April upended the over-sized purse that would have weighed down a marine on a ruck march onto the quilt of the bed in the dimly lit hotel room. She shook the rapidly emptying bag to purge it of its eclectic contents, then ran her fingers through her hair trying to make sense of the menagerie.
Okay, I’m a librarian, so move from general to specific…wait! What was that? I’m a librarian!
She shuffled through the fragmented flotsam and jetsam of her life and then held up a keychain with a lightning bolt that said T.C.B.
Maybe those are my initials! No, April, don’t be crazy. That’s Elvis’ company Takin’ Care of Business. Hold up! I just said April! That’s me isn’t it? She did a little dance, pleased her memory was coming back.
“April, April, Ape-ril!” she tried on the name.
Hey, Sherlock Holmes, maybe you should check the wallet. I bet it will reveal more than Elvis trivia.
Opening the wallet revealed a driver’s license which after reading, she punched the air.
Yes, yes, yes! April Miller, that’s me!
With excitement she rifled through her wallet-sized photo album, pulling them out to shift around on the bedspread with a flat palm. Before her were snapshots of a childhood she had absolutely no memory of. In frustration, she reached for one of the two cigarette packs on the bed. They both were equally distanced from her like some sort of cosmic memory test. On the left was a soft pack of Camel Filters and on the right was a box of Pall Mall Reds.
I don’t smoke Pall Mall, but Kurt Vonnegut and Stephen King do.
She lit the Camel and studied all of the minute details in the snapshots from the trees to the animals, lampposts, and rusty swing sets. The people were foreign, strangers posing with a younger April Miller’s doppleganger in a strange land. A sense of hopelessness washed over her in cold chills like rising from a warm bath.
Why can’t I remember? Who are these people? They look like we could be related. Do they love me? Do I talk with them or fight with them?
April rose and looked at the multicolored bruise fanning away from her eye like a Picasso version of Ace Freely’s Kiss makeup.
Well, I’ve obviously fought with someone.
She reached into the pile and pulled out an extremely shiny nickel-plated Beretta 380 automatic pistol and pointed it at the mirror, then turned and held it up striking a Charlie’s Angels-esque pose that looked really risque as she was only wearing a small red bra and a pair of orange Halloween panties with bats on them.
I hope whoever did this to my face got what they deserved.
Little did she remember the culprit was out in parking space number six of the Plantation Inn decomposing in an old refrigerator in the bed of her 1969 El Camino SS. She had no memory of checking into the hotel in Vicksburg, Mississippi. No memory of anything except the few facts she gleaned from her purse. Putting her cigarette butt out in an ashtray, she wondered what kind of vehicle she owned.
Obviously I don’t live here, so I’d better go see what clues are in my car.
She pulled on some clothes, a pair of cutoff shorts and a tank top, and stepped out into the parking lot.