From that point on, however, he maintained no memory as to who he was and what he was about.
The first thing he was able to ascertain was that he was rich. Filthy rich. The estate was loaded with luxuries, and packaged a number of servants ready and willing to kiss his sweet behind. Following a subtle investigation on that first morning, he was quick to the point in determining that everything there was all his own, and gave the housekeeping staff the rest of the day off. Confused, yet strangely excited, he spent that day exploring, trying to discover as much as he could about himself.
Through some bank records and receipts he located in a desk drawer, he found out that his name was Charles Jacobson, and that he was worth nearly $750 million dollars. How he became this wealthy, he did not know, and frankly, did not care to find out. As far as he was concerned, he just hit the jackpot, and would by all means relish the moment, no questions asked.
It would be some time before the smile left his face.
He discovered that he did not work, and was single with many girlfriends that worshipped the ground he walked on. A dream come true; instant fame, glory, and riches.
In no time, weeks had passed since his birth (as he coined it), and he never let on to anyone that he suffered from amnesia. Although immensely curious about his past, he feared that he faced the possibility of damaging his character or forfeiting his riches (God forbid!!) if anyone were to know. It wasn't worth the risk. He would just go along for the ride.
And ride he did. Smooth sailing. Throughout the three years, he spent much of his time luxuriating in his three estates, located in Puerto Rico, Los Angeles, and Manhattan. He cruised the world in his yachts, was escorted around in his private helicopter, and entertained himself with his collection of fast cars. And of course, without protest, all in the company of one or more lovelies.
He was invited to many parties thrown by the rich and famous, and spent most of his nighttimes attending them. When he wasn't socializing with the elite, he relaxed by himself in the comfort and privacy of one of his homes, in the spa or by the pool. But now, three years later, he felt different, empty. He longed greatly to learn anything about who he was. No one had ever asked him "how business was", or anything, for that matter, about his past. Conversation about himself was never a topic of interest amongst his acquaintances, nor did anyone ever allude to the subject. It was if he never existed prior to three years ago. He always remained quiet, wondering.
In more recent times, Charles tried to stimulate conversation in the direction of his past. He figured that maybe he would be able to unlock some secrets of who he was. No success. Those whom he questioned either ignored him or simply did not hear him, and continued conversation or action as if the subject was a taboo.
He straightened up and sipped his drink, contemplating, realizing he could no longer continue his life perpetually plagued with this tormenting growth of emptiness. It was driving him crazy.
Tonight, no matter what the consequences, he would find out who he was.
He returned to his suite where Tracy, Debbie, and Christy anxiously awaited his arrival. The three of them were naked, lathering up in the hot tub.
"Charles!" Tracy cooed seductively. "I did what you asked of me." She cuddled up next to Debbie.
He walked pass the tub into the bedroom, ignoring the temptations offered. He stopped and looked at himself in the mirror. He wasn't ugly, yet certainly not G.Q. material either.
Why would they want me? he thought, contemplating his reflection. He walked from the mirror and stepped out to the balcony. His eyes passionately scanned the vastness of the Atlantic ocean. A single tear ran from his left eye, leaving behind a damp impression that expressed a more solid continuity of existence than the life Charles felt he had led.
Tracy, now robed, softly walked up behind him, and wrapped her arms around his waist. She rested her chin upon his back, silent.
"Tracy?" he softly whispered.
"Yes?"
"Who am I?"
A pause. "What?" her voice silken.
"Who am I?" he repeated, slightly anxious.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, who am I? What do you know about me?"
"Well," she replied, chin still resting on his back, "You're Charles Jacobson, and simply irresistible."
This was getting him nowhere fast. He raised his voice. "What else?" He turned around to face her. "We know each other over two years, spent a lot of time together. Not once have you inquired about my past! Aren't you the least bit interested to know something, anything‹ about me?
No answer. She backed away, confused.
"Tell me, Tracy, what do you know about me prior to our being together?"
She stared up at him, tears pouring from her eyes like drips from a faucet. "Well...you're wealthy, kind...and... She stammered, unable to speak.
He continued to probe her, more intensely. "What else? Go on, tell me what you know about my past!"
She sat on the bed and gripped her forehead. She began to sweat profusely. "Please, my head hurts!" she pleaded.
"TELL ME!"
"STOP IT, PLEASE!" she screamed, curling up into a fetal position on the bed. Charles started to walk towards her, angry.
Then, like an expiring light bulb, she flickered momentarily, and disappeared. Gone. Charles jumped back against the wall, shocked. He rubbed his tired eyes and looked back at the spot on the bed where Tracy had lain not moments ago. Something was very wrong.
"Tracy?" He looked around to the floor on the far side of the bed. Nothing. Charles questioned his sanity. Did she just disappear right before my eyes? Poof? He felt faint. He slowly walked across the bedroom, hand upon his forehead, and entered the bathroom, where Christy and Debbie were bathing.
Had been bathing. The two girls were only half there, translucent, frozen in time like two mannequins. Charles could see right through their bodies. Then, just like Tracy, they flickered back to solid, then translucent, then...out. Gone.
