by Greg Smith
The stranger could tell the old man was very protective of the woman. She wasn’t his wife. He was too old. What was it she’d said? That he was like…an uncle.
“She…uh…she told me I wake up every day with no memory. I don’t know my name, who I am. I don’t remember what happened to me. I don’t remember her. I don’t remember you. And each morning, I remember nothing from the day before. A day I spent right here. With her. And with you. A day spent watching hours of television. I’ve done this for three weeks now. Three weeks! And I remember none of it.”
Griggor observed the stranger earnestly.
“Da. Is misfortune, but true, hey?”
The tall man slumped in the chair.
“It’s all so…so…bizarre. I feel like I’m in an episode of The Twilight Zone.”
Griggor knew nothing of the early 1960s science fiction television series that often featured stories of psychological horror ending with an unexpected, macabre twist.
“At very least you have suffered mild concussion, my friend. It is, I think, natural to have some memory loss with head injury such as this, hey?”
“Some memory loss? C’mon, old man! I can’t remember anything! Nothing at all!”
The stranger spoke loudly, then composed himself.
“You…you’re a doctor. Can’t you tell what’s wrong with me? Obviously, this head injury caused amnesia. Can’t you tell me anything more? How long it will last? Why I can’t remember each new day?”
Griggor held his hands wide, shrugged.
“I cannot answer, Ewan. I am not neurologist, hey? Nor am I neuro expert of any sorts. I am just general doctor. Like family doctor, hey? I do not know about such things like head trauma, amnesia…”
“Then why am I here? If you can’t help me. Why do you keep me here? I should be in a hospital.”
Griggor was offended by the stranger’s lack of appreciation. He and Nadia had taken the man in. They’d nursed him as best they could. Nadia had fed him every day for three weeks. Made sure he had fresh clothing, bedding. The tall man’s lack of gratitude was unacceptable.
“We do not keep you here,” he told the stranger brusquely. “You are free to go, hey? So tell Griggor. Where do you go? To police?”
The stranger stroked his beard thoughtfully.
No way I’m going to the police. If I have murdered that blond…and that man…they could be looking for me. I don’t know where my family is. If I have one. I don’t remember my friends. I have nowhere to go.
“No. No police,” he muttered.
“Ah,” Griggor breathed knowingly.
He hides something. He remembers something he chooses to keep inside, the old man thought.
The television was on, but the sound was mute. Dual images of the Towers collapsing on TV caught the stranger’s attention. The crawl listed the current official numbers. 314 bodies had been recovered. 255 of those had been identified. 5,657 people were still missing.
“I was in the Towers,” the stranger murmured. “I could be one of them. Those missing people.”
Griggor patiently explained that that was not likely.
“I know you do not remember, Ewan, but we go over this. Each day for three weeks, hey? You are here before planes hit. Before Towers collapse. I convince you of that, hey? You are no victim of nine one and one.”
“But, I was there,” the stranger insisted. “That could explain my injury. It could have happened in the Towers.”
He felt hopeful he’d arrived at a logical explanation for why he would be walking in the street with a head wound.
“No. There are no survivors from that. Maybe one, maybe two. Anyways, you are already here, hey? Before Towers collapse. Nadia, she finds you wandering early in morning. Before planes even hit, hey?”
The stranger felt a strong connection to the Twin Towers. He could picture a lobby. Escalators. A row of elevators. He knew the subway stopped there. Could visualize a platform. A tunnel. Trains.
“I-I’m pretty sure I was there. I was in the Towers.”
Griggor considered that the tall man could be on the verge of remembering something important.
“You think you maybe work in Trade Center, hey? Which Tower, Ewan? North? South?”
The stranger strained to remember, didn’t have an answer.
“I-I can’t say. I don’t remember.”
But I was there. I was in the Towers.
“You are not in Towers when they collapse,” Griggor explained patiently. “So, you maybe are in Towers before they collapse, hey? You maybe work there. You maybe find somebodies doing somethings they should not be doing. You maybe try to stop them. There maybe is fight, hey?”
