Missing Me

This is a Fictional Twilight Zone type story. I received an honorable mention in a club contest. I hope you enjoy it.

    Dead to the world, that’s how I slept. My eyelids, fused together, shut out the morning light. Truth be known, I didn’t know if it was morning or even what the day of the week. Muddled sounds came from a television in an adjacent room. 

    Rolling out of bed I fell to the floor like a sack of potatoes, bashing my knee on a small-cap from a bottle, a whiskey bottle. The stabbing pain sent tears down my cheek. I winced and held my knee. Then grabbed the cap that inflicted the damage and hurled it across the room. With the help of a night table, I pulled myself up to a standing position. Groggy and dazed, I limped to the kitchen while rubbing my knee. Nothing looked familiar. All the surroundings were strange, even bizarre in some ways.

    The furniture and decorations looked new but were 1950s’ style. That was almost seventy years ago. The kitchen appliances were from the same era, including the red Formica countertops with a silver metal band protecting the edges. No more whiskey, never again.

    I drunk-stumbled into the next room when I heard the TV playing. It was a black and white television in a wood console. Edward R. Murrow was reporting the news.

     “Good Evening. Tonight our lead story is about the mysterious disappearance of the famous Jazz musician, Thaddeus Taylor.” A photo appeared on the television.

    “Thaddeus Taylor, I screamed,” pointing at the TV, “but that’s my face.” I reached for my wallet to verify what I already knew. My name was Todd . . . Todd Madison, but the license betrayed me.I looked for my photo but there was none. Perspiration dripped from my temples. The license issued in 1954 had only a name that identified me as Thaddeus Taylor.No more whiskey, never ever again.

     “The police have no suspects at this time and urge anyone with information as to his whereabouts to come forward. Mister Taylor’s car was found but has yet to reveal any useful clues to his disappearance. Reporting from New York, that’s the news for September 7, 1955. Good Night and Good Luck.”

     I slumped to the floor, hitting my injured knee on a hard object. “Ouch.” A cap from a whiskey bottle. Maybe the same one I threw across the room in my fit of frustration.

    Now I was more confused than when I first came to. Then I was Todd . . .but the news is reporting a musician missing with my photo. No more whiskey, I swear, never again.

    There’s only one thing to do, get out of here and find out what’s really going on.Is someone pulling a complicated prank on me . . . what else could it be? After cleaning up I checked the closet to see if there were clothes that would fit me and of course, they all did.  

     I peered through the curtains. The street was busy with many vintage 1950 cars buzzing down the road. Calling an Uber would have been perfect because I was unfamiliar with this city, but that didn’t seem possible. A 1955 Chevy was parked out front. Were there keys in the house that might work? While looking around, I accidentally stepped on a hard object, “Shit.” I fell to the floor landing on my knee again, “Sonofabitch.”It was a set of car keys.

    The keys had the Chevy bowtie embossed on them.I went outside and tried them. They worked. Why wouldn’t they? Apparently, this was my car. It's a Chevy Impala, two-door, with a deluxe interior, and a wood dash trimmed in silver. Thaddeus Taylor must be doing well. I needed to go to the police station but didn’t know where it was. GPS wasn’t an option in a 1955 Chevy.

      I followed the busiest traffic hoping it would lead into town. I spotted a McDonald's. I pulled into the lot and looked for the drive-up window. There was none. I parked and strolled over to the outside order window to get a breakfast sandwich. To my surprise they didn’t offer breakfast— what was I thinking? Instead, I ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke for forty-three cents. A shake was an additional ten cents, so I splurged and got the shake instead.  

    The burger kid told me I’d find the police station about two miles down the highway. I returned to the car and toward the station. I’d just finished my burger and fries as I pulled into the parking lot. With my shake in hand, I walked up the steps to the front door. A poster of the missing Thaddeus was taped on the window staring out at me.I tore it down and marched into the station.

    I expected to be surrounded by police officers wanting to know where I’d been, but that wasn’t the case. In fact, I had a difficult time getting anyone to pay attention to me. I held the poster up next to my face, so the clerk could easily see the resemblance. She just looked at me.

    “Can I help you?”

    “Yes, I found me. I’m not missing anymore.” I prominently displayed the poster.

    “And who the hell are you?” she questioned.

    “Who do I look like?” I said, shoving the poster in her face.  

    “Like every other idiot that walks in here.”

    I waved it like a flag. “See the poster. It’s me.” 

