by Jamie Knight
It makes me wonder. We’re never really given a choice as to what our name is going to be when we’re born. In a way, I’ve sort of been born again.
So, can I choose a different name now? Do I get that right, having amnesia? Maybe Brock, or Alex, or Samson, or Logan.
You might say it seems like I have an affinity for these monikers, but really, I’m only listing them because they were on some name generator app I downloaded to my phone. You can get rather bored sitting in a hospital bed for days.
You watch medical dramas and play with your phone and think about what you should name yourself if you get to choose, since you have no memory or attachment to your current name anyway. Finally, though, I decided Devon is an okay name, and that I should keep it.
Charles walks over and meets a doctor in front of the desk. The nurse goes back to looking at her computer. The doctor shakes Charles’ hand and starts talking.
It all seems very routine. Just a medical practitioner explaining to a guy’s best childhood friend that he has some memory issues.
I step forward a little bit and I can hear some of what the doctor is telling him. How it is going to take time for me to regain that memory. How I need to slowly acclimate again to my daily routine.
And then, after a very dramatic pause, this one exactly like those that are used in TV shows when it’s about to be a particularly suspenseful part, a scary sentence is spoken: “He might not be the same ever again.”
What does that mean? If I don’t know who I am, if I can’t cohabitate in my own head with the person I was before, and I might not remember who that was anyway, so does it really matter?
All of these thoughts flood my already jumbled mind. It might sound confusing, but it makes sense to me, or at least as much sense as it can, under the circumstances. I have to be someone; I might as well be the person I am here and now.
Maybe I should just choose a different name after all, and then get in a car and drive somewhere, and then just be that guy. Go into the nearest store and say “Hi, I’m Bob. Are there any job openings in town?”
Wait, I don’t think “Bob” was one of the names generated by that app. But it sounds rather pedestrian, yet vaguely trustworthy. I could blend in somewhere as a Bob. That would be just fine.
These philosophical and existential thoughts don’t seem on par for a cliff diving, jet skiing, off-roading, adventure seeking dude. So, I must have another layer or two to me.
Do I secretly go to poetry slam night at the local coffee shop? Or do I drive thirty minutes away to another one, so I don’t get recognized?
Maybe I have a journal I write down all my thoughts in? Like the one they gave me in the hospital to help me remember. Except, this one would be filled with details of exciting events, rather than just my confused thoughts.
The thing is, they told me I’m just renting a furnished apartment month-to-month. All my stuff is in storage. If I did have such a thing as a personal journal, it would probably be buried deep in some box in there.
The items I do have at my place, day-to-day things such as toiletries, my laptop and some clothes, they went ahead and had brought over to Charles’ house, where they’ll be waiting for me when I arrive.
So, I must not want to be tied down, then? Am I the kind of person always moving onto the next thing? If a good thing presented itself would I, first, know it, and second, would I embrace it and not push it away in a vain attempt to search for something supposedly better?
I have so many questions about myself. I hope Charles doesn’t try to pull any punches when he answers all of them, because I plan to ask him. If I’m an asshole, he has to tell me I’m an asshole. Not that I’ll really want to go back to normal, if that’s the case.
Charles shakes the doctor’s hand, waves goodbye to the nurse, and walks back towards me. He smiles, but it feels like one out of obligation and pity. As if that pursed action would elicit any comfort at all. But at least I know he cares.
At first, I was a bit worried that he was up to something. Why else would he want to come pick up a stranger at the hospital and give him a place to stay?
But I keep having to remind myself that I’m not a stranger to him, even though he seems like a stranger to me. He must be a good friend. Hell, his mom put together pictures of us as kids. Someone looking to take advantage of you probably doesn’t go to such lengths to deceive.
I decide to give him a chance and trust him. It’s not as if I have any other choice, anyway.
“Ready to go?” he asks.
“I am if you are.”
And I am. I want to step out into the world and see what I’ve been missing. To rediscover what I once knew so well.
We walk towards the parking lot. I can feel the bright sun on my face. It feels new, although I know I’ve been on this planet 8,796 days according to this other app I used on my phone.
All these apps – what was life like before we had them? I supposedly grew up in a time that was fully immersed in technology, already. But the smartphone really propelled everything forward.
All these devices… I am going to have to keep relearning how to use them and also eventually get my laptop and figure out just what I used to do to make money. I have so many things to do – mainly, try to remember other things.
When I put it out there as a number, 8,796 days doesn’t seem like that long. But if I only count the days after I woke up, which were seven, then it seems like an eternity and that I might never recover.
Was it stolen time? Is this a second chance? All these questions. With no fucking answers.
“Hmmm,” I say out loud.
“What’s that?” Charles asks.
“Oh, I was just thinking,” I muse.
“Well, that’s good!” he laughs. “Thinking is good. Very good, indeed.”
I laugh too.
But am I doing it to agree, or do I really think it’s funny?
Again, more questions, but relearning humor with a supposed best friend is a bit confusing as well. After a moment, I laugh a little harder.
“Wow, just wow,” I say. “You know, I have been thinking too much. I needed that.”