The memory of his struggle with the shadowman resurfaced. It was still dark. He still couldn’t make out who the shadowman was. Could the shadowman have been a terrorist? The blond’s dead blue eyes suddenly blazed. She’d certainly been no terrorist.
“No. None of that sounds familiar,” he lied.
Griggor scrutinized the stranger carefully as he spoke his next words.
“Or you maybe are somebody who does somethings you should not be doing, hey? Somebodies, they try to stop you. You fight…”
He watched Ewan for any sign that anything he was saying registered. The stranger considered that the shadowman from his memory might have been a security guard. Attempting to stop him.
But I’m no terrorist. Am I?
“I can’t say whether or not either of those possibilities happened,” he replied calmly. “I just don’t know. I…I can’t remember.”
Griggor slapped his thighs, smiled.
“Or maybe you are just mugged on way to office and you never go to work on that day, hey? Whether you are working in one of Twin Towers or somewheres else.”
The old man stood to go. Grabbed his satchel, stopped in the doorway.
“So what do you think, Ewan? Are you mugged, hey?”
The stranger said nothing. Anything the old man proposed could have happened. Any scenario. Any situation. Any incident. Any possibility. He wished he knew. Even if he didn’t like the truth, knowing would be better than not knowing.
• • • • •
CHAPTER 29
< OAK’S PROPOSAL>
The Bagdasarian twins received their MBAs in Finance in the fall of 1990. They were twenty-four years old. Ready to take on the world. Even before they’d been handed their sheepskins, passed the Series 7 exam, they’d landed jobs with Merrill Lynch.
Secure in his selection of profession, confident with his choice of employer, Step was anxious to begin the life the brothers had mapped out for themselves. He was unencumbered with a wife, or even a girlfriend, was prepared to do whatever was required. Fourteen-hour days. Sixteen-hour days. Step was ready to devote the bulk of his time to honing his craft. He was poised to become the consummate workaholic.
Aleks, on the other hand, was not as comfortable with their choice of Merrill Lynch. He knew ML offered the structure and stability he lacked. However, he was apprehensive about working in a rigid system that left little room for intuition, instinct, hunches. Perfect for Step. It just wasn’t him. He was thankful when his old friend from TGS Securities called with an intriguing proposal. A dust devil in the guise of an angel of opportunity.
Their conversation started out in the usual manner. With much verbal bashing, insult slinging, defamation of character.
“Alpo. It’s Oak. How the fuck ya been?”
Oak’s pet name for Aleks had started out as Al Pal, evolved into Alpo. Because, as his large friend had pointed out so often during the early stages of their friendship, dog food was exactly what Aleks was. Compared to Oak. Who was 100% A-1 Prime Beef.
“Oak! You dumb Polack. Is that really you?”
“No, it’s the fucking tooth fairy.”
“Awesome! You got a new job. They making you wear the pink tights? With the lacy tutu?”
Aleks hadn’t seen or spoken with his large friend in nearly two years,
yet they picked up the banter as though they’d shared a cab just the day before.
“I know that sexy image gives you wood, but picture this. Right now, I’m wearing a silk kimono. Two sizes too small. The front’s flapping like a curtain in a hurricane.”
The thing Aleks had missed most after leaving the NYSE and returning to school had been Oak. Intelligent and quick-witted, the large man could easily hold his own against Aleks, who was a seasoned professional in the art of repartee. Somewhere along the line they’d settled on a routine that involved disparaging each other’s non-existent sister. It provided safe ground for their vulgar onslaughts.
“Wish I were there, Oak. But I’m busy slapping yer sister’s ass cheeks pink,” Aleks joshed.
He slapped his hand against his forearm to produce the desired sound effects.
“Did I mention yer sister’s kneeling tits out in front of the kimono curtain,” Oak countered. “Ah. That’s nice, baby. Hey, easy with the teeth.”
Same old Oak, Aleks thought. Lewd, crude and rude.
“So, you in New York?” he inquired.
“Right now, I’m in yer sister,” Oak moaned. “Deep in–”
“Hey, you called me,” Aleks reminded his large friend, who had an inclination to prolong the banter beyond reasonable limits, favoring artificial dialog over anything resembling a discussion about real life.