     Shaking her head, she said, “You’re not that good looking, buddy. Try again.”

     “Seriously, you don’t see a resemblance?”

     The clerk grabbed a poster and shook it at another officer standing nearby then shouted. “Hey, this guy thinks he looks like the poster. What do you think?”

    The officer grinned. “Well, he’s white and the guy in the poster is black . . . so no.”

    Confused but determined to prove my point, I pulled out my wallet. “See here’s my license.” I folded my arms and displayed a smug look as I laid the license next to the poster.

     “You’re right,” the officer said, “the license says, Thaddeus Taylor . . . but the poster shows me you’re not him.” His forehead wrinkled and eyes scrunched. “How did you get his license?” He then walked around the counter and took my arm. “You need to come with me.”

    “What about my rights? You know, the Miranda rights?” I challenged.

    “I don’t know Miranda, but I know your rights ended when you showed me that license.”

    He took me into a small interrogation room and started asking questions about how I got the license for the missing Thaddeus Taylor. How could I explain without sounding like I belonged in a mental hospital? So, instead, I made up an elaborate lie.

    “I was at a bar when this girl started to flirt with me. I didn’t want to tell her my real name so I told her my name was Thaddeus. It was the name of a guy I met earlier that day at the gym. Our lockers were next to each other. We were about the same height and build and with a similar taste in clothes. He dressed and left before me. That’s when I noticed he put on my pants and left his. He had my wallet and I hadhis. It was just a mistake, nothing to be concerned about.”

    "Why didn't you look him up in the telephone book and call him about the mix-up?" The detective tapped his pen on the table.

    “I intended to, but when I got back from the bar I was blind drunk. In the morning I saw the news. You know, about him being missing. I knew this wouldn’t turn out well, but I couldn’t avoid the fact that I had his license and he was missing. That’s when I came here to offer my help.”

    “What a load of crap! You came in the station claiming to be him.”

    “I was really messed up. I think that gal at the bar slipped me something that gave me hallucinations. Even I started to wonder who I really was. It became apparent I was confused when the officer at the station pointed out our obvious differences.” I laid my head on the table then rubbed the back of my neck and moaned.

     The door opened and closed. The detective left the room. I’m not sure how long I had my head on the table, but when I awoke I was in a daze. When the door reopened, I jerked my head to an erect position and wrenched my neck. As I massaged my neck, I noticed the room was different, more modern. It had changed dramatically from when I first walked in. A detective entered the room, one Ihadn’tmet. He introduced himself as Thaddeus Taylor II. The cheap suit he wore was more in line with the style of Millennials, not Baby Boomers.

    “Who?” I said, not believing my ears.

    He repeated his name. "How did you get my grandfather’s drivers license?" 

    “Your grandfather?”

    “Yes. He went missing in 1955 without a trace. They found a gypsy red 55 Chevy, his brand new car, but nothing else. Now it’s a cold case because it’s been over sixty years since his disappearance.”

    I could see the resemblance between the detective and the poster. Then it struck me. “Detective, you said sixty years?”

    “Sixty-three years to be exact. After all, this is 2018.”

    Unsure and confused,I echoed.“2018?”

     “You look like hell. I’ve seen prisoners in solitary that looked better. You need to get your shit together.” Detective Taylor looked at his cell phone then grimaced. “I don’t know what you’ve been drinking, but you need to stay away from it.”

    "Yes, sir," I responded. 

     He handed me a license. “I can’t hold you on a 63-year-old case since you weren’t even born yet. But, don’t leave town, I’ll be in touch.” He clicked his pen and wrote on a pad. “ I’m keeping the license you brought in . . . my grandfather’s. You can go since there are no charges against you . . . right now.”

     “Thanks.” I took a quick look at the license to verify my name. It was Todd Madison, with my photo. “Where did you get this?”

     “It was in your wallet. One license was yours, and the other was for Thaddeus Taylor, my grandfather.” He pushed the chair back to the table. “By the way, that’s a nice car you’re driving. I’d like to take a closer look sometime.”

     “Thanks, officer.” I got up and walked out of the door. The compliment didn’t register in my brain. Reaching into my pocket I felt my car keys and I pulled them out. I expected to find keys for my BMW, but there was no key fob. Instead, I discovered keys to an older model Chevy . . . a ‘55 Chevy like the one in my delusional dream. 

    The parking lot was full of late-model police cruisers, few other vehicles, and one 1955 Chevrolet . . . a shiny red one. That’s when I noticed the key chain charm . . . a saxophone with the words ‘JAZZ Lives Here’.

