Reminiscence

My skin cracked as I traversed for hours across unbroken fields of sand, dirt, and loneliness. The sun, unforgiving and indiscriminate, left me blind, teetering, and at the brink of dehydration. My visibility was only a few feet ahead of me in short blinks before being blinded by the brightness of noonday.

The lack of moisture made it difficult to breathe. Every breath I took of the dry desert air felt like sandpaper grinding against my lungs. The canteen I brought with me was barren, its contents evaporated hours ago. My mouth, throat, and lungs were all devoid of moisture.

The winds were just as unkind as the sun, for they hurled pebbles and dirt throughout my entire body, each painful sting a grim reminder of the horrible mistake I had made.

Well, at least the one I think I made...

I am nobody, at least, that is what I perceive myself to be. Putting it frankly, I am unaware about who I am, but I know my name is Philip Dandridge, and I know I have been down on my luck for as long as I can remember.

I relied on the kindness of friends, family, and strangers for the last couple of years. I hardly ever stayed in one part of Riverside for long, as I would move from one friend's house to the next every few days. One time I jokingly told some of them the amount of couch surfing I did during this time would award me a Guinness World Record for Biggest Bedbug.

My humor, unfortunately, would not pay the bills. My ineptitude to keep a single job made it near impossible to repay those who helped me through this uncertain patch of my life, and soon they slowly denied me access to stay at their homes.

I tried every possible job opportunity I received, but none of them would stick longer than two months. During an orientation at a desk job, I abruptly asked the manager where the restroom was. I never went to the restroom; instead, I just got in my car and drove back home. At another job at a warehouse, I got into a heated argument with another supervisor over the order in which the items should be stored, which led to expletives shouted and fists hurled.

If violent confrontations or silent job abandonment were not enough, my endless consumption of alcohol was the most damning evidence of my inability to maintain any job. My friends would usually find me staying up till 4 in the morning, indulging myself in the wine they tried their best to hide from me. Some of them would tell me the reason for my amnesia comes from the copious amounts of bottles I consume.

My attempts at sobriety were short lived. Every time I would stop drinking in preparation for yet another job interview, my mind would be bombarded by an inexplicable memory, one which is so traumatic it causes me to relapse into a drunken stupor. I could not go longer than a week without resorting back to my old ways.

For all intents and purposes, I am a lost cause to my friends. They would not comprehend my need to forget, as I always complained about not remembering who I am. There was, however, something I did remember, a vision of the past I tried to maintain submerged in alcohol. While the memories of who I am as a person are nebulous, the nightmares I experience when I am sober are so vivid.

Every night, without fail, I would encounter a person, an animal, or an inanimate object which possessed something sinister on their faces. They all had the same eyes... those giant, unblinking eyes, whose gaze penetrates the marrow in my bones. At times, I am afraid of making eye contact with anyone, for fear of those eyes following me well beyond the realm of sleep.

My forced insomnia was not the true cause of my friends' termination of my couch surfing. They have, on occasion, found me sleepwalking throughout their homes. They told me I would start doing peculiar things, such as utilizing my right hand more than my dominant left hand. I would use my right hand for many complex activities, such as writing gibberish into a napkin or on any sturdy surface. In one instance, I started waving around a kitchen knife to one of my friend's roommates, whose screams awoke me from my slumber.

My removal from my clique of close friends occurred immediately after this incident. The friendships I made crumbled with my memories. Penniless, with nowhere else to go and no place to stay, I had no other choice but to start panhandling to get by.

After a few weeks of begging on the streets of Riverside, I was approached by a well kempt young man in a business suit. He wore tinted aviators which hid any expressions his eyes could emit. In his right hand he carried a small black valise. What stood out the most to me about this person was his uncanny toothy grin. Something about the perfectly polished teeth filled me with dread, and paradoxically, familiarity.

His smile. .. Do I recognize it from somewhere? I thought.

"Pleased to meet ya, Mr. Dandridge" the young man said, outstretching his hand. "You're a difficult man to track down."

How does this man know my name?

"Come on, Dandridge, the hand ain't gonna shake itself!" the man chuckled, somehow stretching his smile wider than ever.

