Tales

The little round container was slipped into the teenager's jeans pocket in less than a second. Then he turned to make sure that nobody had seen him when Fran smiled and cleared her throat. She recognized, in the teenager's face, those first few moments of confusion, indecision, panic... none of it was new to her. Solemnly, the kid made his decision and took the tobacco out of his pocket. Then, breaking the serenity, he put it back and sprinted like lightning away from the store. Fran nodded and chuckled to herself.

"Can I get a pack of Marlboro Medium 100's?"

Fran turned her eyes onto the ID of a twenty-six year old, as her quick brain easily calculated. She reached up without taking her eyes off the ID since the photograph was a comical picture of a rather good- looking man. When that picture was replaced with the real face of the man, who's name was Val Grennon or something like that, Fran was surprised to note that the photo had been precise. The man seemed comical, but she didn't know why.

It could have been the way his eyes were off, because one was bright blue and the other slightly purple. It could have also been his haircut, which looked like it had been made by a confused dentist who had some demons to work out. Regardless, the man was off.

She slapped the pack down and Val immediately snatched it, replacing the little box with a five-dollar bill. Fran immediately took it and handed back the change, feeling some of the anxiety that she had seen in the teenager.

Val smiled and mumbled a quick "Thanks" before leaving almost as fast as that teenager had.

The fact of the matter was that Val was running on anticipation. He wanted to get home more badly than he had ever wanted to do anything in his entire life. He had been gone for so long...

He pulled the door shut and shoved the keys into the ignition. The car's engine growled to life and the CD player came alive with it. Val pulled out, slamming the pack against his arm.

The road ahead was about to get incredibly dark and wet. While the Florida Turnpike wasn't exactly a treacherous road, it could become dangerous in a matter of seconds if the right assholes decided to get on in the right weather. The fact that it was getting late didn't help any.

Even though this had occurred to him, Val drove carelessly fast; he had to get home. The window opened, letting an intense breeze rush in that muffled the sounds of the CD player. Val's hand welcomed this wind with a newly lit cigarette.

The sunset was on his left and the thunderstorm was directly ahead. The dark clouds and heavy curtains of rain made a nice color palette for the dying rays of sunshine. In deep purples and reds, Val was mesmerized. Watching the sky intently and dreaming of home, he took a breath through the filter of his cigarette and didn't notice the taillights slamming toward him at eighty miles per hour.

The first thing that really registered was the fact that somebody was honking at him. He looked down from the sky, saw the car that was now only a few feet away, slammed the breaks, and turned the wheel. The car spun wildly and Val got a great view of the sunset, which was odd since he had turned the wheel to the right and the sun had been on his left. There was a collision and Val was thrown against his seatbelt, breaking the latch.

He awoke to a flashlight on his pupil.

"You alright, man?" somebody asked.

Val felt a wetness against his back and on his hair. If he had been able to see at that point, he would have seen the sunset-enhanced thundercloud above him, only the colors had become much darker as the sunset was nearly at an end.

He did not know the man holding the flashlight, nor did the man holding the flashlight, who's name was Harvey Heidelman, know him.

Harvey was a built man who drove quite a bit. He owned a large truck that was mostly used to hold large amounts of surfers and their gear since he had a bunch of friends who enjoyed surfing in the Keys. This truck was able to withstand quite a beating and didn't seem to take much more damage than a broken rear bumper when the blue Mitsubishi hurled into its backside. Harvey was stunned, but not overall surprised since bad weather seemed to bring out the assholes on the Florida Turnpike.

The man upon which Harvey was shining his flashlight, however, didn't look like an asshole. He looked a little strange for reasons that Harvey couldn't place, but he didn't look like an asshole.

"I'm fine," the man said tentatively, blinking a lot.

Harvey looked uncertainly at the man; he wasn't sure whether that was true.

So, naturally, he asked, "You sure?"

The man looked at Harvey and stopped. It was an odd motion, as if he had just realized that his car keys had been left on the dining room table. Harvey expected a more dramatic move from a man who had just survived a high speed collision that threw him out the window of a tiny Mitsubishi after ripping apart the seatbelt and folding the frame upwards down the middle.

"I... think so," he muttered.

"Here," Harvey said, moving the flashlight and offering his hand, "Then see if you can stand."

