Current mood:	pleased
Entry tags:	nanowrimo

NaNoWriMo Story
Word Count: 7406
Goal for Today: 6800
Total Target: 50,000


Given my current situation, I feel like being killed by an errant egg is not the greatest of my concerns. I enter the restaurant with bold daring. I walk through the front door and notice that it is quite quiet inside, and there is no one at the counter to seat me.

“Hello?” I call out and wait. Looking around the restaurant, I feel like the place is a peculiar allegory for my mental situation. The lights are on and the door is unlocked, but no one is serving the tables.

An attractive middle aged woman pokes her head out of the kitchen. “Good morning,” she says cheerily. “We don't open until 5:30, but the coffee's already on.”

She is the kind of woman who looks like she is somewhere between 30 and 70. Her skin is aged prematurely by cigarettes and hard work, but she moves so fast, works so hard, and enjoys it so much that she will never truly be old until she stops working everyday.

I stand there awkwardly, not sure if she is telling me that I should come back later or come in. “Take a seat anywhere,” she proclaimes with an expansive arm gesture. “I'll get you some coffee.” She is ducking back into the kitchen as the calls back over her shoulder, “You want coffee, right?”

“Yes,” I reply, a little stunned by her ebullience. “That would be great.”

I make my way to a four person booth. I figuring that the space would be good to have to take inventory of my assets. Since I am the only person in the restaurant, it does not look like anyone will need this table.

I take my long coat off and place it on the bench next to me. I reach into the pockets and pull out everything I find. There is the flier for the Rocky Horror Picture Show event in October and a white Bluetooth headset. Not a lot of information there.

I then check the suit jacket I am wearing. Suit jackets, I observe, have a lot more pockets than it looks like. There are two pockets over the belly area. One pocket contains a brochure from the United Way talking about all the good work that they do. There is something scribbled on it about YPS, whatever that is. The other pocket is empty.

There is a breast pocket on the jacket with a pen in it. The pen has “Hyatt” printed on it. I recall that Hyatt is a hotel chain which got into a great deal of trouble for laying off their cleaning staff and replacing them with cheaper workers from some company in the south. The Governor of Massachusetts got quite incensed about this and threatened to boycott the whole chain. Based on the irrelevancy of everything else that I seem to remember, I can likely conclude that I do not work at a Hyatt, nor have I likely stayed at a Hyatt recently. Heck, I have probably never even seen a Hyatt.

It is like I am a computer and all the data was wiped from the hard drive, and all that is left is Minesweeper and a web browser. No sense being frustrated. It is what it is, and I will face the puzzle before me.

Continuing my search, I check my inside pocket. I find business cards. William Marcus, Certified Driving Instructor, they proclaim. There are three phone numbers: “tel”, “cell”, and “fax”. I appear to work for Elite Driving Academy who offers “specialized training for all needs and abilities.” I am sure that means something to someone, but to me it sounds like meaningless marketing gibberish. My title is “driving instructor,” which means that I probably did not design the card, so the slogan is not my fault.

I lay the business cards out on the table, but before I can begin rooting through my pants pockets, a waitress comes out with a cup of coffee in one hand and a bowl of creamers in the other. She is a pretty girl, with long brown hair tied back in a neat pony tail. She is not the kind of girl that you would pick out of a crowd, but she has a pleasant energy about her which makes me think that she does quite well at getting tips from groggy, early morning customers.

“Here you go,” she declares pleasantly, putting the coffee and creamers on the table. “My name is Allison, I'll be your server this morning. Linda is in the kitchen getting everything set up, so not everything is available just yet,” she explains apologetically.

I look up at her, and notice her striking brown eyes. I suppose that she is the most beautiful woman I ever remember seeing, but that is not really saying much under the circumstances. Smiling, I reply, “It's okay. It was nice enough of you to let me sit down before you officially open. Any chance I could get a chili omelet?”

She smiles back, likely unaccustomed to pleasantly cheerful people at 5:00 in the morning. “That's not actually on our menu, but I'll see what I can do for you,” she explain with a wink, before turning to head back to the kitchen. “By the way,” she says over shoulder, “I like your hat.”

I am blushing slightly. “Thank you,” I say to her back as she turns off for the kitchen.

There are worse ways to start a new set of memories than a good meal served by a pretty girl, but now it is time to get back to the work at hand.

I check my right pants pocket. There is the wallet I found before and nothing else. I set it on the table to look at it in a moment. In the left pocket, I find a cheap Bic pen, a set of keys, and a checkbook. I set all three items on the table.

The keyring, I notice, has two keychain fobs on it, a Planet Fitness one and an Elite Driving Academy one. The one for Elite Driving Academy is printed on a red, semi-transparent, faux rubber material, and has the same phone number as the business card.

I cannot remember what Planet Fitness is, but it sounds like a gym, and I wonder how often I use that. Poking my soft but not enormous belly, I conclude that I use it sometimes but not quite often enough. A sticker on the front of the fob says “relax.” On the back of the fob is a barcode and an address. 335 Russell Street in Hadley, Massachusetts.