Oak sighed, resigned himself to having the normal conversation.
“Yeah. Have been. Three months now.”
Aleks was stunned speechless at the news that his friend had been in New York City for several weeks, was just now contacting him. Oak broke the momentary instance of silence.
“Hadda leave Californ-i-ay, Alpo. Before dad had my kneecaps shattered.”
Aleks quickly fell back into bantering mode.
“Well, that woulda ended your moonlighting gig in the men’s room at the Pyramid Club, that’s for damn sure,” he retorted. “But wait a sec. California? Dad?”
“I’m wondering how you know all the popular gay haunts in The Village,” Oak responded, glad Aleks had re-entered the waters of Lake Jocularity, ignoring the inquiry about California and his father-in-law.
“The Pyramid’s a gay hangout? Go figure,” Aleks replied casually. “By the way, only a true homo uses the word ‘haunts’ in that context. And again. California? Dad?”
“Only a Neanderthal uses the word ‘homo,’” Oak returned, adding with a lisping, effeminate whisper, “We prefer to be called queers.”
Oak calling anyone a Neanderthal, combined with his sibilant pronunciation of the word “queers,” was just too hilarious for Aleks not to lose control. He laughed loudly. He’d truly missed his large Polish friend.
“I’m missing a few pieces here, Oak. Clue me in.”
Oak sighed again. He’d enjoyed their re-entry into the arena for more verbal jousting. However brief.
“Left New York City for Iowa. Met Wilma in an airport bar. Wound up in California. A one-night stand turned into a marriage. And a kid. Not necessarily in that order.”
“Wait. Wilma? So that would make you…?”
“Yep! Fred Yabba-dabba-fucking-doo Flintstone!”
“Which means I’m fucking Barney? That little non-blinking black eyes creepo?”
“Hey, you can fuck whoever you want. Barney. Dino. That weird-ass purple elephant vacuum cleaner thingy. Which, I gotta admit, has some kinda peculiar sex appeal to it.”
Aleks wondered where his large friend came up with this stuff.
“So, this kid. Is it a Bamm-Bamm? Or a Pebbles?”
He couldn’t envision a female version of Oak. If the kid was, indeed, a Pebbles, he hoped her mother’s DNA dominated that of the large man who claimed to have donated the paternal half of her genetic formula.
“Alpo. You think my swimmers would produce anything but A-1 prime male beef? C’mon. Junior’s a Bamm-Bamm. Listen, I’m six-eight. Mom’s six-three. She was all-conference. All-American. All-everything. In volleyball and basketball. Stanford. Class of ’86. College scouts were knocking on the womb, man. Kid’s gonna have a pro contract before he gets outta nursery school.”
“Unless he takes after his father. In which case, he has a promising future with the U.S. Postal Service,” Aleks countered.
“Aw, government work’s not so bad. Lotsa paid holidays…great benefits…nice pension…” Oak impatiently changed gears. “Look, we’re getting off track here. As intriguing as it all may sound, Alpo, I didn’t call to talk about my impulsive plunge into matrimony. Or my irresponsible venture into fatherhood. Or my careless experimentation with drugs and my subsequent addiction, for that matter. Or even my botched attempt at suicide.”
Oak recited the recent disasters of his life as though they were items to be crossed off a grocery list. Aleks wanted details on each and every one.
Drug addiction? Attempted suicide? What the fuck?
“Which one of those fucking WASP firms you making rich these days?” the large man wanted to know.
Aleks answered tentatively.
“We start at Merrill Lynch in less than a week.”
“We, huh? You and Step. Always with the twin thing. What’re they paying ya?”
Aleks was okay telling Oak what he made. Providing that information, however, would be an invasion of Step’s privacy.
“It’s a complicated formula,” he said cagily.
“Seventy-eighty a year?”
“Plus bonuses.”
“Awesome. Ya got any chickens? They’ll eat well.”
“First-year potential is over one-fifty. Not exactly chicken feed,” Aleks maintained.
