Looking about the room, I realized how sterile it was, suffocatingly so. It appeared as if the housekeeper had just cleaned or I had just walked into an unlocked room to sleep off a long day. If I were staying here, I thought, my belongings would be laying about. The extra cash and change from the pants I wore that day would be sitting on the desk, along with my wallet. A bottle or can of caffeinated soda would be sitting on any flat surface along the major walking route in the room. Or, laying empty in the trash can. But there were no signs of any of these items. And about my suitcase. It too would be somewhere out in the open, either sitting under the writing curio or next to the dresser, or laying open on top of the suitcase stand. But no suitcase existed in these landscapes.
I noticed the dresser was the closest searchable object near me so I walked to it. I glanced to the high-top wood chair sitting tightly under the desk. It’s position mocked me. I have this habit of laying out the clothes I’m wearing the next day onto the chair. I place the button shirt squarely on the back, as if the chair were going to wear it. And I lay the freshly ironed pants on the seat in a manner so that it doesn’t disturb the folds and creases. But the chair looked like it too had been re-positioned by the housekeeper so that it looked unused for the next guests.
As my fingers fell upon the handles of the dresser, I caught myself pausing and drawing a breath. What if there are clothes in here but this isn’t my room? What if it is my room but I don’t recognize the clothes? What if it is empty? I was half believing all options could be a possibility.
I opened the top drawer. A noise blurted from my mouth that sounded more like a shrill cackle. My hands dived and rummaged through black socks, boxer shorts, and black and white under-shirts, all appearing to be new. I closed the door and opened the drawer underneath. It was full of swim trunks and high-priced athletic shorts, tanks, and ankle socks. I ran to the glass closet doors and slid the left side open. Hanging within were slacks and dress shirts and jeans from stores I had never shopped for in my life – Saks, Neiman Marcus, Banana Republic, and Abercrombie & Fitch. My eyes scanned the floor. Laying at my feet were an assortment of black leather shoes, square toed. Again, nothing here remotely spoke to my style. Primarily because I could never afford it.
Tucked away in the back of the closet was a large suitcase. I wrestled it out of the shadows and took it back to the bed. I returned to the closet and brought down the leather duffel bag I spied sitting next to the extra pillows and blankets. As I walked back to the bed, I quickly unzipped the bag and emptied its contents onto the bed spread. A thick black leather wallet sat atop the heap of accessories, toiletries, note pads, and pens. I snatched it up so quickly that other items went flying in all directions.
I sat on the edge of the bed looking at my trembling hands gripping the wallet. I caught another few deep breaths and opened the wallet. Staring back at me was a driver’s licence with a picture of a younger me. I could tell this because my face hadn’t been plagued with wrinkles or graying hair. Then I took a closer glance at the licence. I grew ill and lightheaded. Typed on the licence was the name, Mark Byatt. And the signature flared with such a natural stroke that it looked like it had been signed a thousand times in my handwriting. But I am not Mark Byatt. My given name is Tanner Armstrong.
11:43:49 PM  | |
|