Immediately, Charles became extremely afraid, and ran from the suite, screaming and banging the walls with his fists as he ran through the quiet hallway. He entered the elevator that was, as usual, waiting for him, and rode down.
No one came from their rooms to investigate his commotion.
OH...GOD...NO...
The elevator came to a halt and informed him that he arrived on the ground floor, casino/lobby.
The doors opened and the casino was empty, devoid of any action. Everyone was gone. He fought the urge to pass out and slowly moved forward to investigate. The silent environment encompassing him was, to say the least, strange, creating a feeling consistent with that of a lucid dream. It just couldn't be real...
Then, the setting around him began to fade. He screamed at the top of his lungs, but there was no one around to hear him. He thought of whether or not the tree that falls in the woods makes any noise with no one there to hear it. Well, now Charles was that tree.
And he could certainly hear himself scream.
He ran wildly, arms flailing, passing disappearing slot machines, craps, and blackjack tables. All the bright colors and lights adorning the extravagant hotel faded into dull hues, and melted into nothing as Charles slammed through the front doors.
He thought he was losing his mind.
In reality, however, he was getting what he always wanted.
He was about to discover his past.
Out in the streets, the bleached environment was at a standstill, as good as dead. Unmanned vehicles sat unmoving, gradually evaporating along with everything else. Standing alone in the middle of the road, Charles fell to his knees and grabbed the sides of his head, the overwhelming fear colossal.
He closed his eyes...
...and moments later when he opened them, everything was gone: buildings, streets, landscapes, the ocean; no longer in existence.
Instead, reality now consisted of a gray void that went on forever.
And Charles Jacobson.
; He passed out.
Charles' eyes fluttered open. The light was bright and it would take some time for his pupils to adjust.
Through the halo of light that engulfed him, he could make out a number of figures, maybe five or six, looming over him. Someone was holding his hand, a woman. "Charles? Can you hear me?" she said.
He managed a slight nod.
"He's responding!" was one comment he managed to discern through a variety of excited murmurs.
His vision improved, and he was able to make out six people, three that appeared to be doctors, a nurse, a young child, and the woman holding his hand.
He looked at the woman, still unable to clearly home in on her. "Tracy?" he managed to whisper.
Again, murmurs. The woman holding his hand squeezed it slightly. She spoke. "Charles, who's Tracy?"
He concentrated on the woman, trying to pinpoint his eyesight on her. She began to come into focus.
From what he could gather in his cloudy mind, he had never laid eyes on her before, and as she came into clearer view, he was glad that he never had. She was middle aged, pushing fifty, sporting an unmanaged red hair-do as bright as a carrot, touched with thick gray hairs that seemed to scream for mercy from the wrath of the red. She was overweight, actually grossly overweight, maybe two fifty to two seventy five, and her fat breasts pushed the buttons on her polyester blouse to the screaming limit. Her facial complexion bragged a sundry of irritations and pimples that mixed oh so inappropriately with the smeared on lipstick and mascara that had been sloppily applied. Frighteningly and pathetically ugly.
"Charles?" she said again, "It's me, Millie, your wife."
The last two words, for obvious reasons, sent a jolt of fright through his nervous system. His eyesight and lucidity came around quick.
"What?" he said, disbelieving.
"And this is your son," she said referring to the young boy next to her. "Charles, Jr."
The first thing that crossed his mind was the evil horror of actually having sex with this...thing. No way, not him. He panicked and tried to sit up. A doctor came over.
"Charles, please, sit back, do not exert yourself. It has been a long time."
Charles grabbed his hand. "Been a long time? What are you talking about?"
The doctor paused, concerned. Then he spoke. "Mr. Jacobson, this will come as a shock to you...and it's hard for me to tell you this, but...you've been in a coma for almost three years, almost to the day as a matter of fact."
Charles looked straight ahead. "Three...years?"
"Now, I can understand your shock," the doctor continued, "but let me assure you that you have indeed come out of it in remarkable health. You even seem to have gotten a tan; your skin color is quite healthy looking." His smile widened. "It pleases me that I can honestly say, after some tests, of course, that you will be able to return home to your wife and son in a matter of weeks. Maybe even days."
Charles put his head back on the pillow.
He looked at his wife. She smiled her fat, pimply face at him.
He looked at his son. Goofy looking kid.
"Oh...God..." was all he could muster before he passed out.
Milk
I awoke in the morning, feeling fine, the sun's beams breaking over the horizon, the roosters crowing, the morning deliveries all in check. Typical start to a glorious morning in Tyler Hills. That's how it all started.
It stands to reason that no one can really tell when a routine start such as this will spurn a day so different from all the others that bore us day in and day out. I was wrong to assume normalcy about this particular morning, and my simple mistake made me realize that those little things in life like sunrises and roosters and deliveries really meant a whole lot more when you took the time to admire them, for when something really unexpected happens to you, something that totally disrupts the beauty of the ordinary, life takes on a whole new, unfamiliar perspective.