I notice the menu behind the fake flower pot at the end of the table, and wonder if there is an address on it. Picking up the menu, I examine the cover. It is the same rooster on the same roof as on the sign outside. “The Roost” and “Breakfast, lunch, country faire” it proclaims in old fashioned, Americana lettering, but no address.

The waitress returns, and I place the menu back behind the fake flower pot. She smiles that smile of professional sincerity that every waitress makes their living with and explains, “Linda says that she can make the omelet for you. Toast and home fries good?”

“That would be fine,” I answer, not really sure what my food preferences are... or allergies, for that matter, I think ironically to myself.

“Would you like anything else?” she asks. I notice that she is not writing it down, but good waitresses usually have good memories.

“No,” I pause a moment. “What is the address here?”

She glances at the ceiling as she thinks for a moment. “300 Russell Street, I think.”

“Russell Street, eh? What town?” I ask.

She snickers a little. “Really? You're in Hadley. Do you need to know the state too?”

“Commonwealth,” I correct her, almost involuntarily.

She looks confused. “Commonwealth?”

“Massachusetts is a commonwealth, as are Virginia, Kentucky, and Pennsylvania,” I recount, almost as if reading from a script. Snapping back to my senses, I add, “Sorry, I don't know why I said that, or even why I know that.”

She laughs pleasantly. “It's cool. You never know when trivia might come in handy, like when you are trying to impress a pretty waitress.” A mischievous smile spreads across her face. “I'll put that order right in for you,” and she heads off to the kitchen.

I grin to myself. I may not have memory, but at least I seem to have some mojo. Alright, Casanova, back to figuring out who the heck you are.

I look across the items spread across the table. I look at the wallet and consider digging through that, but decide to hold off on that one for a bit. I will examine these keys first.

The key ring has those two fobs on it, and a bunch of keys. The Elite Driving Academy tag is on a separate ring with a key that appears to be a car key. There is a symbol on the key, which I assume is a brand logo, but I cannot recognize what it is. So, somewhere in the world, there is likely a car that this key operates. Too bad it is not a remote keyless entry. I could walk around pushing the button waiting to hear the beep the car makes. It would make finding this mysterious car more looking for a knitting needle in a haystack than a sewing needle in a haystack.

There are eight other keys on the ring. One has the words “Kwikset TITAN” on it and the head of the key is abnormally large. Another says “P.O. DEPT, DO NOT DUPLICATE.” Two other keys say “do not duplicate” and have the letters PVA on them.

All the rest of the keys are unremarkable, and seem to go to houses or businesses or something like that.

Nine keys open nine locks. I bet there is quite a bit I could learn, if I could figure out which locks these keys open. I quickly determine that walking around trying doors is a good way to find myself housing in a warm, comfortable jail cell.

I open the checkbook. Out of checks. That is inconvenient. I should refill those... as soon as I figure out where I live I will be sure to get right on that. There are a few deposit slips with the same name and address as my license. The check register tells me I have $562.41 in my account. At least I am not going to have to wash dishes for my meals on my quest.

Putting down the checkbook, I start to pick up the wallet as the waitress returns with my omelet. “Here you go,” she says in her kindly waitress tone as she places the plate before me.

She pauses for the moment and looks at the assortment of items around the table. “Airing out your pockets?” she asks.

I give her an ironic grin. “Not exactly,” I reply enigmatically.

“What's up with the tag sale table here?” she asks. I guess if she is so curious, I might as well tell her.

“Well, it's kind of difficult to explain,” I equivocate.

She crosses her arms defiantly. “I have been here over a year, and I have stories you would not believe. Try me.” Her brown eyes are staring right into mine.

“Alright, if you insist. You know that Staples right up the road?” I begin.

Her eyebrow raises with curiosity. “Yeah, what about it?”

“My oldest memory is waking up on the sidewalk in front of it.”

She furrows her brow in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I woke up there around 4:30 this morning, and I remember absolutely nothing before that,” I declare, realizing just how crazy it sounds when I actually say it out loud.

She opens her mouth to speak, but words fail her, and she closes it again.

“Correction, I remember many things. I remember that HTML stands for Hypertext Markup Language, and I remember that Windows 7 is getting good reviews. I remember that a Prius gets about 50 miles per gallon but that its carbon footprint is the same as a Ford Explorer because the batteries are so bad for the environment. I remember that...”

She interrupts me, saying, “I get the idea.” She pauses for a moment, looking over the table. “Do you remember anything at all about yourself? I mean, do you even know your name?”

“My name is William,” I reply, picking up my wallet and flipping it open to reveal my license. Showing it to her with a bemused grin, I say, “It says so right here.”

She takes the wallet and looks closely at the license. “Sunderland, eh?” She is looking at me curiously. “Do you know where Sunderland is?”

“Never heard of it.” I pause and reconsider. “No, I'm sure I have heard of it, but it doesn't ring a bell. Hadley does not sound familiar either, for that matter. Massachusetts is familiar, but only as a place I know things about. It does not feel familiar like a place I live should feel familiar. It is just another state...er...commonwealth to me.”