“I bet,” Charles says. “Look, we’ll get you sorted back at our house and then we’ll have a drink and talk and think.”
He chuckles. From what I can tell, he seems like a good guy. And from the way he says, “our house”, I know that means he shares it with his wife Amanda. At least that was what I was told.
Charles clicks a button on his keys and a beeping noise emits from a 2016 Aston Martin DB9 GT.
“What are you, a drug dealer?” I ask.
Somehow, I know what that is. It’s funny, the things I instinctively recognize, without being able to remember much of anything.
Charles laughs.
“You really don’t know, do you? I’m obsessed with cars. My grandfather left me quite a bit of money in his will and I’m ashamed to say I spend too much of it on fancy cars.”
“Well, I’d think I’d remember something like this,” I say, incredulously. “What a beautiful vehicle.”
It really is. Aluminum-intensive. Built to hug the road and pick up speed fast. To give you the advantage out there in the wild thrall of city traffic, but let you loose on the open highway, should your dreams take you there.
It’s a sleek coupe with a long, long hood. Aggressive rims, carbon-fiber accents, and a grill that compliments the Aston Martin logo: White wings outlined in black, with a rectangle sporting the company name in all capital letters. It is definitely a fucking masterpiece of a machine.
“This is the last of its kind. Just like you, good buddy,” he says.
I’m not really sure what he means by that. It’s possible it’s just a nice way of telling me I’m important to him. I must be, right? Not everyone comes to pick up their amnesiac friend from a hospital in the middle of the day.
We get in. The seats feel like you’re sitting in the cockpit of a spaceship. It has a leather and walnut woo
d interior, with what appears to be hand-stitched accents.
The black micro-suede steering wheel rim looks like you’re ready to hit the racing track, like all you’d need is a helmet, some gloves, and gallons upon gallons of high-octane fuel. Padded headliners, capacitive-touch buttons on the dash, knurled knobs –– the attention to detail shows a love of craftsmanship.
This isn’t some slapped together assembly line import.
I have another realization: I must know quite a bit about cars!
Charles presses the engine start button and the engines fire up. He puts his foot down on the gas pedal with the beautiful piece of automotive history still in park and revs it up a bit.
Maybe he thinks the sound and vibrations might jog something in my memory. And for a moment, a piece of memory flashes by, something about racing down a coastal highway in the night, but then it’s gone.
We pull out and onto the street. As we drive away from the hospital, the Aston Martin DB9 GT, one of the last of its make on the face of the Earth, heads down roads half-populated with older houses and open fields. We’re on the outskirts of the city.
“Hey Charles, I really appreciate you letting me stay at your house for a while,” I say.
“No problem, buddy,” he says. “You would do the same for me.”
Would I? I hope so. But since I have no clue what kind of person I am, I guess I wouldn’t know.
But Charles, who is apparently my best friend, seems to be sure that I would. So, I suppose I’ll just have to take his word for it.
Chapter Three
Devon
Retrograde amnesia blocks my ability to retrieve bits of information before my accident. I don’t even recall jumping off the cliff towards the water.
It seems like a stupid thing to have attempted in retrospect. It begs the question: Am I really that bored with my everyday life that dangerous activities appeal so much to me?
I want to know a few more things about myself. I mean, who wouldn’t? There’s nothing like walking through the world like a blank slate staring ahead.
I need to fill my head up with something. Is Charles going to set it to me straight? I need answers.
Speaking of this guy driving the car, the Aston Martin… who is he, really? I get the sense from our time together already that he probably is as good of a friend as everyone tells me he is to me, but without the informative nature of shared and learned experience, for all I know, I could be in the passenger seat next to a serial killer.
This is frustrating.
“So, Charles,” I say. “Can you tell me more about my job? I was able to gather some info on my phone and from the staff at the hospital, but it felt a bit spotty, at best. They really didn’t explain to me clearly what it is exactly that I do.”
“You’re an investment banker,” Charles says plainly. “And you’re doing enviably well. You just got a promotion and moved into your own office. And, besides that, people like you.”
“Wow. Okay. Well, that’s good to know,” I say.
“I helped you get your job, right out of college,” he explains further. “You went to the business school I’m the dean of and played on the lacrosse team.”
“So, I’m not a superstar athlete, or a famous actor, or a world-changing astronaut?” I ask, almost wistfully. “I just sit there and crunch numbers all day?”
“Well, there’s more to it than that,” he says. “You help people invest and make more money. In turn, you get paid more money of your own, and then you invest it yourself. It’s called capitalism and it’s awesome!”
“I must be bored out of my mind in my daily life,” I quip. “No wonder I like to jump off cliffs.”
So, if I am the kind of person who waxes philosophically, like I was earlier in the day, it seems kind of ironic. A banker works in a field where there is fluidity to numbers, but the math is irrefutable.
You can fudge the ledger, but in the end, the calculations have to add up. Why am I in such a profession? How does it relate to my extreme sports weekend warrior lifestyle?
“Well, I don’t know about being bored. They keep you super busy at the office,” Charles says. “But you do fill up your free time with some pretty interesting activities. You have a penchant for… adventure, let’s just say.”