“Assuming your chickens ain’t vurry big. And there ain’t vurry many of ’em,” Oak drawled, before getting serious again. “Listen, if you wanna make some real money, remember this name. Stratton Oakmont. I started in April. There were maybe twenty of us. Six months later, we’ve tripled. Jordan’s a genius. He and Danny are gods. I made upwards of thirty last month alone.”
“Thirty sales? In one month? That is impressive.”
“Thirty thousand, Alpo. As in U.S. American dollars.”
Aleks was silent. He easily calculated that thirty thousand dollars a month equated to a thousand dollars a day. Three hundred and sixty-five thousand dollars a year. Three hundred and sixty-six in a year evenly divisible by four and century years evenly divided by one hundred AND four hundred.
That’s serious fucking money, he thought.
“That’s serious fucking money,” Oak said.
“I’m listening,” Aleks replied.
“Write this address down. It’s on Long Island. Meet me there tomorrow at ten. Wait, your sister’s gonna keep me up all night. Make it noon.”
At noon the following morning, Aleks was sitting in the Skyline Diner in Hyde Park on Long Island. He was nearly finished with his first cup of coffee when he saw the shiny black Jag pull up. He wasn’t surprised to see a mountain of flesh emerge from the vehicle. His large friend was dressed casually in a polo shirt and khaki pants. Aleks couldn’t help but notice that an avalanche or two had removed considerable bulk from Mt. Kowalski.
“Alpo!” Oak thundered, as he entered the diner.
The large man may have lost significant mass. He hadn’t lost volume. His voice boomed.
“How the hell are ya?”
They shook hands, bumped shoulders in a bro hug, sat.
“Orange juice. Large. Pronto,” Oak told the waitress.
He hadn’t removed his sunglasses. Hiding a hangover, Aleks guessed. Oak grinned at him.
“Told ya yer sister would keep me up late. She’s a fucking slut, Alpo.”
The waitress returned with his juice. Oak thanked her, ordered breakfast.
“Western omelet. Three eggs. Hash browns. Toast. Wheat, please.”
As he spoke, he pulled a flask from his pants pocket, poured the contents into his juice, with no concern that the waitress and Aleks were both watching him spike his morning OJ.
When he drank, the glass appeared tiny in his bear paw of a hand.
“What? Hey, it’s after noon, man. Don’t judge. Anyway, gotta get the juices flowing. Juice the juices, so to speak.”
Aleks peered out the window, noted the Jag, attempted to steer the topic away from Oak’s drinking so early in the day.
“Nice wheels.”
“I said don’t judge,” Oak deadpanned, always the kidder.
The big man took a moment to look out the window, contemplate the vehicle that was the only thing remaining of his short-lived marriage, his shorter-lived career at his father-in-law’s dealership.
“It’s dad’s. Was dad’s. Now mine. Custom interior. Made for a large man. Plenty of leg room. Did I mention dad is ex-NFL? Played fourteen seasons with the Rams. D end.”
“So, what happened? With Wilma. Bamm-Bamm. California. Dad.”
Aleks refrained from asking about the attempted suicide Oak had alluded to. Kept that in his pocket for later.
“Apparently, Jack T. Jackson frowns on his son-in-law snorting coke off his secretary’s tits.”
Oak spoke as though he couldn’t understand why a father would have any problem with his son-in-law being involved in such activity.
“In his executive bathroom,” he added.
“Your secretary or his?” Aleks asked.
“His.”
“Well, what’s the executive bathroom for, if not snorting coke off dad’s secretary’s tits?” Aleks lampooned.
“Exactly!”
Oak had guzzled the orange juice, ordered another.
“Fucker has a tiny bladder for such a big man. Fucking toddler size. I saw him come out of that bathroom less than fifteen minutes before Jasmine and I popped in for a blow.”
“Jasmine.”
Aleks repeated the secretary’s name. Oak elaborated.
“Dumb as the proverbial rock. A terrible secretary. But quality snatch, Alpo. A fucking ten. Pretty sure dad paid for those tits. Probably why he was so pissed at me for sprinkling coke all over ’em. Anyway, all that’s history. I got the car. Wilma…Well, Wilma got everything else.”