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"Lost Identity" is a Jay Dubya short story that appears in the author's Kindle, Nook and Smashwords e-book First Person Stories, which will also be published in hardcover/paperback formats in 2016.
“Lost Identity”
My distraught mind’s hollow memories gradually began coming together like myriad floating pieces converging into a lucid kaleidoscope pattern. But despite my noble mental effort, I still was not remotely cognizant of either my first or my last name.
“Well now Patient X,” Dr. Anthony Thornwell solemnly addressed me as I was worriedly lying prone in my hard-mattress hospital bed, “after very tedious and thorough research, the four professionals gathered here have finally figured-out your true identity.”
“Well then, who am I?” I politely asked the stern-mannered hospital physician. “I’m anxious to re-learn my name, even if it is simply John Doe.”
“I believe we ought to gradually reveal that particular information to you as the delicate situation warrants,” the truth-oriented doctor emphatically stated. “Let’s first recap a few major items. The date today is Friday, February 22nd, 2013, and you’re now resting comfortably in Room 307 of Mountain View Hospital, 3100 Tenaya Way, Las Vegas, Nevada. But before we get too involved in any actual detailed conversation,” the medical man imperatively insisted, “let me briefly introduce you to these three other special people assembled inside your private room.”
“Okay Doctor,” I sincerely replied. “I’m sure that everyone present is here to help me discover who I am, or who I was. I hope I can remember everyone’s name. My concentration is not one hundred percent at the moment!”
“This is Dr. Ivan Long to my immediate right,” Dr. Thornwell calmly explained. “Dr. Long is a renowned psychiatrist with an international reputation and was instrumental in assisting us in painstakingly finding-out your identity. And to my left is Nurse Sierra Pierce, and standing next to her is Detective Thomas Manville of the Las Vegas Police Department.”
“Was I the victim of a crime?” I promptly asked without any hesitation. “I think I remember being attacked and my head still aches! Yes, it all was abrupt and violent!”
“We’ll comprehensively summarize that particular aspect of your predicament in a few minutes,” Dr. Thornwell promised with a forced grin. “But first Nurse Pierce will review from her notes several extraordinary remarks and phrases that you had made during your sleep periods extending over the past six days. In the interim, perhaps you can recall some germane situations and clarify a few remote issues for us. We’ve documented just about everything in our files and might need to consult the accumulative data to analyze future amnesia cases,” the doctor elaborated, “and I trust that we’ can depend on your full and voluntary cooperation in constructively aiding our hospital study!”
“Yes Doctor Thornwell,” I courteously answered, vertically nodding my head. “As long as I get to find-out my name, recall why I am in Las Vegas and fathom exactly what had happened to me, I’ll gladly give you any information I can.”
“Thank you!” Dr. Ivan Long piped-up and stated as the conscientious psychiatrist jotted-down some supposedly relevant notes onto his hand-held pad. “As for my singular component in your case study, I’ve evaluated your individual circumstances and have concluded that the entire scope and sequence of vast time intervals happen to be most interesting, very intriguing to say the least.”
The no-nonsense police officer next felt obligated to speak. “On Saturday afternoon, February 16th you were casually walking east in the direction of the Vegas Strip,” Detective Thomas Manville contributed to the discussion, “but then you were wickedly assaulted from behind and knocked unconscious. An ambulance arrived and the paramedics administered immediate first responder assistance, eventually rendering your vital signs healthy enough to then transport you over here to the Mountain View Emergency Ward.”
“What was the basic motivation for someone wanting to viciously clobber me?” I instantly asked. “Was the villain out to steal my’ wallet? Was it mischief suddenly changed into malice? Do you know who had molested me?”
“Four young punks were swiftly following and targeting you without your knowledge,” Detective Manville divulged. “Apparently three of them had convinced the fourth juvenile thug to play his version of the disturbing Knockout Game on you. After you were slugged on the right side of your skull,” the officer informed, “you fell to the pavement, the second hard impact giving you a severe concussion. The four thrill-seeking creeps quickly realized that you had a wallet filled with cash and then the young rogues nefariously pilfered it. A moment later a senior citizen Good Samaritan was driving by and used his cell phone to call for help.”