“Yes, like cliff diving,” I reiterate. “If you haven’t noticed, that didn’t turn out so well for me. And I found a receipt in my phone for Zero-G –– that’s basically going up in a plane 32,000 feet in the air to experience weightlessness. I don’t have a death wish, do I?”
“Oh no,” he assures me. “It’s not like that. But you did try out for the X-Games once.”
“The X-Games?” I have to laugh more at that one. “Man, I’m a banker on the week days and an extreme sports enthusiast on the weekends. Am I an asshole?”
“No,” Charles says in good humor. “You have a very solid, supportive and fun group of friends, of which I am your number one pal. People really like you! Generally speaking...”
“Generally speaking?” I ask.
“I’m just fucking with you, buddy,” he says.
“Okay. Doesn’t sound like I’m too bad of a guy,” I say, almost thinking aloud. “I just gotta take your word for it, I guess.”
“There’s nothing to worry about, Devon,” he says reassuringly. “I know everything might seem scary and strange. Heck, I can’t imagine what’s it like to have lost your memory. Well, except for those crazy drunken nights in college I forgot the next morning. But that was probably a good thing.”
We both laugh at that. I wish I could remember – or, not remember – such a thing.
“Seriously, though,” Charles continues, “I’ve got your back, and you’ll be fully restored to yourself in no time.”
What he says does sound somewhat reassuring. He has a way about him; a tone of confidence and strength. He probably leads a whole division at his job. How else would he be able to afford this luxury machine?
I don’t enjoy having to rely on him, however, or anyone, for that matter. That must be a character trait of mine. So that’s one thing about me that I know is for real: I have an independent streak.
“So, wait, why didn’t they tell me all of this banker stuff at the hospital?” I ask. “They just said I have a corporate job.”
“They said they didn’t want to put any extra stress on you,” he says. “They figured you would eventually find out organically. They feel that’s the best way. You’re not bombarded with a bunch of new information all at once, and perhaps in hearing things about yourself at a natural pace, you’ll remember other things.”
“I guess that makes sense,” I admit. “But I’m a banker, really? I have to tell you, I’m a bit befuddled by that.”
Have I used that word before ever?
Befuddled?
It seems out of place.
But then again, I feel out of place, myself.
The road starts to go through more populated areas. Large 100-foot-tall Mexican Fan Palms begin to the line the sides. Then I see Canary Island date palms and California palms decorate the front lawns of big beautiful houses.
I feel a little bit at home now. But that’s only because I read a whole children’s book on local flora and fauna in the hospital.
“This is a very affluent area,” I muse absently.
“Guess so,” Charles says with a shrug. “Not as nice as some other areas around here though.”
“Well, I guess the grass truly is always greener,” I joke, and we both laugh.
The suburb that Charles lives in is tucked away from strip malls, fast food restaurants, and other trappings of urban life. We pull up a long stone brick driveway to a big house settled in amongst the various types of palms and other bushes and plants.
The lawn is lush and green. They clearly use sprinklers and most likely have a landscaping service, maybe even a personal gardener.
There are rose bushes with pink and white flowers arranged in a section close to the fr
ont of the residence. And in front of that, a marble fountain with a tiny cherub statue feeds a small lily pad pond.
The whole estate has that old Hollywood look to it, which is something I strangely am attracted to. It’s clearly a labor of love for Charles, to keep it looking so nice. I’m thinking he probably has a wife to help out.
And speaking of, a tall blonde woman in a white jumpsuit with a pink belt is sitting with a redhead in a grey t-shirt and tight blue jeans on the porch outside. Looks like they’re sipping lemonade and chatting.
The car comes to a stop and Charles gets out to greet the tall blonde with a kiss. She must be the wife. I open the passenger door, exit and take in the scene for a moment.
The redhead keeps her distance on the porch. She stares at me and her face is stone cold. I get such an odd vibe from her. It’s a mix of familiarity and hesitation with mild case of contempt.
I have to admit to myself, though, that I’m glad the other woman is his wife. She’s attractive enough, but this redhead is so hot. I’d have to say she’s the hottest woman I’ve ever seen, and that’s not just because I can’t remember seeing many other women in my life.
I guess I’ve figured out what my type is, and it’s her. Curvy and petite, with a narrow waist and wide hips. A round face with a dimple and shining green eyes. Big boobs.
Be still, my beating heart, I think. And my growing cock.
“Devon, this is my wife Amanda Williams,” Charles says.
I was able to deduce that information from watching the kiss that they’d shared. It was warm, caring and genuine. His introduction comes with a gesture towards her, as if I’m supposed to go in for a hug. I accommodate the request.
“Devonley!” Amanda says, bubbling with vibrance and positivity. “It is so good to have you staying here.”
She is definitely attractive — model height, long legs, bouncy blonde hair, bright blue eyes and really well put together. But I’d take the redhead any day.
Charles is batting a little above his league in terms of looks, but he makes up for it with his charm. Plus, if he can afford an Aston Martin, then chances are that no one is struggling around here. That always helps even the score.