The man complied and struggled to his feet. He dusted himself off, stopped again, looked at his demolished car as casually as you would look at a pet cat, and looked at Harvey with a most unusual expression on his face.

"What happened?" he asked.

Harvey turned to the wreck, shrugged his shoulders, and answered, "Well, I had to break real fast and you plowed into me."

The man, still dazed, continued with, "Where are we?"

Harvey glanced back at the man and saw that his question had been genuine; the man did not know where he was.

"Florida Turnpike," Harvey told him and paused, "Are you sure you're alright, man?"

The man looked down at the ground and up at the sky, seeing the first few drops of what would eventually become a heavy storm, and said, "I don't know who I am..."

Harvey didn't know how to reply to this; he just stood in amazement and uncertainty. "I already called the cops from my cellular and they said they'd get an ambulance..." he replied stupidly.

The man reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wallet. He opened it and fumbled with the cards. Harvey was stunned to see the backside of three distinct driver's licenses.

"Fuck," the man said, "I'm either Val Grennon, Burt White, or Jeffrey Applebee."

Harvey was finding himself increasingly uncomfortable. First a car crashed into him, then he finds a man who he thinks is dead at first, then the man wakes up, tells him that he doesn't know anything, and now this man pulls out three different identifications. Harvey was, to say the least, flustered.

The man slumped down on to the wet ground and held the cards in his hands.

"They're all familiar to me," he whispered, "But I don't know which one is me..."

Harvey followed the man with his eyes; he didn't know what to make of this.

Then suddenly, the man's head lifted and he said, "I gotta go!"

"What?" Harvey replied.

"I gotta go!" the man shouted and darted backwards onto his feet and across the median.

Harvey attempted to follow, shouting, "But the ambulance, and the police....!"

But he stopped, seeing the man make a suicidal journey across heavy traffic and into the darkness beyond. He turned, looked at the wreck, and resigned himself to dealing with the cops and ambulance on his own.

Val, on the other hand, was in a blind panic. He didn't know his name, but the mention of the police had triggered something in him like the mention of a greyhound to a track rabbit. Val hurried as fast as he could to godknowswhere and came to a well-lit house. Without thinking, he rushed to the back door and slipped inside.

Somebody screamed.

"What's wrong, hun, another cockroach?" a male voice asked.

Val looked first at the woman, who was cowering up the coach and was probably about to start running. He didn't know why, but she was familiar. Then, not wanting to take his eyes off of her, he looked to his left and saw a middle aged man, drying his hair with a towel and walking about casually, naked.

"Rog, Rog, Rog..." the woman nervously repeated, pointing at Val.

The man turned, removing the towel to reveal another familiar face. He was smiling, as if amused, but immediately transformed into a confused man when he saw Val.

"Who are you?" he asked, covering himself with the towel.

Val pushed his hands in front of him, "Calm down," he said.

"Who are you?" the man repeated.

"Rog, Roger, Rog..."

Val wasn't sure how to reply so he answered, matter-of-factly, "I don't know."

The man, whom Val was guessing to be Roger, had the same look on his face as the man at the Turnpike. He was uncertain, nervous, confused, and, most of all, very uncomfortable. Val looked at the woman, who had stopped moving and had her hand on her mouth as if to muffle any future outbursts. She was incredibly familiar, as was the man.

"What do you mean, you don't know? What the hell are you doing in our house?!" Roger shouted, choosing to be angry and annoyed.

"I.. I don't know!" Val insisted, not sure what question he was answering.

"Get out of this house before I call the cops!" Roger shouted.

Val might have turned around and left if it weren't for the fact that he knew these people. They didn't seem to recognize him, but he definitely recognized them.

"Do I know you?" he asked stupidly.

"What do you mean, do you know us?! Get the hell out or I'm calling the cops!"

"Just, please... wait..."

"GET OUT!!"

Val stopped, looked again at the woman, who had ceased moving altogether, and turned to the door. He opened it and looked out into the darkness; the night had already permeated the sunset so there was nothing left except an empty black sky. As Val took his first few steps, he noticed the rain, which was increasing from its former drizzle.

"Wait," the woman said as Val pulled back to close the door.

"Honey..." Roger warned.

"No, Rog, I think I do know him."

