teeth. Shark-like. I imagine him trolling the ocean for prey. Again, he slaps his hands together. “Let’s shake it then, Mozart.”
I follow Clarence across the street. The house on the corner—arguably the most run-down—has some people sitting on the front porch drinking beer. Out back, a robust fellow with a cheesecloth complexion tends to a charcoal barbecue. The sight of the meats on the grille makes me want to break into a sprint toward it.
“This is Mozart,” Clarence tells the cook.
“Hey,” says the cook.
“Hey,” I respond.
“Listen,” says Clarence to the cook, “let’s load him up, yeah?”
And they do: they give me two hotdogs with ketchup and mustard, a plate of baked beans as thick and spicy as chili, a grilled chicken breast, and several cans of Budweiser. There is cake, too, and it appears it is someone’s birthday, as they all sing before cutting and distributing the gooey, chocolate slices. Ravenous, I eat the cake as I have eaten everything before it. I feel the large bites go all the way down and settle into my stomach. I am still hungry.
“Didn’t catch your name,” the cook says to me at one point.
“Call him Mozart,” Clarence interjects. He seems to appear from nowhere.
“What’s your real name?” The cook sounds suspicious.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I can’t remember.”
“Oh, yeah?” says the cook.
“I don’t know who I am.”
“That’s something,” says the cook.
“You got the amnesia?” says Clarence.
“I guess so.”
“How’d you get it?”
“Can’t remember. Don’t know.”
“I guess that makes sense,” says the cook.
“Maybe you was some governmental experiment,” says Clarence. “Like maybe a spy or something. Maybe they had you doing all sorts of sick shit over in the Middle East or someplace and now you’ve come back, they erased all your memory.”
“So’s he can’t tell people what he seen,” adds the cook.
“So he don’t go to the newspapers and make some deal out of all the secret governmental shit,” says Clarence. “Yeah. Maybe that’s how you got that scar at the back of your head, too.”
“What scar?” And my hand goes immediately to the back of my head, feeling around. I only feel the undulations of my cranium.
“Big nasty scar,” says Clarence. “How’d you get it?”
“Don’t know.”
“Yeah, right—see? That’s the government at work, drilling right into your head. Zap. Take all your memory out. Can’t tell no secret stories without no memory.”
“Hell, yeah,” says the cook, eyeing me ruefully. His distrust is mounting. “Zap, all right.”
My fingers finally fall into a vague groove at the base of my skull. I trace it up along the rear of my head toward the top. I think, too, of the scar on my leg.
“You got no memory of being in the Middle East, Mozart?” Clarence continues.
“No.”
“Maybe over in Russia,” says the cook. “We still got spies in Russia, you think?”
Clarence shrugs. “Don’t know. We still got spies in Russia, Mozart?”
“I have no idea.”
“Yeah,” says Clarence, suddenly certain of himself, “you some governmental spy got fucked with.”
“Zap,” says the cook.
They ply me with more beer and a second helping of the baked beans. Clarence regards me with ambivalence, but I am soon under the suspicion that the cook, ever distrustful, is filling me with beer in hopes that it will loosen my tongue. Who am I? Why am I here? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. It takes a while, but soon I am full, and it is a fantastic feeling.
“Here, now,” says Clarence at one point, thrusting a bright yellow T-shirt at me. “Slip this on. We almost ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“To march,” says Clarence.
The T-shirt sayswon’t do 72! and looks two sizes too small. Still, grateful for their hospitality, I pull it on over my shirt. It constricts my movements
I follow Clarence across the street. The house on the corner—arguably the most run-down—has some people sitting on the front porch drinking beer. Out back, a robust fellow with a cheesecloth complexion tends to a charcoal barbecue. The sight of the meats on the grille makes me want to break into a sprint toward it.
“This is Mozart,” Clarence tells the cook.
“Hey,” says the cook.
“Hey,” I respond.
“Listen,” says Clarence to the cook, “let’s load him up, yeah?”
And they do: they give me two hotdogs with ketchup and mustard, a plate of baked beans as thick and spicy as chili, a grilled chicken breast, and several cans of Budweiser. There is cake, too, and it appears it is someone’s birthday, as they all sing before cutting and distributing the gooey, chocolate slices. Ravenous, I eat the cake as I have eaten everything before it. I feel the large bites go all the way down and settle into my stomach. I am still hungry.
“Didn’t catch your name,” the cook says to me at one point.
“Call him Mozart,” Clarence interjects. He seems to appear from nowhere.
“What’s your real name?” The cook sounds suspicious.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I can’t remember.”
“Oh, yeah?” says the cook.
“I don’t know who I am.”
“That’s something,” says the cook.
“You got the amnesia?” says Clarence.
“I guess so.”
“How’d you get it?”
“Can’t remember. Don’t know.”
“I guess that makes sense,” says the cook.
“Maybe you was some governmental experiment,” says Clarence. “Like maybe a spy or something. Maybe they had you doing all sorts of sick shit over in the Middle East or someplace and now you’ve come back, they erased all your memory.”
“So’s he can’t tell people what he seen,” adds the cook.
“So he don’t go to the newspapers and make some deal out of all the secret governmental shit,” says Clarence. “Yeah. Maybe that’s how you got that scar at the back of your head, too.”
“What scar?” And my hand goes immediately to the back of my head, feeling around. I only feel the undulations of my cranium.
“Big nasty scar,” says Clarence. “How’d you get it?”
“Don’t know.”
“Yeah, right—see? That’s the government at work, drilling right into your head. Zap. Take all your memory out. Can’t tell no secret stories without no memory.”
“Hell, yeah,” says the cook, eyeing me ruefully. His distrust is mounting. “Zap, all right.”
My fingers finally fall into a vague groove at the base of my skull. I trace it up along the rear of my head toward the top. I think, too, of the scar on my leg.
“You got no memory of being in the Middle East, Mozart?” Clarence continues.
“No.”
“Maybe over in Russia,” says the cook. “We still got spies in Russia, you think?”
Clarence shrugs. “Don’t know. We still got spies in Russia, Mozart?”
“I have no idea.”
“Yeah,” says Clarence, suddenly certain of himself, “you some governmental spy got fucked with.”
“Zap,” says the cook.
They ply me with more beer and a second helping of the baked beans. Clarence regards me with ambivalence, but I am soon under the suspicion that the cook, ever distrustful, is filling me with beer in hopes that it will loosen my tongue. Who am I? Why am I here? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. It takes a while, but soon I am full, and it is a fantastic feeling.
“Here, now,” says Clarence at one point, thrusting a bright yellow T-shirt at me. “Slip this on. We almost ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“To march,” says Clarence.
The T-shirt sayswon’t do 72! and looks two sizes too small. Still, grateful for their hospitality, I pull it on over my shirt. It constricts my movements
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