The young man introduced himself as an employee of the Whateley Notary. He had documents which they wanted to discuss with me in person. The content they contained, however, needed to be discussed in a private location. The man ushered me to a nearby restaurant and ordered a booth for us at the end. When we sat down, he lay the suitcase flat on the table.

"Mr. Dandridge" the man said, leaning forward as he spoke, "it is unfortunate that I must bear this news to you, but Howard Dandridge passed away."

Howard Dandridge? Who is this Howard he is talking about? I thought.

The stranger raised his brow, as if he noticed that Howard's name did not mean anything to me. Undeterred, he pulled a ripped page off The Press Enterprise out of his shirt pocket and began reading it aloud monotonously:

"Howard Dandridge, PhD. was, in his life, a renowned scientist in Southern California. As one of the early pioneers of mammalian genetic cloning in 1997, he gained international recognition when he successfully created the first human clone. Howard Dandridge also faced controversy, as local townsfolk caught wind of his experimentations, and went to his home to voice their disdain over 'playing God.'"

The man let those last two words hang in the air, sneering as he said them. While his aviators made it impossible to tell if he were making eye contact with me, I could feel his gaze seeing past me as he spoke. The sensation was uncomfortably familiar.

The businessman returned the page back in his pocket and resumed the conversation.

"Point is, your relative had a lot of unclaimed assets which must be claimed by any of his living relatives. The notary contacted your brothers and sisters, but none of them wanted any mention of Howard's name, let alone anything related to him. A portion of the aforementioned assets", he continued, motioning to the valise, "are right here".

Here he slid it towards me and motioned for me to open the case. As I did, I was shocked to see tens of thousands of dollars neatly packed inside. My previous suspicions of the businessman's intentions had dissipated. He told me the truth, and the money was all the proof I needed.

"Wow", I gasped, "this is incredible. Thank you so much!"

The stranger smiled wider than ever. "In addition to this, the receiver of Howard Dandridge's inheritance would also acquire the deed to his two-story home in the Anza-Borrego Desert, located at a dried-up riverbed near Coyote Creek."

How could my family members refuse such an inheritance? I wondered. Is there something about Howard that they did not wish to associate with?

"Of course, before I entrust you with these items, I must first go over some paperwork with you".

The young man placed a stack of paper in front of me, coupled with a red quill. I read through the documents and signed at the designated areas. When I finished signing, I looked up to thank him once again for saving me from a life of panhandling.

It was only then that I realized he had removed his aviators.

I understood why that sensation of an uncomfortable gaze was so familiar, as I made eye contact with his large, unblinking, eyes. The same eyes that haunted my dreams for the last few years. The same pure black eyes whose gaze chilled the marrow of my bones. My body froze as I saw his smile grow so wide that the corners of his lips cracked, and dark blood started flowing down his pale cheeks.

The apparition methodically leaned forward, with his hands interlocked. The otherworldly entity uttered through his bleached teeth:

"Thank you, Mr. Dandridge. I'll be in touch soon."

That was the last thing I remembered. I must have blacked out then, for the next thing I remember I was surrounded by desert. Somehow, I had in my possession the black valise the businessman provided me in my right hand, and my left hand carried a small key chain. While my body held on firmly to these items, my mind was frying from the heat.

I hope that my memory has been consistent. This heat is making it difficult to remember just how I got to this point. To be honest, I do not know how long I have been walking through this cursed landscape. Has it been hours? Days? Why does everything look the same? Is this all a fever dream? Am I still lying on the streets of Riverside, and this is my rite of passage towards a tantalizing salvation?

My stream of consciousness suddenly abated. Something in the endless stream of rocks and sand caught my eye: a massive house.

The property lay at the very end of a gravel road. The two-story home was the exact place the young businessman described, as it was in a dried-up riverbed near Coyote Creek. Not wanting to stay underneath the sun any longer, I pressed on towards the house.

Any remaining happiness of acquiring this property was short lived. When I reached the dilapidated house, I instantly regretted signing that accursed document.

Every thought in my head and every emotion in my heart begged me to turn back when I observed the tattered façade. Its rusted walls, overgrown weeds, shattered windows, and mold ridden door all were clear signs that I should never have accepted the inheritance of my estranged relative. Hope, it seems, was the only thought that motioned me towards the house. This hope was for something to relate to, something to latch onto, something that is perhaps buried beneath the debris.