Someth*ng's M*ss*ng

He woke up and knew that the day was…off.

Monday afternoon – a late start to the day – and there was a real sense of the day as…strange and new. He had to make a cup of coffee to focus. There were plenty of mugs, glasses, spoons and forks, but he had no…what were those objects? They cut up bread and cheese? The name was a mystery. And lunch or breakfast – brunch was a strange word he hated - was fast, sweet and cold with the coffee a perfect match to the doughnuts and oatmeal. Next, some yoga (cat and cow poses), push-ups, squats, stretches and rest.

But the afternoon… Had he really gotten up so late?

Why was the day half-done?

What was he to do?

Maybe there was a clue somewhere…on the shelves. CDs and plenty of old records were there, and he looked over the names of the groups…

The Who (Pete, Roger, John and…who played the drums?), Beatles (John, Paul, George and…somebody else?), Clash (Joe, Paul…only two of them?), Ramones (Johnny, Joey, Dee-Dee…and that’s all?); some grunge (Pearl Jam – how long had he owned that album, Soundgarden, Mudhoney) and heavy metal (Black Sabbath, Slayer, Tool, Motorhead – are they metal?); other new wave bands; other recent stuff (rap, house, jungle, country, jazz, etc).

There was a lot off about the records. A dull throb grew after that thought. But he read the notes and looked carefully at the covers: Please Please Me, Revolver, Rubber Soul, Abbey Road... He knew he had more from that band… from all of them, actually. Where were the other albums? Very, very strange… The throb was gone, but the mystery stayed.

Oh well…

He yawned and turned to the books.

Well, that's odder and stranger than the records.

Vonnegut, Bellow, Joyce, Woolf, Oates, Capote, Chekhov, Camus, Etgar Keret…and that was all. The ones he remembered were not there, a gap he felt deeply (broken teeth was what he thought of). All wrong. Even those reference books he knew were there were now…just gone. No thesauruses; no Fowler’s; no atlases.

Then there was the matter of a heavy stomach and a bad meal.

Breakfast rebelled and he ran to the bathroom.

And he had to pause, eyes open and face confused…

How strange to see how much he could not understand…

Bathtub and shower (all attachments there), yes… Soap, toothpaste, brushes, combs, towels; all accounted for. But where were the… He could not remember the names. And those two large gaps were strange...

He forgot what belonged there.

At least the tub could handle the mess.

At least he could take a moment and get cleaned and maybe…sober?

After a long and hot shower, he needed to go for a walk. The street was calm and empty (rush hour would change that). Maybe he was stuck. Yeah, stuck. A bad dream that made the day feel so real that he could not get out. He had to play the game and hope that he was not “punked” (that was an old word – thank you, Ashton - but the correct one).

He got dressed: jeans, put on old Chuck Taylors, a baseball cap, grabbed a watch - a fake Rolex that felt real - and stepped out onto the grass on the front path.

And he stopped.

The parked cars were all…new. Porsches, BMWs, Saturns, Fords, Lexuses (was that the correct way to say the plural?).

Where were the owners?

He had never seen these cars before. They would not be parked here (not the safest area). They would not be left alone on a calm and sunny day on a cul-de-sac.

And there was another change.

No sounds.

After he saw the cars, he looked at the rest of the street, the houses across from the apartment, and even the sky that had a pattern of clouds, but was bluer than blue.

No people.

No cats or dogs; not even a student or teacher from the nearby local college or other schools (he had not heard a bell, not even for recess or to let them out – the watch told the truth, even as a fake: five after four).

He began to feel very scared and needed to go to the mall.

Even a fast walk took almost half an hour (Chuck Taylors were not the best for a real run), but he got there, passed over the empty concrete untouched by any cars or trucks, let the doors open, and felt…cold.

Not one shopper, browser, guard, or staff member anywhere. Not even a cleaner at work with a mop or broom. The neon hummed sharply above as the sound passed over the expanse of the mall.

He saw that the food court was shut down, but all the stores were open (every one of them).

And there was no one to keep watch.

He sat on a hard fake-wood bench and felt very small.

Why was he tempted to cry?

The spot was perfect for the tears.

But he had a thought…

He took out a smartphone (Apple was a good buy). He almost forgot he owned one.

Shaky thumbs are not good for searches, but…

Only Yahoo was up (many of the apps he used were now gone, but…).

Phones can make more than texts, he thought.

“Dave?”

The man was clearly busy.

“Yeah…what? Who the hell...?”

“Dave!”

“Dude…text me, okay? Boss’ll eat my ass for personal calls!”

“No, hold on. Just tell me.”

More annoyance over the call. Dave sounded as busy as a beaver on crack.

“Please, just say your crap so…”

“What happened?”

More background buzzes and…could he actually hear a frown over the phone?

“You a funny man now? A regular Bob Newhart? Johnny Carson, take a bow…”

“Please, just…what happened?”

Another blank sound (a too long pause)…and then, the response he knew he deserved.

“Fuck you. You got whatever you got through your own nonsense. Drugs can do that.”

A sharp cut-off hurt.

No names were used. Not a word to show he really knew the one who called. He felt that…and that was someone really close.

Wasn’t he?

And that was when he began to scream.

“What’s my name?”

The mall echoed the query along its open plan, up and down both levels.

No one could reply.

“WHAT’S MY NAME!!!???”

There were no answers from any part of the mall. The man could only stare ahead at the dying sun now at the edge of darkness. The glass of the doors was full of that perfect glow. There was no one there.

And the day would end soon.

*

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