Don't String Me Along

This is the first story I wrote that won a Saturday Writers Club contest. It wasn’t my first entry, there were many. It’s flash fiction story, which means it has to be 500 words or less. The club topic for the contest that year was ‘Sins and Virtues’. Each year the club publishes an anthology containing the winning stories. I hope you enjoy it.

Don't String Me Along

     Life has changed a lot, since the murder. Samuel doesn't smile anymore. No one knows, but me, and I won't tell. He didn't want to do it, I'm sure of that. He doesn’t trust me anymore, but he knows to listen. I'm his business partner, you'd think that would make a difference, but he sees me as a stranger holding a bounty on his head.We were once tight as twins sharing everything, not anymore. Now, he hardly talks to me. It all started a year ago, when he met Sharon. Just saying her name makes me twinge.

***

     It was mid-summer and we were doing a show in Hoboken, hot as hell. Sam was the main player. He set everything up; I played an integral part in the show, but Sam took care of all the details. I didn’t mind being second banana; it worked well, until Sharon came along. That’s when I felt manipulated. That probably sounds strange coming from me, but it’s the way I felt.

***

    She came backstage after the show all perky and such with her pushup bra. Sam didn’t have a chance but I knew early on she was a not right for him, not right for anyone. She knew what strings to pull to get him to do whatever she wanted. He couldn’t see it, but I had experience. It went on for months. He no longer made his own decisions without consulting her. I tried to intervene, but he didn’t listen. 

***

     Our shows got worse. Sam tried to go on his own without me, her idea, but it wasn’t working. I was living my life in a box and I needed to do something. His life and our careers were flowing into the gutter.I knew it was up to me, I had no choice, but I needed Sam’s help.

***

    Early one day, when she wasn’t around, Sam picked me up to practice our old act. I knew then, how to get in his head, and change our future. It was easier than I thought, down deep he felt used by her, ready to retreat. My thoughts and plans became his. He knew too well she needed to go. It wouldn’t be easy, and it needed to be fast. He followed her to a run down hotel, and plied her with booze until she collapsed. Sam was drunk as well, which is what I counted on. Her death was quick, and no weapons were used, just a soft plump pillow.  His guilt made him submit to my every wish.        

***

    We still work together but it’s not the same. He’s the puppeteer, but I pull his strings. My mouth moves at his request, but now his words are from my thoughts.

    “Who’s the puppet now…Sammy Boy?”

Something I Notiiced

      It’s a little thing and maybe it means nothing but I think it’s interesting. When I was young and someone in a car let a pedestrian pass, the pedestrian would give a thank you wave and hustle across the street or into the store.
      Today is different, drivers still let people pass giving them a sign to let them know to walk ahead safely, but the pedestrians don’t wave or hustle to their destination. They lumber . . .  a slow lumber as if getting across the street or into the store must only be accomplished before daybreak.
      I’d like to point out that there are still people that wave and hustle across the street or parking lot but their in the minority. It’s important to note that some people are old and unable to hustle or maybe they are actually hustling but we aren’t able to recognize it. Taking all that into consideration there are still a lot of capable people that lumber when given the safety wave.
      I’m not an expert but it seems like there’s a message here that deserves some attention. What have you noticed? I’d like to know. “Just wondering . . . “

      

Erasing History

History of our ancestors can be empowering, ugly, motivating and tragic. I’m sure there are many words to describe the actions of generations past.

     Your approval or denial doesn’t change history. Destroying statues, murals or historic symbols is a feeble attempt to hide history. Nothing will change history and hiding it will blind us. We learn to be better people in many different ways. One way is learning from our past mistakes. It’s much easier to see the mistakes of the past than admit the mistakes we make today.

     I don’t know, I could be wrong but it seems more important that we concentrate on living our best lives today rather than mourning the past. Whatever happened one hundred plus years ago is long over and no one living today was a participant. It’s time to move on.

     Does it make sense to spend $600,000 to paint over a mural depicting unsettling scenes from the Civil War? Wouldn’t it be better to mount a plaque next to the mural stating this is our history not our beliefs of today. Archeologists spend their lives trying to save ancient drawings to understand how people lived. Why are we trying to hide our past?

     We all need to learn from past history, but how will our children learn if we erase all the history we don’t like. “Just Saying...”

