Searching for clarity

The room is unfamiliar. I don’t know how I got here. The spiderweb-like pattern in the ceiling’s plaster gives me the feeling that I have never slept here before. The strange geometry of the room reinforces that feeling.

I look down at my boots; one is untied and both are caked with dried mud. I am sprawled on a mangy couch in what looks like a living room or den. The smell of cat is pervasive.

As I sit up, my head spins. Reaching up to the right side of my forehead, I notice a lump covered by encrusted hair. What the hell? I have carpet tongue.

The sunlight beaming through threadbare curtains assails me mercilessly. Squinting, I try to take in my surroundings. The squalid room has a frat house vibe to it. Nobody is in sight, except for a couple of cats eyeing me suspiciously. The only noise comes from street traffic; it sounds like a busy neighborhood.

I try to piece together the night’s events. The last thing I remember is pounding down an unprecedented number of boiler makers at The Boiler Room, a crappy bar that turns a blind eye to underage drinkers. My roommate, Bill, was there. And Sandy. And that prick Noah. And various other acquaintances.

I have a vague feeling that something happened in the parking lot, but it is too blurry a memory to believe with much confidence. I notice my jeans are ragged at the knees. Dirty scabs have formed on the skin of my kneecaps. They are tender to the touch.

The knuckles on my right hand are a bit swollen. I guess I got into some kind of brawl or something. But how did I get here and where is here?

I check my phone: very low battery, a bunch of texts and missed calls. Those from Bill are, “you dumbass where did you go”, “dude are you alright seriously”, etc. There are a few others. As I read the last text, the phone goes dead.

Just as I stand up, I hear the rattling of dishes in another room. As I head in that direction, the cats scatter. I pass through an entranceway, apparently toward the kitchen. A disheveled woman roughly my age is rooting around in a cabinet. She is wearing a wrinkled T-shirt and men’s boxer shorts. She turns to see me and her eyes widen with shock.

“Who the hell are you?” she asks loudly.

“My name’s Duncan.”

“What are you doing in my apartment?” Her hand inches toward the silver wear drawer.

I pause. “I’m not sure. I mean, I’m not sure how I got here.”

“Well get out. Now!” She slides the drawer open slowly.

I raise my hands, palms outward. “Okay, okay. Sorry.” I back away toward the other room.

As I turn and head toward what I hope is the front door, I hear the unmistakable clinking sound of metal on metal. As I open the door, I see the woman heading toward me with a large kitchen knife in her right hand. I get the hell out of there and slam the door.

I scurry down the wide, creaky stairs toward a glass door, passing a row of dirty, bronze-colored mailboxes. I pull the door open with some effort and find myself on a street full of shops. The apartment I just left is above a dingy dry cleaning shop.

I head to the nearest intersection to check the street sign and find myself at Baldwin and Chestnut. I am familiar with Baldwin, but not this neighborhood. I make my best guess as to which direction will take me home and start walking. I don’t feel good.

There are a lot of shoppers milling about. I pass a big clock: 11:18 a.m. I stop at a newspaper kiosk. I eye the various papers and magazines and find the local paper. Saturday. No wonder things are busy. I scan the headlines above the fold and find the usual stuff. I turn the paper over and a headline catches my eye: “Body found in bar parking lot.” I feel my stomach sink.

The vendor seems annoyed that I am looking at the paper without paying for it but I ignore him and read on.

"Police are investigating a suspicious death. At 1:19 a.m., officers responded to the parking lot of the Boiler Room on Merriman Drive after dispatchers received a 911 call.

"Detectives determined the victim had suffered some kind of trauma, police said. The victim has not yet been identified.

"Anyone who may have seen or heard anything unusual or has any additional information is asked to call crime solvers at 656-514-1600."

I turn the paper over and slowly set it back down. I glance up and down the street although I’m not sure why. I am aware of my heart beat. I feel twitchy and clammy. I continue in what I believe to be the direction of my apartment, walking as briskly as I can muster. I am still not familiar with this section of Baldwin. My eyes scan the street for a familiar landmark.

I have to get back to the apartment to see Bill. Maybe he knows what the heck happened. Jesus, what did happen? This looks bad.

Finally I see a familiar site: Black’s paint store. Just about another half mile to my apartment. This section is more industrial, so there are fewer pedestrians milling about. I find this a bit of a relief. I feel like everyone is eyeing me suspiciously.

Suddenly I’m overcome with a wave of nausea. I slip into an alley and vomit behind a dumpster. Yuck. I notice my ribs are sore. I am a mess.

I see the apartment complex. I rip open the outer door, which emits its usual sucking sound, and bound up the stairs to the third floor. I fumble in my pockets for my keys but cannot find them. Damnit. I pound on the door. I hear footsteps.

Bill throws open the door, looks at me, and says, “What the hell happened to you?” I brush past him and throw myself onto the couch.

“I’m not sure,” I say.

“Well, where did you go after the bar?”

“I don’t know exactly, but I ended up in a strange apartment.”

Bill smiles. “Dude. What was her name?”

“No, it wasn’t like that. I just crashed on some stranger’s couch. I have no idea how I got there.”

Bill shakes his head. “You drunken fool.”

I sit for a minute, staring straight ahead at nothing. Bill takes a hard look at me and says, “Hey, are you alright?”

“I saw in the paper that the cops found a body in the Boiler Room parking lot last night.”

“Really? Shit.”

“Yeah.” I look up. “Did I have anything to do with that? I have a bunch of bruises and stuff and I just can’t remember.”

Bill laughs. “No, there were no dead bodies when you split.”

“Then what happened?”

“You and Noah were talking trash to each other all night in the bar. The drunker you two got, the more heated it became. Finally, when we tried to shove you guys outside, you just tore into each other like a couple of wild dogs. You really beat the shit out of each other.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes, dumbass. We let you blow off some steam and then separated you two before either of you really got hurt. Noah sat on the pavement screaming nasty things at you. You staggered off to the street swearing back at him. The last time I saw you, you were getting onto the drunk bus.”

I sit for a bit with my mouth slightly ajar. My eyes roam the room while my mind processes this information. So I only got into a dust-up with Noah. Prick. And I didn’t kill that guy. My relief is overwhelming. Suddenly I realize I am exhausted.

“I gotta crash,” I said. I get up and head to my room, kicking the clothes on the floor out of my way.

I collapse onto my bed, fully clothed, and fall asleep almost instantly.