“Interesting. Sunderland is just a few miles up that road that runs into this one at the light near Staples there. You could have walked there from where you live, or at least from where your license says you live,” she explains.

I glance out the window at the road. “Anything is walking distance if you have enough time,” I muse.

She laughs, and I decide that I should make her do that again sometime before I leave. “I suppose it is. Never thought of it that way.” She looked me over for another moment. “What's your next step?”

“I figure I should go to the hospital. I mean, I feel fine and don't appear to have any injuries, but losing one's memory completely seems like one of those medical problems you should get checked out,” I answer.

Her face takes on a concerned look. “The nearest hospital is in Northampton, about 10 miles away. Not really walking distance,” she explains.

“Anything is walking distance,” I start, and we both finish the expression “if you have enough time.” We both break out laughing. “I'll probably call a cab or something,” I explain.

She smiles again. “Well, I will leave you to your rapidly cooling breakfast. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thank you. That was the most pleasant conversation I can ever remember having,” I tell her.

She narrows her eyes in mock indignation for a moment. “I will choose to take that as a compliment,” she declares before turning away to return to the kitchen.

I set about eating my omelet. It is the best omelet I can ever remember eating. No, that joke will, indeed, never get old.

My wallet sits on the table where the waitress put it down. Having eaten a few bites, my curiosity begins to outgrow my hunger, and I pick up the wallet. The wallet contains a few credit cards, one of which contains my own name as well as Elite Driving Academy. It is an American Express card, so I suppose that confirms that I do still work there. Hopefully, I will still work there after I miss however much time it takes to figure all this out.

There are various other cards in there: Best Buy Reward Zone, Subway Card, BJ's Club Membership Card, and Staples Rewards Gold. And, what's this, a Hyatt Gold Passport card, member since 09/09. Maybe I have been to a Hyatt.

There are a number of other cards: an insurance card, an AAA card, a laundry card, a card saying I am a Shaklee Distributor, whatever that is, but nothing gives me any more useful information.

There are a few receipts for various random things, and a partially ripped up business card for River Valley Games. Wait, that's not a business card. There's numbers around the edges, and some of those numbers of ripped off. In the center it says, “River Valley Games snack card, each punch good for $0.50 of snacks. Put your name on the line so the card can be returned if lost.” There's no name on it, so I guess I was confident that I would not lose it.

The door the the restaurant bursts open and a thin, blonde woman rushes in, holding a jacket and a purse in her hand. “I'm here! I'm sorry I'm late, but I'm here!” she calls out as she rushes in to the kitchen. I can hear a conversation in the back, but I cannot make out exactly what they are saying. That is, at least, until I hear the blonde girl shout, “damn it, I rushed in here for nothing. Shit, I really need the money from this shift. My rent is due, and I don't have the money and they're going to kick me out of my apartment. I need to work this shift!”

I hear Allison saying something in a calming tone. It sounds like something about letting the other girl take over her shift. There is some more, quieter conversation. Sounds like something is being resolved.

I continue eating and think to myself, “all this and a floorshow too!” After I finish eating, I look around the table and decide that the only other thing I will learn from leaving my things around the table is how easy it is to lose something by leaving it behind at a restaurant, so I stuff my belongings back into my pockets.

Just as I am finished putting everything away, Allison comes out of the kitchen. “Everything good?” she asks, looking at the empty plate.

“Absolutely,” I reply. “Best...”

“meal you can ever remember,” she finishes, and I laugh.

“Right. I guess that joke does get old,” I answer sheepishly.

She grins. “Only if you remember it.” She collects the silverware and napkin and puts it on the plate which she picks up. She pauses a moment. “Would you like a ride to the hospital?”

I am surprised by the offer. “Um, yeah, sure. If it's not too inconvenient for you.”

“Naw, Amber over there,” She gestured towards the kitchen, “thought she was working today, and she will pitch a fit if she doesn't get to work this shift, so I'm just as happy to get out of her way and let her work today.”

“Good luck for me, I suppose.”

“Absolutely. Besides,” she added conspiratorially, “it's not everyday that I get to be the knight in shining armor.”

I put my hand to my head in my best maiden pose. “My hero!” I declared dramatically.

“Heroine,” she corrected.

“Naw, I stay away from Heroine. I've heard that stuff is not good for you.”

We both laugh. I start to wonder if this girl really likes me. It does not really matter. Now is not the time to be picking up women, I imagine. Maybe she just sees me as an injured puppy that she can nurse back to health. Either way, I suppose that I could have much worse companions on this journey. I will accept the blessing for what it is.

I take a moment to take a better look at her. She is average height, thin side of average. Not stick thin, but thin enough that I could probably carry her out of a burning building if I had to. Her hair is brown and in a pony tail reaching half way down her back. Her face is pleasant enough. She is not what I would call drop dead gorgeous, but she is not hard on the eye either.

She takes care of the plate and the check before grabbing her jacket and leading me out to her car.