I awoke from a sleep with no residue of dreams, not even hints of them. The bedside lamp was on, but emitting a dull white light that illuminated the ceiling. Either my eyes were adjusting or I was coming out of a drug-induced sleep because the ceiling was hazy. It was as though I were looking up from under the ocean’s surface or preparing to fall into it. I was not at home. I was not in any one bedroom I had ever been. It was a hotel room. It was obvious by its shape and amenities that swam into view—a black television sat perfectly in its wood shelving in front of the bed; the bed table by my head displayed a phone that had an overlay of instruction labels and a generic clock radio. It showed 11:40. Laying there, I could even feel the polyester and flame-retardant quilt I abhor.
I sat up. I immediately spied myself in the mirror. If I didn’t know myself I would have guessed this was not me. My hair was shorn and significantly graying on the sides. I was thinner; just barely on the healthy side of emaciated. Deep lines framed my forehead and shot out from the sides of my eyes, as if I had been squinting from the brightness of the sun too long. My eyes wore the astonishment of this grotesque and unexpected discovery. I looked away to avoid my eyes. A creeping horror welled up inside. A barrage of questions ransacked my mind: Why am I here? How long have I been here? What has happened to me?
I ran to the closed blinds and threw them open. They were mechanized so my movement triggered the motor and they opened the rest of the way by themselves. I was stories high above the ground, looking out at a city I knew in an instant as Las Vegas. The Hilton was spelled out in hot-red colored lights on a billboard larger than most hotels in the vicinity. Beyond the strip and beyond the city lights the night had come in upon the land and erased the very evidence of it, as if it had been consumed.
I began to shake, either because of the brisk air conditioning or the new fear that gripped my insides as I made the attempt to remember how it was I ended up here in Vegas. For the life of me, I could not remember a thing. I remembered my wife and immediately dove at the phone on the desk in front of the large windows. I dialed my home phone number automatically. One ring. Another ring. A third ring. I suddenly coughed, and shivered.
A sleepy voice appeared on the other end. "Hullo?"
"Janet, is that you?" I blurted.
"No. I’m sorry" the tired voice said. "You have the wrong phone number."
"That can’t be." I stammered. "Is this seven-zero-two-five-five-six-zero?"
"Yes, that’s my phone number but there is no Janet here." The female voice said on the other end.
I stared out at the city. The lights to the entire Sahara hotel complex just turned off, leaving a black void in the middle of the city. "Hullo? Are you there?" she questioned.
"I’m sorry," I said. My voice was shaky. "I don’t understand. This has been my phone number for the past eight years."
"That can’t be," the voice exclaimed. "I’ve had this phone number for over a year now."
"A year?" I exclaimed. "That’s not right. You’re mistaken."
"Who is this?" Asked the voice emphatically. "You....just...nevermind! Don’t call this number again!"
The click on the other end left me dumbfounded and listening to the annoying cloying sound of a phone call just terminated. "One year" kept ringing in my head. I had the sense of crying.
I placed the receiver back into its cradle then started looking around the room for anything that held the answers.
11:01:29 PM  | |
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