Random Encounters

     Did you ever wonder why you unexpectedly run into people that end up changing your life? It maybe a minor change but a still has an effect on your life. Is this a random encounter or did you subconsciously initiate it?
     Everyone that you interact plays a part in your life. Most of the time we fail to realize it or ignore it. Does our reaction to the encounter drive the next encounter? If it’s a positive connection is it more likely the next will also be positive? And vice versa?
     If you believe that one action drives another maybe it’s not a stretch to believe positive and negative actions attract the same. If this is true then it means we can control our destiny by how we react to daily situations.
     If you constantly put yourself in negative situations or hang with negative people you are likely to continue that pattern until you are firmly enplanted into that lifestyle. The longer you continue this pattern the more comfortable you become with it, despite the disadvantages.
     To improve your life you have to change your patterns and the people or situations that lock you into your current lifestyle..?
     People or situations can bring you down or build you up. Choose the latter. Successful people associate with other successful people. Spiritual people hang out with other spiritual people. You associate with the people that have similar likes and desires but you’re not limited to one category. You can be a successful, spiritual, athletic or whatever you desire. “Just Saying. . . .”

Recycled Life

     This story is a Twilight Zone type story that I wrote a few years ago. No contest wins and it needs a little polish. Tell me what you think. Is it too confusing?

     Like most days in life, at least my life it was a pleasant and uneventful day. The city park was two blocks away down Central Avenue, through the heart of this Midwestern town of Longdale. I enjoyed living there. It had an upbeat vibe. No one seemed to be a stranger and it was very safe. My door could be left open without any worries. Despite having lived here for only six months, I had a few friends with similar interest. We met regularly to discuss the latest book or sometimes spent a few hours hiking one of the many nature trails. After being widowed my life had changed. Moving here was the best thing I could have done. Despite it’s being small, compared to the likes of Chicago, St. Louis or Atlanta, everything I’ve ever needed or wanted was here. At least, that’s how I described it to others.

     Taking an occasional day off for no reason is something I liked to do and did more often this past summer. I aired up the tires on my cruiser bike, hopped on to ride to the park with a coffee stop at Java the Hut. The park had an easy seven-mile trail, meandering around ball fields, past the golf course, and through a forested area. Along with my coffee, I brought a book, always a book. I took one everywhere I went. It was the lifeline to my imagination. 

        On this day I rode the trail to a bench, near the Indian Hawthorn bushes, parked my bike and sat down with my coffee to read. This was the quiet part of the park. Most of the activity was near the golf course or ball fields. I felt good, thinking I got a little exercise for my body, now I would exercise my mind with a good read. I didn’t need an exciting life just a purposeful one. 

     This novel by Norvel Thomas, My Alternate Reality was about unsolved mysteries, originally published in 1783, over one hundred years ago. It contained eyewitness reports about real-life thrillers. I liked these types of stories, mainly non-fiction about true-life events. Mysteries are all around us in big cities and small towns all over the world. Most people didn’t take time to notice because they’re too involved in everyday life. Even this town of Longdale, my adopted town, had an obscure secret, but that is something I was unaware of at the time.

     The afternoon flew by with the pleasant weather and my book of intrigue. I barely noticed anything, not even a dog or squirrel. If it wasn’t for my stomach growling and the sun setting, I might have read into the night. 

* * * 

     It had been a great day, but I needed to get home. I planned to pick up a sandwich on the way and continue my reading once I got home. The ride back was easy, but odd in a couple of ways. As I passed the golf course, I saw no golfers or carts. I knew it was getting late, but it wasn’t dark yet so the empty golf course was shocking. The same was true with the ball fields. There were no cars in the parking lot. I had never ridden past the ball fields without seeing someone in the parking lot if only drinking one last beer before they headed home. My spine tingled as if a spirit jumped at me from behind a tree.

     Everything looked unchanged, but the silence was unnerving as I rode down Central Avenue toward Main Street. It seemed like there was an absence of life in Longdale. The shops were empty, lifeless as if they were just storefronts on some Hollywood set. Where were my friends? Usually any day of the week I could find one or more of them at our hangout drinking an espresso while debating the latest hot topic. But, it too was empty. The quiet produced an eerie silence that chilled me to the bones. My hunger dissipated by the distraction of nothingness I saw in my town. 

     I expected to wake at any moment in a cold sweat, realizing my fascination with mysteries had penetrated my dreams, but little did I know this was my new reality. It became immediately apparent when entering my apartment. I found everything to be too perfect for my personality. The furnishings were familiar, but nothing was out of place. It was like no one lived here.

