanks for letting me use your phone…
And I hustled out of there. Am now waiting for Schneider at the minipark. Cannot wait to tell him I would really, really appreciate it if he would locate the Merriweathers and tell them Molly needs to be picked up RIGHT AWAY AND THANK YOU VERY MUCH!
Later
My parents are on their way to Blackrock. I am dizzy with success and information. And espresso. Met Schneider at the minipark, then sprinted back to the El Dungeon to interrogate Curls and collect my belongings.
Here is what I’ve been able to find out about ME, MOLLY MERRIWEATHER, from Schneider and Curls:
I live in Zigzag, Oregon!
My parents are George and Sharon Merriweather!
I’m an eighth grader at Gallmark Junior High School!
I have been reported missing (and subsequently found) three times in the past four years!
I’m not currently on the “missing” list, and Schneider has been promising to give my parents a hard time about that!
Curls says he hadn’t seen me for about four months before I showed up here, but last time we were hanging out, some kooky old lady told us we would enjoy this town called Blackrock!
But Curls and I went our separate ways there in Turniptown, Pennsylvania!
And he came here by himself about three weeks ago!
And has been working on getting himself a job with the traveling medicine show ever since!
And was only a little surprised when I showed up nine days later, “pretending” to have severe amnesia!
He is also relieved that I am finally “out of character” so he can ask my advice about how he can get more popular with the Ümlauts!
I hate to think what #11 tells me about myself as a person!
I am starting to feel afraid, very afraid, of the reality of my parents, my home, my belongings, my IDENTITY, all of which are about to hit me, whether I am able to remember them or not, with great force, much like something traveling at huge speed would hit something else of unimaginable mass and density!
Later
Have reunited with my parents!!
I’m in their luxury sports utility vehicle and we’re headed back home to Zigzag, Oregon. I should be more excited to be leaving Blackrock, but all I can think is: I never said goodbye to the cats. I never said goodbye to Jakey. I really hope Raven understood when I told her I was rescued and she should NOT have Ümlaut and Attikol pay Schneider to fetch me back. Really wish I had brought the cats with me. REALLY, REALLY, REALLY wish I had the cats.
George and Sharon
—OK. Back to Sharon and George.
I started out with “Mom” and “Dad.” But that just wasn’t rolling off my tongue right. So they said it was OK for me to say Sharon and George while I still had the amnesia. They said I’d be going to a fancy specialist about the amnesia. They described my spacious, stylishly decorated bedroom and its entertainment system. They talked about the ponies. The ponies!!! I hope they’re real. I hope there’s at least the ponies.
I asked them if I had a yacht but they laughed and said oh no honey you don’t have a yacht and it felt like it was the first time anyone had ever called me honey and it was GREAT.
Later
The drive home has wiped me out. Have been staring intensely at the passing landscape trying to recognize a landmark, or eliminate amnesia from my brain by force of imagination alone, or something. Saying “Molly” over and over in my mind. Asking Sharon dumb questions about my habits and preferences. (“Hey, Sharon, do I take baths or showers?” “Both, sweetheart.”)
Can’t wait to be home can’t wait to be home can’t wait
Next day-Tuesday
There are actually ponies. More on them later.
I slept in my own bed last n
ight and let me tell you it was ALL RIGHT! Actually I had fallen asleep in the car on the way home, so I didn’t get to enjoy the approach to the house. Woke up just long enough to stagger inside and fall into bed, then gaze at the ceiling for a delicious minute, tracing the dreamy shapes in the plaster illuminated just a lick by the bluish moon; anticipating the day I’d have my memory back and could revisit the homegrown constellations I’d surely seen there and named in childhood. What would they be? The Dancing Tarantula? The Disbelievers’ Chorus? The Party of Blackbirds? The Nettle’s Tongue?
It felt like I slept about 100 miles deeper than I have in the past two weeks.
MUCH Later
Looking back, this one thing is obvious: Before I contacted my parents and told them to come get me, I should have asked myself why I ran away in the first place.