“Were the four irresponsible juvenile delinquents ever apprehended by the cops?” I wondered and verbally inquired. “I think I need to know that essential information so that I could have some much-needed closure to my current dilemma, having knowledge that justice is being served.”
“Yes, but we’ll provide you with that important background a little later,” Detective Manville confided. “Now I’ll defer to Nurse Pierce who will disclose what she had heard you mumbling and uttering during your bizarre deep sleep episodes.”
“Your first sleep comments spoken on Sunday morning had to do with you toiling in a dimly lit salt mine, and your anxious voice was orally hoping that you could establish a better way of life somewhere else,” Dr. Thornwell interrupted, asserting his ranking hospital authority and also austerely contributing to the dialogue while simultaneously trumping Nurse Sierra Pierce. “Now with the first stage salt mine scenario out of the way, I’ll turn the remainder of the patient interview over to my competent Registered Nurse colleague.”
Nurse Sierra Pierce then shared with her hospital room audience that I had been announcing from my sleep that I had been receiving Holy Communion in a strange foreign church with gruesome-looking three-dimensional figures of a crucified bleeding Christ being represented, the morbid-in-appearance spectacles being either statues or similar objects that were extending-out from the dark church’s dull beige walls.
“I vaguely recollect those frightening images you’ve just described,” I verbally responded, all the while attempting to comprehend various hazy thoughts originating deep inside my nebulous mind. “The visions do dwell and haunt my subconscious, and truthfully, I find the shocking manifestations to be rather reprehensible!”
Sierra Pierce then resumed her rather perplexing monologue. “And then on Monday evening you had been having another traumatic experience, this time being engaged in fighting a wild forest fire that was terribly devastating a country lumber camp,” the garrulous Registered Nurse stated. “And again later on that same Monday night, you were frightfully depicting yourself’ witnessing a horrible mass cemetery burial somewhere in a large city ghetto. And then on Tuesday afternoon while heavily snoozing,” the talkative R.N. continued her prattle, “you were writhing-about in your bed, yelling that you were feeling nauseous, and then you almost began vomiting from claiming to be affected from a bout of overwhelming sea sickness!”
“Yes Nurse, I do vaguely recall those very disgusting events you’ve just communicated, but as to their precise time and place,” I paused to reflect further on the elusive subject matter, “I can’t clearly determine the exact times and specific places. I wish that my sense of remembering things could be more vivid.”
“But on Tuesday evening after dosing-off,” Nurse Pierce proceeded with her unusual narrative, “you were laboring hard in a brewery, rolling and stacking barrels inside the company warehouse. Again the time setting and exact place of occupation were drastically missing from your fairly graphic verbal account.”
“I wish I could be more helpful,” I humbly apologized from my confined horizontal position upon the bed. “All that you’re telling me now is somewhat meaningful in a small way, but precisely how it is significant to my life, well, that important aspect completely evades my general awareness!”
“And on Wednesday during an extended afternoon siesta,” the hospital nurse continued her explicit recitation, “you were totally preoccupied in your sleep constructing a certain bridge spanning across a river, and in the meantime, having a stream of rifle bullets being shot at you as you speedily worked. And finally,” Nurse Pierce summed-up her well-prepared report, “you kept repeating the strange words ‘The Blue Heron’, but being stymied, we couldn’t decipher whether you were referring to a restaurant, to a bar, to a motel or perhaps to a golf course, any of which might be directly related to that specific phrase.”
“I had found the Blue Heron allusion to be especially curious and fascinating,” Dr. Ivan Long short-circuited the dedicated female nurse’s speech. “In fact, those three words compelled me to develop a rather unique hypothesis, my evolving theory founded on the assumption that you had remarkably spoken about all of those eight aforementioned-but-disconnected events in a concise chronological order.”