     I picked up the phone receiver to call a friend and heard a voice. It sounded like my own voice. I replied but received no response, no acknowledgment at all. I yelled into the phone but it made no difference. I listened intently. It was my voice on the line but not my words I heard, rather my thoughts. Every thought that came into my mind, I heard on the phone repeated back to me. Petrified with fear I collapsed to the floor, lying there dazed and confused, unable to move a single muscle. I drifted in and out of consciousness for hours.

     In my foggy mental state, barely knowing my name, Samuel Coan. I felt different, not myself. My features looked strange in the mirror, somewhat familiar but odd in most ways. 

     My book lying on the floor was open to page 178, to the chapter entitled, “Alternate personalities and Alternate Worlds.” This seemed meaningful but why?

     I left the building and immediately noticed a difference in the town. People scurrying around were dressed in period clothing like you would’ve seen in the 1700s. I was recognized and greeted by many, but not by my given name. The buildings were there but the shops were different. A General store took the place of the coffee shop and sat next to a tobacco, cigar and snuff store. The entire street was buzzing with activity but of another era. It was a strange feeling but pleasant in a way. As I walked down the street, I felt an odd comfort that my life belonged in this town and in this time.

* * *

     Moving was stressful, but this town of Longdale had been welcoming, and I had my books. My new job will start in a week, so there was time to get familiar with the surroundings. A walk through the park was pleasant with the fragrance from Lilies of the Valley filling the air. My book on mysteries gave me comfort. I found a bench in a secluded part of the park and sipped my coffee as I read. The title My Alternate Reality Samuel Coan, the name that sounds familiar for some reason. The book was published in 1783, over one hundred years ago, but it still seemed relevant. Someday, I would like to write a book. It would be fulfilling to see my name Norvel Thomas as an author.

     It was a quiet, uneventful day and I started to dose. I awakened abruptly to stark unearthly silence. And so began again another recycled life . . .

An Unexpected Letter

    "It's time we meet." These four simple words were about to change my life. The envelope was handwritten and addressed to me, which was odd since the Internet, invented over one hundred years ago, had virtually made letters and postcards obsolete. I'm not even sure why there are still physical mailboxes in the year 2112, Maybe it's a nostalgia thing. Even more puzzling is why I opened the mailbox. Mail deliveries are once a month and haven't contained anything significant in years. The letter was signed, Charles Decker.

     The address was Brussels, France. I remember from history books that Brussels was a city in the country of Belgium, but that was many years ago when the radical terrorist groups traumatized the world. Since then, many countries disappeared and boundaries have changed. One other notation in the letter is a reservation number for the Silver Streak Hyperloop Express. Now, it dawns on me! This is a mandatory meeting with a stranger. The World Council set up a program over fifty years ago to promote better communications.  

     I’d been selected to meet Charles Decker and learn about his life. He, in turn, would be tasked with the same from me. My great grandfather told me the selection process for this opportunity was similar to the jury selection they used many years ago. The World Council was an organization established to address the unrest around the globe. They determined the underlying problem was lack of understanding and poor communication with people of different nations and backgrounds, so they started this program called Strangers Meeting Strangers. The program has been around for fifty plus years. Every year thousands of people from many countries are selected to travel to places far and wide to meet strangers and educate themselves on different cultures. 

     To assume that the participants are selected randomly would be a mistake. Each set of strangers is paired explicitly so that the maximum exposure to each of their lives will be beneficial to future generations. Participants document their visit in a detailed report that’s signed by both parties. These reports then become part of the educational system to teach future generations.

     I'm eighteen and a citizen of Amerinada. My passport allowed me to freely travel to friendly countries, France being one, without the hassles of being confined for weeks after my return. I could be in Brussels in four hours if I take the International Silver Streak Hyperloop Express. I'm not sure what to expect from my month-long visit with Charles Decker. It's very likely Mr. Decker is old so what could I possibly learn from him? Communication will be difficult at best.I have no choice. Once selected you cannot refuse to go.  

    The World Council pays for the trip and I will be staying with Charles but I dread spending time with an old man that is out of touch with today’s world. I found my great grandfather told compelling stories, although exaggerated and unbelievable. It was important for him to share these stories with me. I must admit I enjoyed hearing them and learned a few things as well.  

    Since the inception of this program, there’s been a notable improvement in the tolerance people have toward one another. I never thought much about the Strangers Meeting Strangers program making a positive impact until now.