Strange Awakening by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 6
I woke up in the dark, shut off the C/D player and looked at the clock. It was 4 o’clock, presumably AM, but I wasn’t 100% sure. That was irrelevant anyway, because I was in the mood for breakfast, AM or PM. I found a microwavable package of frozen scrambled eggs and sausage. I could hardly wait the three minutes for the process to be complete. I rolled another joint in the meantime, hoping to duplicate yesterday’s heroic feeling with a full stomach and wide awake. The eggs were so good I heated up another package. After finishing the delight, I decided to start establishing some sort of routine around here and the first step in that direction was to find and take the medications Diane said were probably in my bathroom drawer.
I could read the instructions and titles of the four plastic bottles found but suffice to say that the main one was Dilantin, an anti-seizure medication. The other three are seemingly minor ones that I really don’t know much about and simply trusted that Diane told me to take them.
I went back for some more eggs. I was feeling pretty good in what was now known to me to be the morning, as I saw light starting to peek over the hill a mile away. This is always the encouraging part of the day for me, maybe suggesting something brand new with limitless possibilities. Today, in particular, I
could use some new possibilities, because of the situation next door, for which I didn’t have any standard answers. I decided not to take my usual morning walk as I really didn’t want to chance ruining this day meeting any unpleasant people by the yellow house. When I got to it I’d drive to a remote part of the reservoir and soak up as much sunshine as possible.
I delayed going out mainly because I wanted to let the sun do its work for about half an hour. So, I made some more eggs, hoping not to overdose and idly looked through kitchen drawers and closets to see if anything revealing would jump out at me.
I found some kind of tool to open wine bottles, but up until now I had not found any wine bottles, not even empty ones. One drawer held three broken dog collars. I stared at them a bit, not remembering any dog. I turned to stare out the window at the trees, hoping to get some kind of image in my head, but none came. I’d have to remember to ask Diane about that one. One of the two built in closets adjacent to the walk-in cooking fireplace, contained piles of financial papers; tax returns, bank statements, mutual fund statements and annual reports of various public companies. I’d probably have to get familiar with them in time, but didn’t want to risk sullying a yet unstained day.
I went to the car and drove it slowly down the 100 foot gravel driveway. Just as the front end got to Baptist Church
Road, a car came screeching around the curve, 500 feet away from me. He must have been doing about 90 and I could hear the brakes howl, while the car itself swerved from one side of the road to the other. I considered backing up, but there was no time and I froze watching the out of control car, not having a clue as to which way it would go next.
Mercifully, it passed in front of me and then veered back to my side of the road, knocking my mailbox about 100 feet down Baptist Church Road and coming to a stop in a shallow ditch parallel to it. I got out and walked over to the car to see him sitting seemingly calm and contented at the wheel. When he saw me the bearded male driver with long greasy dark hair looked right at me and said; “I had it,” putting his hands firmly on the wheel.
His communique did not register. Now that I was safe from the immobile car, I was annoyed that I’d have to spend time fixing my mailbox. In an incredulous and testy voice, I said;
“Had what?”
He showed me the bicep of one modestly muscled arm, put it back on the wheel and repeated, “I had it good.”
I realized that he was equating his arm strength with the ability to steer a careening auto. I was glad he pointed that out, because I might have concluded that it was pure luck that made him miss me. I also realized that I was off to a
reasonable facsimile of one of my recent days; in fact this time was even worse, because I didn’t even get ten feet out of my driveway before somebody tried to kill me. I was grateful for having smoked the reefer, because I was now considering the whole thing amusing. Perhaps due to my momentary lull, he again spoke; “I never saw anybody come out of that driveway before.”
I first thought that he was trying to make me complicit in the incident and I said; “You can’t tell me this is my fault.”
“Oh, no, no, I’m not. I’m just trying to make some excuse for being a fuck up.”
I had to laugh and said; “You really didn’t fuck up too bad. My mailbox is the only one with any cause for complaint and he’s been quiet. On second thought, maybe he’s dead.”
He got out of the car, stumbling as he did. “Don’t worry, I’ll come back later and fix it for you.” As he rocked from one foot to the other, he extended his hand and said, “I’m Butch Walker. I live just a little past the bend in the road with my folks.”
We were looking right into each other’s eyes when we exchanged firm handshakes for three seconds. I said; “Ed Jensen.” He stumbled again, laughed, righted himself and said;
“I think I had one too many today.”
I said; “I’ve had a little something already, too.”
“I tell you, man, if I counted them, I think I’d at least be up to a six-pack by now. Do you mind if I go take a piss in your woods. I don’t think I can hold it anymore.”
“Of course not.”
He walked something like a duck about 20 feet into the woods and let fly. In about fifteen seconds, he fixed his pants, turned around and walked back to me and his car.
I said; “By the way I live here, but I don’t know for how long.”
“You sound worse than me. I know I’ve been living with my folks for the last five years.”
I figured him to be about 35 and quite possibly an interesting person, so I told him the truth. “I woke up with memory loss two days ago. Wait a minute, I think it was three days ago. Oh, fucking whatever.” I laughed and so did he. I continued, “I’m really not sure, but it’s recent, very recent.”
He surprised me when he lurched forward, put his arms around my neck, hugged me and said; “Brother.”
I think I knew what he meant and didn’t elect to tell him that my problem was probably due to a brain tumor rather than an extended blackout. So I said; “Yeah, brother. Hey, I hope your wife doesn’t kick your ass for fucking up the car.?”
“You can probably see what I’m married to. I’m divorced.
When that happened is when I moved back here.”
“Did you grow up here?”