The reticent police official again felt a need to make a material comment. “But perhaps the biggest mystery of all Sir was your redundant reciting of the numbers 9783 over and over again,” grim-faced Detective Manville declared. “At the outset, we were baffled and couldn’t interpret whether the four digits pertained to a land-line or cell phone number, to an obscure street address, or if they signified some enigmatic license plate, or whatever else. But in the end,” the laconic Nevada police detective maintained, “those four muttered numbers 9783 became an absolutely vital clue in discovering who you really are and why you happened to be visiting Las Vegas.”
*************
The pondering psychiatrist then honored his need to inject his exclusive observations into the hospital room conference. Dr. Ivan Long expressed that the assigned team had to mutually perform some “serious reverse engineering” in order to ascertain my given birth certificate appellations. The distinguished mind doctor disclosed that my mentioning of intensively working in a colossal salt mine immediately guided his mind to focus on an area of Southern Poland.
“It was sort of like me finding a Rosetta stone! I once visited the famous Wieliczka Salt Mine not too far from Krakow,” the psyche examiner confidentially related. “Indeed, the incomparable mines had been constructed in the 13th Century and over the years had produced mainly common table salt. I had recently read in a geographic magazine where the massive underground facility had closed in 2007, but when they were still in operation, the famous mines featured a beautiful illuminated Cathedral Room along with three impressive side chapels and dozens of saint statues carved out of salt.”
Before I could mentally synchronize any elements of Dr. Long’s lucid revelation (since my addled psyche was encountering foggy memories swirling around inside), Dr. Thornwell’s sanctimonious voice filled the void as the egocentric staff surgeon pontificated about me dreaming of the foreign country church where the gruesome figures of an anguishing Christ were on exhibit.
“We believe that the alluded to church you had indicated in your sleep is named Ecce Homo, which is a popular shrine located in Calvaruso, Sicily; and the unique structure had been built four hundred years ago,” the chief medical doctor orally conveyed. “Your paternal grandfather had received his First Holy Communion there, and we immediately speculated that your recollection of the powerful family story you had probably heard many times in your youth had caused your subconscious mumbling about it.”
“And then the four of us collaborated and collectively conjectured that the colossal forest fire you were imagining and subconsciously witnessing was also a tale from your fraternal Polish grandfather’s side of the family,” Nurse Sierra Pierce aptly vocalized. “Our research found that your father had been born in Posen, just outside of Alpena, Michigan. Your grandfather, whom you had never known, had owned a logging camp, and ambitious Adalbert Wisniewski had leased hundreds of acres of forest land for timbering from the federal government. According to your younger brother’s testimony over the phone,” the R.N. elucidated, “in the early 1900s a huge conflagration had destroyed all of your grandfather’s investment, and without owning any property insurance, your paternal ancestor had died a broken man a year later, and his remains are buried in a Posen Cemetery.”
My befuddled cerebrum was attempting to contemplate and organize into a logical pattern this temporarily concealed pertinent family history when loquacious Dr. Thornwell further added to my puzzlement. “And your graphic citing of a mass city burial was again connected with your father’s side of the family, most of whom had moved from Michigan to Baltimore around 1910. Then in 1918, just toward the end of World War I, your Polish grandmother had died in East Baltimore, a poorer section of the city. An extremely contagious flu epidemic had broken-out all over East Coast America in general and also in that section of Maryland in particular. The deadly strain was called ‘the Blue Death’. Over 3,000 Baltimore residents had become afflicted and had ultimately perished from the lethal outbreak. City undertakers were immensely overwhelmed with the excessive body count, and as a stark necessity, a morbid mass grave had been dug in a local cemetery to accommodate all of the stricken corpses. Your grandmother Hedwig Wisniewski was unfortunately among the deceased in the mass cemetery burial.”
“I now see the three Polish links on my father’s side represented between the salt mine, the forest fire and the mass city burial,” I acknowledged, “and yes, I do recall visiting Baltimore relatives with my parents back in the ‘50s, some residing on Foster Avenue and others on Conklin. And I suppose that the Sicily shrine comes from my mother’s side. Now I believe I remember something! My maternal grandfather had emigrated from Sicily to Ellis Island in 1910. Later he settled in Philadelphia where other uncles and cousins had been residing, and yes, my Italian grandfather served as an orderly at Walter Reed Hospital during World War I, and thereafter, later moved to New Jersey to open a fruit and produce farm market.”