Val looked back and could see that the woman was genuine. She had crawled forward and was studying him with eagerness while Roger was staring at her with disbelief. Val suddenly knew that her name was Deborah.

There was a long pause.

"Val..." she uttered.

Roger turned, his eyes wide, "Val?" he said in astonishment, "Val Grennon? ...Oh my god..."

It was one of the names on the ID's. Val was finally getting the sense that that was his name.

"Yes!" he shouted eagerly, "That's my name. Val Grennon!"

There was another pause. Roger was staring at Val with an incredibly unusual look, as if sizing him up, while the woman, Deborah, sat on the couch, her mouth agape with wonder. Val looked back and forth from one to the other and for a moment he imagined that time had stopped.

"What's wrong?" Val asked, trying desperately to break the silence.

For a few more awkward moments, there was no reply.

Then, loudly, Roger answered, "What are you doing here?"

Val sighed, looked at the ground and hesitantly repeated, "I... I don't know."

"What happened to you?" whispered Deborah.

Val thought for a moment, looked at Roger, who was quiet again, and said, "There was an accident... on the Turnpike."

"That explains the blood," commented Roger.

Val hadn't even noticed the trail of blood down the side of his face. He lifted his hand to touch it and was startled by how warm and wet it was. Deborah said something that he didn't hear and was immediately in front of him, wiping the blood off with a handkerchief.

"You shouldn't be here," she told him.

That made a lot of sense to Val as he thought about it and he realized that his being here had been a hard decision. He knew somehow that he didn't think it was right to come back, but he also knew that he had wanted to and that there was something that he needed to do here.

"I need to be here," he said, more to himself than to Deborah.

"What do you mean, you need-" Roger started.

"Roger!" Deborah snapped, "It's obvious that he's lost and confused. Let him be for once!"

Val wished he knew what was going on. He was missing something that would make this whole scene make sense, but it was gone in the accident. It had been torn from him in the twists of metal and the jolt that sent his body into the grass. Val began to wonder if he'd ever get it back.

Deborah continued cleaning his face and then held his shoulders. She looked him in the eyes and he stared back, still trying to figure out what was happening.

"We better get you cleaned up," she said and tried to pull him into the bathroom, where Roger had emerged from earlier.

Reflexively, Val resisted and twisted out of her gentle grip.

"No," he told her, "I need to go home."

Val didn't even realize he had said it until he had. He looked carefully at Deborah, at her hair and her eyes, and knew that he had been right. What he needed was at home. And his home was not far. These were nearby neighbors, churchgoers, friends of the family...

Val immediately turned and ran out into the rain. He heard Deborah shouting "Wait!" but he was too determined to get home to listen. Through the rain and without direction, finding his home was more difficult than he expected. All the houses looked alike and none of the roads were labeled. He went in the direction he assumed was correct, but found himself in dead-ends and unfamiliar territories.

Eventually, though, he saw a house that he knew was his. In front of it, a large man stood with an enormous shotgun in his hands. Val knew without a doubt that this man was his father. Quietly and slowly, Val approached him.

"How dare you," his father growled, "How dare you come back here."

Val looked into his father's eyes. This is what he had hoped to avoid; this was the hard part.

"If you're looking for the money, we gave it to the police."

Val closed his eyes and was given a rush of memories. There was a great deal of money that he had left, in a shoebox hidden beneath the floorboards of his closet. He had kept it there for when he needed it and had left home so quickly that he never had a chance to get it.

"I'm not letting you in this house," his father said, "Your mother and I can't take it."

The shotgun made his words convincing and Val studied it smoothly. There was nothing for him here; he needed to leave. Unfortunately, he heard the sound of sirens and knew that there would be no escape.

"Father..." said Val solemnly, "I'm sorry."

The sirens were moving fast and close.

"It's too late for that," his father replied, "There is nothing you can do to make up for the pain you caused us."

Val listened to the sirens, which were about to turn the corner. "Except go to jail," he added for his father.

His father stood there, tall and unrelenting. Val felt small and helpless, like a gerbil, and he didn't move. Even as the black-and-white stopped behind them, neither said a word or flinched. They stood in the grass, with a heavy storm falling on top of them, and watched each other's eyes.

Finally, when he found himself in the backseat of the cop car, Val looked through the window of his home and saw his mother crying frantically.