My deli opened to the public at six. I made sure I got in well before that so I'd have enough time to prepare the day's foods. Everything had to be in order--salads for lunch; coffee, cakes, and bagels for breakfast. I've got a lot of loyal customers and I need to make sure I have the all eats they're looking for--fresh, hot, and delicious.
When I arrived, the deli was as spotless as usual, just as I liked it, the coolers filled to the edge with soft drinks and dairy products. Eddie had closed late Wednesday afternoon, performing his duties only like Eddie can--to a tee. Good help is hard to find, and I paid Eddie well enough to show my appreciation.
Now, it wasn't just the fact that I glanced over and noticed a pint of milk missing from the dairy cooler. The cooler door had been left open about an inch, and there was also another carton tipped on its side, as if someone had neglectfully rifled in there to get what they needed. Of course, these messy little instances happen all throughout the day, and I'm always going over to straighten them up. But the general cleanliness of the deli showed me that Eddie had done his job appropriately the night before. And the morning help knows better than to disregard my simple requests for a neat and orderly shop. So why was a carton of milk missing?
I called out Charlie and Greg from the back, where they were busy baking fresh bagels. Each appeared through the swinging doors, aprons donned and smeared with a variety of food-stuffs. The innocence on their faces immediately answered the questions I felt the need to ask.
"The cooler was left open," I said. "Did someone take a pint of milk out and not replace it?" I asked the question as jovially as possible, not wanting to come across as a shrew of a boss. The guys didn't seem insulted. They shrugged their shoulders, shook their heads.
I believed them and didn't push the issue. "So how are things going back there?" I questioned, changing the subject.
"Okay," they both answered in unison.
"Good. Don't let me hold you up, then."
They both paced back into the kitchen, and before I had a chance to ask, Charlie returned with a pint of milk in his hand. He offered me a smile, replaced the missing carton in the cooler, then went back to work.
I'd completely forgotten about the missing pint of milk. The day had gone grandly, a better-than-normal rush at lunchtime keeping everyone busy through three o'clock. The sunny temperature had risen to a cushy sixty degrees, pulling everyone out from their workplaces to bask in its brilliance.
I usually call it quits at four, and today was no exception. I had one foot out the door when I saw Eddie sweeping the floor and remembered the missing pint of milk from this morning.
"Eddie?"
Eddie looked up from his broom. "Yes?"
"Did you fill all the coolers last night?"
"Yeah, sure. Was there a problem?"
"There was a pint of milk missing, and one of the coolers had been left open for most of the night. I thought maybe you took it before you left."
"I wouldn't do that, boss. I know better than that." He smiled, winked.
"Just make sure the all the coolers are shut before you leave."
"No problem," he answered.
"Thanks, Eddie. Good night."
"Good night, boss."
With that, I called it a day.
Like the afternoon before, I hadn't thought of the missing pint of milk at all that night. Why should I have? It was no big deal.
Well, it wasn't a big deal. Until I arrived at work the next morning at five and saw the cooler door wide open, three milk cartons lying on the floor in front of it. I counted six empty spots on the shelf. The three on the floor meant that three cartons in all had been taken.
It seemed I had a mystery on my hands.
I called for Charlie and Greg.
It was a repeat performance from the day before, the two bakers emerging from the kitchen all sleepy-eyed and dough-spotted. The looks of astonishment on their faces when they saw the mess told me that they too had no idea who was responsible.
"Would one of you kindly go in the back and get three cartons of milk?" Charlie slip
ped away and I raised my brows at Greg. "We have ourselves one smart little mouse it seems."
Greg nodded. "A big one too."
I picked up the three dropped cartons, then went about my day. This time I didn't forget about the missing milk.
I waited until four to question Eddie, well after things slowed up. I didn't want to distract him from his work.
"Hey Eddie?"
He had just finished cleaning the tables, and if I knew his routine, he would next have all the salad trays covered and stored. "Yes?"
"I came in this morning and the dairy cooler was left open again. There were a few cartons of milk on the floor. Any idea as to how this could have happened?"
A look of concern washed over his face. "Boss, after we spoke yesterday, I made sure that everything was in tip-top shape. Just as I always do. I filled the coolers myself. They were stocked and shut when I locked up.
Locked up...
Was it possible that someone, somehow, had found a way in after closing? A drifter perhaps, seeking shelter for the night?
I called Charlie, Eddie, and Greg in before lock-up. I explained the possibility of a late-night intruder. We spent the next hour combing the deli for clues, anything that would draw us towards an answer to this sudden dilemma. Unfortunately--or fortunately perhaps--we found nothing. No broken locks or jarred windows, no foods disturbed. Nothing.
Just the missing milk.
When I was satisfied that everything was just as it should be, I locked the deli up myself and closed for the night.
I couldn't wait to get to work the next morning.
I was the first to arrive, and I could do nothing but stare at the spilled milk, three cartons on the floor, two more missing from their spots in the cooler, the door left wide open.
Not only was I completely befuddled, I was now somewhat, well, scared.
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