“Yes indeed,” Dr. Long concurred with my accurate commentary. “Your grandfather had gotten very sick on the rough cattle boat ride from Sicily to New York and according to your wife’s recent account over the telephone, Antonio Giacobbe never attempted to learn how to swim or even ever stepped into a lake, river or swimming pool after experiencing that negative traumatic ocean crossing.”
“And as a young man your father John once worked in a brewery in Baltimore, Maryland, which rapidly went bankrupt during the 1920s’ Prohibition era,” Dr. Thornwell enlightened my awakening memory. “Your original family surname was Wisniewski, but since Germans were better rooted in America in the early 1900s than were natives of Polish descent, your Aunt Marie had wisely changed your family name to…”
“To the German title Wiessner from the Polish surname Wisniewski!” I excitedly exclaimed. “Yes, now I remember everything almost as clear as crystal! My father would often tell me that both he and I had been named after an old Baltimore Brewery, the John F. Wiessner Brewery on Gay St.! That’s why my birth name is John Wiessner!”
“And your father was in the Army during World War II, serving in France, in Germany, in Luxembourg and in Holland,” Dr. Thornwell embellished. “And your father….”
“Had been constructing a vital pontoon bridge across the Rhine River,” I recollected and enthusiastically uttered to my four visitors, “and the urgent construction project was being done because that vile monster Adolph Hitler had ordered all bridges across the strategic river to be destroyed in order to impede the advancement of American troops. Dad had often told me that snipers were firing shots at him and his soldier buddies as they hastily rushed to assemble the pontoons together.”
“Yes,” agreed Dr. Ivan Long with a smile quickly appearing upon his formerly stoic countenance. “Your name is indeed John Wiessner. It seems that your vulnerable amnesia-laden mind had been dealing with your identity loss in a rather vicarious way, bringing certain stories from your family past to your mind’s surface in an effort to finally recall who and what you have been and who and what you are! And the blue heron facet concerns…”
“Concerns a beautiful blue heron flying low across the Jersey highway near my home and then being clipped on the left wing by a speeding tractor trailer,” I rightly answered, capably finishing the psychiatrist’s statement. “The wounded bird managed to land upon the bank of a nearby pond, which had been its original destination. That perturbing incident happened the day before I had flown United Airways from Philadelphia to Las Vegas. My wife and I attempted to rescue the injured heron, but after several failed attempts, we called the county animal control, whose personnel came onto the scene right away and captured the hurt bird with a large net and then took the creature away in their white county van for possible rehabilitation.”
*************
Detective Thomas Manville believed it was his turn to offer valuable anecdotal details to supplement the eight separate clue components. The policeman soon shared his present law enforcement activity regarding the “most current Knockout Game assault case.” Naturally the plain-clothes officer’s firm baritone voice methodically commanded everyone’s attention.
“Mr. Wiessner, you had flown into McCarron International Airport on a direct United Airways flight from Philly’, arriving in town at approximately noon on Saturday, February 16th. While here in Vegas, you were staying at your sister and brother-in-law’s condo’ located just several blocks from the Strip.” The policeman then referred to his trusty notepad for clarification. “Their names are….”
“Stephen and Anne Hill,” I said, finishing the stumped detective’s declarative sentence. “And now I remember! The lock on the condo’s door was much like one on a car entry, a combination of four numbers to be pressed on an outside hall wall pad, 9783.”
“Do you remember why you were visiting Las Vegas?” Detective Manville interrogated. “I’m sure you do recollect if you think hard about it! And by the way, ‘hard’ does not mean ‘hardly’!”