“Oh yeah. The happiest days of my life were spent walking in these woods.”
“It’s all private property.”
“Yeah, but it’s not all fenced and I know my way around.”
He pointed back toward the woods to the rear of my property. “I saw a fox walking there just a few days ago.”
He had again surprised me, by just openly stating that he had been trespassing. Butch probably detected exactly what I was thinking, by my temporary silence and he laughed, slapping me on the shoulder. He said; “Don’t worry. I don’t do any damage. I’ve been doing it since I was five.” He again rocked on his feet and said; “Listen, I better get the hell out of here, before a cop comes and gives me another DUI. I’ll come back and fix the mailbox this afternoon.”
He got back in his car and turned on the engine. I gave him a slap on the shoulder and said, “Come back any time you want. Just try not to hit the house when you do.”
He didn’t see the humor and neither did I. I was looking for something other than a standard closing line and managed a stupid one. He grimaced, shook his head up and down slowly, rolled his eyes, turned around and drove the car back in the direction from whence he came. I watched him for the 500 feet that was visible to me. Something was hanging from the car and
made clunks and cries as he proceeded at about 15 miles per hour, successfully making the trip.
I wondered if he’d really come back and my instincts told me yes. I got back into my car and drove to the reservoir. I went in the direction of the desolate boatyard, but turned off on a small dead ended paved road. When I got to the end I saw her standing five feet away from her red Toyota hatchback. I said to the windshield; “Oh, shit.” I considered making a U-turn, but figured I had already done the damage anyway and I was also in a funny mood after just having met Butch. Besides, the perfect day was already fucked. I parked my car twenty feet from hers. When I got out, she was facing me and again was waving hello with one finger. I tried to remember some line I had heard somewhere and probably misstated it; “Is that your best friend or your IQ?”
“Following me around isn’t the brightest thing to do, so consider your own IQ.”
“I think it’s more than one and I’m not following you around. I keep going places I expect to be alone and instead have been graced with your presence.” I graciously bowed and made a George Patton smile, lips together.
She paused and blinked her eyes as she looked at me. It could have been wishful thinking, but I thought her gaze had softened. I walked toward her and said, “Let’s take advantage
of the fortuitous circumstances and go for a walk. I need the company.”
She didn’t say yes or no. But when I got close to her she slowly turned as if she might head in the direction I was going.
I got my closest look at her. She was probably wearing the same or similar clothes as the previous day; black. She had a nice face, pale but with good bone structure, black long curly hair, probably straightened somewhat, no makeup, no detectable perfume and eyes that said, “I’ve felt every sorrow.” As silly as it sounds, I may have purposely imagined this, as I always manage to fall in love with broken hearted girls. Perhaps I have the audacity to think that I can fix them and consequently they’ll return the favor.
She was kind of walking with me, though, very slowly and not looking at me or saying anything. I slowed down to her pace, attempting to walk side by side with her and brushed against her for a second. She was looking at the ground, when I said; “That’s not exactly the right outfit for a walk in the woods,” especially considering her high heeled boots.
She just continued to look at the ground and walk slowly.
I continued; “That’s a really nice outfit. I like it. It’s just strange for here.”
“Nice outfit? I’m trying to look like a witch.”
“That works. However, you don’t look like the Wicked Witch of the West. You look more like the good one.”
“I don’t know about that. Do you consider yourself one who has good judgment? So far I’m not overly impressed.”
“I really don’t know. I have memory lapses and all I remember are the last two days.” I paused, then added; “I think the last two days or so. Anyway, whatever the exact number, I’m close to it. Maybe I’m relying on instincts.”
“That’s one of the strangest answers I’ve ever heard. Am I on ‘ Candid Camera’?”
“Maybe we both are. I’ve been having two of the weirdest days of my life.” I paused and she looked at me questioningly.
I realized what she thought and what I should have thought.
“It’s true that these have been two of the weirdest days of my life. It might be a meaningless statement, however, insofar as any statement has real meaning.”
She seemed to appreciate the clarification somewhat. “Do you drop a lot of acid?”
I felt a combination of insulted and complimented.
However, I answered honestly and said; “I haven’t done that in more than ten years.”
“Do you live around here?”
“Yes. I’m in the white farm house about 1000 feet from the yellow one where I’ve seen your car on occasion. Do you live near-by?”
She was surprised at the answer and was visibly uncomfortable with our proximity. “You know, you should be just a little discreet with strangers. You never know what you’re getting into.”
“I’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers.”
“You’re again starting to annoy me. I don’t dislike you.
But, you have to know that it is not a good idea to be friendly with me.”
“How can I know anything? I’m two days old. Give me a chance.”
“You’re trying to joke.......”
I interrupted her; “I’m only half joking.”
“Whatever the precise percentage. You’re trying to joke and you don’t even know what you’re joking about.” She continued in a very stern voice; “It’s better for both of us to know as little about each other as possible.” She turned and walked back toward our cars, picking up some speed.
I was disappointed at the turn of events. For two seconds I fancied her getting friendly. Again, I attempted a non-standard closing and called out; “I’ll have to trust your judgment. I am a child in these hills.”
She continued walking briskly with her back to me. She opened the door to the driver’s seat, sat down, turned to me and said, “It’s better if we don’t meet again.” She shut the door and drove off. I sat on the trunk of my car for a few minutes; both giving her time to get away and giving me time to think. I had a problem; however, I didn’t know what to think about.
After a few minutes I decided that I was on a hot streak, because the day was at least two hours old and no one had yet threatened to do me any damage, at least not overtly and she didn’t again show me her digital best friend.