My parents are nice, nice people, but awfully tiresome. They actually seem kind of excited about my amnesia, since it gives them a reason to torture me with a full-scale, never-ending tour of my own home in excruciating detail. Did you know that wooden floors hold up better to foot traffic if you rotate the runners every four months? Or that your rumpus room will stay perfectly tidy all year round if you keep it locked up tight? Or that Sherman’s, downtown, does by far the most reliable job of framing family portraits in the most tasteful way possible?
Is it grossly self-centered of me just to want information on MYSELF?
We did eventually get to that, of course. The history of my life has been very well-documented in dozens of albums of photos, some home movie footage, and many crates of memorabilia. But I haven’t had any quality alone time with that stuff, believe it, because Sharon and George thought it was more important to give me the guided tour of EVERY SINGLE OBJECT in my room:
“So, this bedframe, we bought you at Gooding’s last March, to replace the last one that got nicked by your riding boots.”
“And this jewelry box, we gave you that for your thirteenth birthday, and it came from Bick’s, and so did your charm bracelet, but we gave you that when you were nine.”
“And THIS sweater came from Four Daughters, and so did this dress and these pants, and most of your underwear.”
…AND SO ON until I actually put my head down on the pillow and pretended to go to sleep. If tomorrow is anything like today, it may destroy me.
Later
Went and hung out with my ponies.
George told me their names were Tuffy and Tweety. When he saw the look on my face, he said, “Well, you named them when you were about five, if that makes you feel any better.” It sure didn’t.
Ponies are beautiful, intelligent creatures, you know, so it was all the more disappointing when they put their ears back and bared their teeth at me. George said they were probably just upset that I’d been gone. He got me saddled up for a ride on Tweety, and I felt like a dumb muppet up there, without a clue what to do. So I got a long and awkward riding lesson (because of which, by the way, I now have to put a pillow down before I sit!). “I thought horseback riding was one of those things, like riding a bike,” I said to George. “You know, once you learn it, you never forget?”
He scratched his head. “Well, do you still know how to ride a bike?”
Turns out I do. Very well. SIGH. I will keep working on the ponies.
Later
Pretty boring day. I have a feeling that boring is normal here.
I do not understand my bedroom at all. Why is it so painfully tidy? It needs major reorganizing. Don’t really feel like it at the moment, but maybe tomorrow. First thing, I think I’ll hide away the trophies.
Later
I have serious concerns about how bad all of my music is. Have spent some time skimming through my collection of cardiofunk, yacht rock, arena boogaloo, heartland country, and frat rap. I can safely say that I now find all of this COMPLETELY UNLISTENABLE and will need an all-new music collection as soon as possible.
Wednesday
Met the housekeeper. I don’t recognize him even one tiny little bit. Asked Sharon when I would be seeing the specialist and she said tomorrow. Worked on my riding skills even though my bum feels like it’s made of fire and broken glass. Ponies are no longer baring their teeth at me, thanks to lots of apples and sugar cubes, but they also aren’t galloping majestically toward me with their manes billowing out behind them when I go out to their corral. Instead, they look depressed and disappointed. Am doing what I can to cheer them up. Renamed them Bratwurst and Toulouse. Since I cannot work myself up to actually saying their former names out loud.
Sharon was full of hugs and sugary snack treats today. She also spent a lot of time staring at me with her forehead all wrinkled when she thought I wasn’t looking. She sort of half-tried to persuade me to start wearing the clothes in my large, unfamiliar closet instead of this black dress I’ve been wearing since Blackrock. I did let her launder it, but I took a long bath while I waited. I don’t know, I just feel funny putting on anything else. Will tell the shrink about that if he seems to be of any use.
