Chapter

3

I left Mathew’s office and walked down into the bowels of the parking garage, thinking that the whole experience was getting the best of me. Denial had been easy at first. I mean, the only memory I had—the one fire memory—told me I really didn’t like Liz. I didn’t love her, did I? Of course not. So, the fire didn’t really destroy any cherished memories, at least none that Mathews could bring back. And her disappearing along with a son hadn’t really given me any sleepless nights. I was beginning to think neither Mathews nor anyone else was going to solve this mystery.

I climbed on my gleaming antique “Duo-Glide” Harley. I suddenly felt frightened. I thought back on how little I’d been able to tell Mathews so far.

The driver’s license I found in the bungalow said I was 28 years old. I was tooling around on a very expensive bike, wearing $2000 suits, fishing out $100 bills from my saddle bags whenever I needed them, and I wasn’t any closer to finding out who I was or where my goodies came from than I was four months ago. In fact, the only thing that had progressed in those months was the diminishing balance of the $400,000 I’d found in the saddlebags and my ability to handle the Harley after all but pushing it down the street those first few days. I had learned that though you may never forget how to ride a bicycle, I apparently had lost some of my memory of how to ride my Harley.

I was certifiable, a fruitcake, even by LA’s loose standards. A name, but no legitimate address. A man with a past, but with only one memory. Nothing else except all this material stuff: a luxurious hotel suite with all services paid for a year in advance and the closet full of clothes I was supposed to own.

It had been five months since my Rip Van Winkle awakening on that November morning. I had found myself half-dazed, half-dressed in a pair of wet black pants, lying under a palm tree on the beach in a cove somewhere along the Pacific Coast. Like I’d gone for a midnight swim or done some wading in the ocean. Beside me had been an empty diary with Charles Randall written on the blank cover page. A hotel key and book of matches from the Polo Lounge had led me to the Beverly Hills Hotel and the bungalow suite that was apparently my home away from—somewhere. With no suggestion of an accident and no bump on the head, I had been clean, squeaky clean, except for a lack of orientation and a very bad headache. Charles Randall was then and still is just a name—a name at the beginning of a blank diary.

I shook off the troubling memories, revved the engine and got the hell out of there.

The air was refreshing against my face, in spite of the First Stage Smog Alert LA was experiencing today.

It’s not easy having only one memory. A morning looking out of a high-rise window and hearing a phone call telling you your family is gone and you don’t even know who you are. If only that memory were a nightmare. If only I could wake up. But I’d tried that approach. I was locked.

A change into jeans. A ride up the coast. A good long cry. That’s what I needed right now.

It was noon when I got away. As I rode the cushioned flight of one of America’s few mechanical prides, the heat rising up my legs kept me aware I was alive, and the reflection on the chrome gas tank reassured me I wasn’t dreaming. The ocean air reminded me that I was a healthy, respectably good-looking guy with a lot of energy and, at least for now, a lot of money. If I only knew who it was thinking these thoughts. I wondered if I’d be impressed with myself riding around with a stash of money.

I passed a highway sign that startled me. “Death Valley - 180 miles.” I had no idea why I was attracted to the sign, but I found myself slowing down and turning onto the highway pointing toward the hottest piece of geography in America. I thought of Doc Mathews’ last words; “It’s time I changed gears and time you stopped thinking I’m some kind of threat you can play with until the next more interesting threat comes along to feed your insatiable appetite for drama.”

It was 85 degrees at the ocean, so humping over the mountains to the valley was consistent, if not prudent, for a loony pegged by his analyst as being a danger-lover.

After two hours of feeling like a nosecone in a re-entry maneuver, I crashed through the desert’s 106-degree heat and found the reality every motor needs: a gas station… well, a kind of a gas station. More like a cafe guarding a ghost town of scattered buildings and trailers. The antique pumps stood like retired sentries.

The silver metallic BMW at the front pump had personal plates that said it all: 4MYDICK. The nozzle of the hose was jammed firmly into the tank, giving the car what it needed, as the driver berated his passenger with the last thing she needed at the moment. “Fuck you!”

“Oh yeah?  Fuck you,” she screamed back.

“No.  Fuck YOU, you phony bitch.

The screaming was the only sound in the otherwise quiet of the desert. I saw tears etching their way through the young woman’s face. She was obviously uncomfortable with the language but seemed ill-equipped to escape it.

The driver jerked the back door open, grabbed a Gucci bag and flung it across the sandy ground, popping its latches and spilling Victoria’s Secrets in its path. I felt strange, compelled to turn the other way. Everything about these two up till now seemed easy to watch, but the panties and bras, well, they pushed some buttons in me. Parental upbringing? A shy streak? I didn’t know.

Only a cloud of dust remained as 4MYDICK spun through the sandy station and onto the soft ooze of the afternoon asphalt. He was out of there, but without her.

She tearfully finished picking up her belongings as the proprietor came running out, shaking his bony arms at the disappearing silver reflection and shouting with tempered British astonishment, “Hey!  You didn’t pay me! You stole me petrol!”

His eye caught the girl. He hadn’t seen this much female in a long time. He paused, enjoying the way her jeans fit her just right, and continued. “He stole my petrol.”

“You’re lucky that’s all he took,” she replied. “Sorry.  Girl problem.”

“He left you here?” queried the man.

“Yeah, the middle of a God forsaken nowhere. Got a phone?” “What about my $16.25?”