“My second son John Paul has a very stressful and sometimes excruciating hearing impairment,” I answered. “When he was nineteen, someone else at an outdoor party lit a fire-cracker that exploded several inches from his right ear. Since then, John Paul suffers from hyperacusis, which is a condition far worse than tinnitus. Hyperacusis means that my son’s ears are oversensitive to distinct noises and to high-frequency sounds like motorcycles, police car and ambulance sirens, and they’re even hurt by small ice cubes plunking into a glass. The problem’s far more debilitating than the more common ringing in the ears that’s associated with tinnitus!”
“Okay John,” plainclothesman Thomas Manville replied in a more personal manner, “but why were you in Vegas?”
“Well Sir, my sister and brother-in-law have made quite a decent living out of buying and flipping houses, especially ones located in warm climate resort areas like Vegas,” I responded, inadvertently circumnavigating the fundamental question. “Of course they’ve also done house flipping in Phoenix, but first got started in Palm Springs and then later in South Padre Island, Texas. Now they’re spending a week gallivanting around down in Cape Coral, Florida, eagerly exploring for a new business venture.”
“But John,” Detective Manville patiently reiterated, “tell us why you’ve come to Vegas without readily deviating and explaining why Anne and Stephen Hill have temporarily left Sin City for a week!”
“I came here searching for a small quiet-type business for my son John Paul, so I had been planning on attending the 2013 Franchise Exposition at the MGM Grand up on the Strip. The show was slated to happen for four days starting Sunday, February 17th! It seems that my good intentions have been rudely sabotaged by some young street hoods bent on playing the dreaded Knockout Game on me!”
Detective Manville next plausibly outlined how my sister and my wife were key principals in assisting the Vegas cops with the successful resolution of my legal case. Both ladies had endeavored many times to call me on my already stolen cell phone, but when no one answered by Wednesday, February 20th, both women became suspicious and intelligently notified the Las Vegas Police.
“And how did you manage to collar the punk teenagers?” I curiously asked. “The kid that knocked me onto Weird Street ought to take-up professional boxing! Maybe the local junior college offers a course in Assassination!”
“Well Mr. Wiessner, your wife and sister have verified and defined the eight peculiar stories you had been mumbling in your sleep,” chimed-in Dr. Ivan Long. “Their valued input gave us a better perception of your general mental condition, both conscious and subconscious.”
Detective Manville was ready with a feasible explanation about the young goons’ fate. “The idiots that stole your wallet and cell phone tried using your VISA Card at a nearby Bank of America ATM, but the inept fools didn’t realize that you had a debit card and not a credit card, so when the machine demanded the four-digit pin number, the four imbeciles panicked and ran away. Of course, their faces had been captured on the bank’s exterior surveillance cameras.”
“And what about my heisted cell phone and how about my pilfered wallet?” I requested knowing. “Have they been recovered? I had brought along a thousand bucks in gambling cash, you know!”
“Yes John, your wallet has been repossessed,” the Las Vegas investigator communicated, “but your money stash has been spent by the brazen thieves on drugs and also on a 60 inch flat screen TV. As for your cell phone,” Detective Manville indulgently laughed, “it’s been recovered, fully intact. The dumb fools had answered your number after your wife and sister had given it to us. After calling them, we instantaneously knew the GPS coordinates of the punk robbers, who were soon
arrested patronizing a local crack house.”
A moment of silence was succeeded by me vociferating a random speculation that had popped into my mind. “Well Folks, the Franchise Expo’ is over, so I guess that my excursion out here to Vegas has evidently been a miserable failure!”
“Not exactly John!” Dr. Thornwell replied with a rare degree of emotion in his voice. “Here’s my brother’s business card! He’s an ear doctor specializing in the treatment of hyperacusis. And his office is not far from your New Jersey home, located right smack in downtown Manhattan! I’m confident that Dr. Mark Thornwell will be able to help your son John Paul with his truly unenviable ear malady!”
Jay Dubya
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interesting read
There were a few minor typos that you might look for, like too [far] to Kraków. And, I think you had a Freudian slip with your reference to, "Nurse Piece." Either that or you were channeling female names used in James Bond novels by Ian Fleming. ;-)
Ron