I also spent some time with the top-of-the-line entertainment system in my room. I immediately saw the need for some minor improvements, and got it rewired within a few minutes. I know I could really get it sounding good if we just had a soldering iron, but apparently we DON’T. Which I really don’t understand. I also don’t understand why I haven’t already customized the spit out of this stereo. It looks as clean and perfect as the day George and Sharon paid a huge heap of money for it. Ended up tuning the radio to static, which was better than nothing, and WAY better than Hoopy Jankers and the Goodtime Belly Bouncers. Who, I’m mortified to say, used to be my favorite band.
That’s not the only thing in my room that I have issues with. Here’s another good example: On my dresser there’s this large framed photo of me with a big group of fun-looking people my age. Probably, like, twenty-three of my closest friends. My hair’s in a different style and I’m wearing the most perky grin you ever did see. Obviously, I’m thoroughly enjoying myself. With that Big. Group. Of Fun-Looking. People.
Please tell me the camera was LYING!!!
Later
Have had some quality alone time with the photo albums, the home movies, and the crates of keepsakes and other documentation of my life history. I don’t know if I feel like writing any of it down. I mean, what it adds up to is: I was born. I grew some teeth, lost them, grew some more. I’ve spent time in school. I have relatives, friends—lots of friends—and ponies. I’ve been to Disneyland. Etc. Etc. Etc. I think the most informative…uh, information about myself came from my school yearbooks. Each one must have been signed by the entire student body and most of the faculty. I read through all the messages people wrote to me over the years and here are a few representative entries:
It appears as though I was am a rich, popular, well-dressed girl who keeps a neat bedroom and wins trophies at everything she does. But I can’t say that any of this seems familiar to me. Let alone flattering.
Thursday
Losing my will to write regular entries. What’s the point? The shrink says he will have me cured of amnesia in three days, tops. Waste of time to keep writing…it’s just a habit that I’ll soon be over.
A lot later
Not over the habit quite yet. In fact I feel like dwelling on my memories of Blackrock. It’s such a novelty for me to have MEMORIES of anything. I’ve been thinking about the day I came back to the El Dungeon with Schneider after Wichita, and both Attikol and Ümlaut tried to take credit for bringing me back, and Raven had already forgotten she ever missed me. Ahahahha hah ahha. And the time Schneider was asking my parents why I hadn’t been reported missing. “Well, this was the eighth time, and she always came back on her own…” Weirdos. And that time Attikol asked Raven if she would let him romp through her hair some moonlit night, and Raven was all, “Uhhhhhhhhhhhh…no?” HAHAHA! And that especially rowdy game of Calamity Poker when Attikol challenged Ümlaut to recite Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18…in Morse Code. “Deeet de
deeet deeet deeet de de deeet de de de de deeet…” And most of all: finding the cat collars and learning Miles’, NeeChee’s, and Sabbath’s real names. McFreely’s real name will probably remain a mystery forever now. Belgium!
Oh, that reminds me. I never did go see Schneider’s grandmother, the town vet, to ask if she had stitched up Sabbath’s ear. Probably my only lead on the cats’ real owner. Had a moment of sadness for whoever that person might be, because let me tell you, they are missing some goooooood cats.
Then had an hour of sadness for myself, because I am also missing some gooooooood cats.
Much later
It’s late, late, late. I snuck out and walked around downtown Zigzag for a long time looking for something familiar. If you can believe it, and this is kind of embarrassing, I almost had myself convinced that me being here was all a big mistake, and these nice people were just complete idiots who were mistaking me for their daughter. And then this kid on the opposite corner called my name, and I thought about how even I recognized myself in all those pictures, and I should just give it up and figure out how to be Molly. Anyway, I let the kid do the talking. Not that it made any sense. Something about a comic he was knitting? About this girl who made the ultimate sacrifice—for beets! Or something like that. And he asked me if I’d be meeting up with the others later and I said yeah but then I bailed on actually going. Maybe tomorrow. Not sure if I am actually interested in rejoining my extensive circle of well-dressed, chipper friends.
Not sure if I am actually interested in ANYTHING related to being Molly Merriweather.
Ehhhhhhhhhh.
