Remembered Remains

He awoke in the midst of a soft alarm, sounding off in the distance. The noise slowly grew, matching the pace of his rising consciousness. Light from the world around him squeezed its way through the blur of tears and got him blinking one of his eyes. The other seemed to fight him at first, but it eventually opened to a painful slit. He noticed the alarm was closer when the pounding in his head hastened the waking process. His face felt hot and wet. His jaw was slack and felt stuck to something. There was a foul odor in the air, like melted plastic or scorched hair.

He found the strength to lift his head and instantly felt sick. Threads of pink, blood-laced drool bridged the space between his mouth and the place it was resting on. Wiping it away he looked down and saw himself through a teary fog, belted in behind a steering wheel. The airbag was sagging out like a wet nylon rag. There was a lot of broken glass in his lap. He realized two things in quick succession.

I’ve been in an accident.

I don’t know who I am.

The man did not recognize the car he was in. He had no concept of time or location. No reason as to why he was here. He did not recall putting on the suit he wore or the tie that hung crookedly off of his neck. He looked into the rearview mirror. In it was a small blue light that blinked with a slow pulse. Also in the mirror was his face, which he was seeing for the first time. His eye was badly bruised and there was a red trickle from his lip, but there was not much blood. The injury hurt much worse than it apparently looked. He was wrinkled. And grey. The man knew he was over forty, maybe over fifty.

He glanced around the inside of his car. The driver’s side window was shattered into little marbles of bluish white that were throughout the front seats. Outside he could see only trees. They were close enough that he knew the car was either on the shoulder or off the road completely. The windshield was littered with spider web cracks. Trying to see the other side was like trying to look through a giant ice cube clouded with patterns of threaded white. Through the cracks, it looked like he had slammed into a tree.

“Sir?”

The man, beginning to feel strength in his neck, looked around the car again. He reached down with an unstable hand and unbuckled his seat belt. It stuck at first and did not retract on its own once opened. He lazily tossed it aside, catching his tie on the clasp. He tried to free the snag, and instead elected to slide the knot down and pull it off completely.

“Sir? Can you hear me?”

That voice. The man stared blankly at his stereo, which didn‘t appear to be on. He wasn’t sure if the woman was outside the car or imaginary. He punched a few buttons on the dash display to see if anything responded. His train of thought was fragmented and he kept forgetting about the fact he was in an accident.

“Sir, this is Laura from OnStar. We have detected a crash. Can you hear me?”

The voice was coming from the stereo after all. The light in the mirror was some kind of indicator. The next thought that came to his mind was the first thing out of his mouth.

“What’s OnStar?” It was no more than a whisper.

“Sir, I did not hear you. Are you hurt? Can you tell me your name?”

“No.” Clearer this time. The lady in the stereo heard him.

“You’re not hurt?”

“No, I can’t tell you my name.” He coughed and felt pain in his ribs. “What’s OnStar?”

“We’re an emergency and directions service. Most rental cars have us. Sir I have already…”

He cut her off. “Rental? I wrecked a rental?”

“Yes, sir. The vehicle you are in is a rental.” He saw the distinct Cadillac logo on the steering wheel, however it meant nothing to him. “Sir, we have already alerted the authorities and EMS, however you are in a remote area and it will be a while before they reach you. I need to know if you are hurt.”

Thoughts started to flow more freely. EMS. Emergency Medical Services? At least I remember something. “No. I don’t think so.” He thought about his bruised eye but figured it was pretty minor. No sense in going over the details of his injuries with some lady on the other end of a radio.

“Good. Can you tell me your name?”

“No. I already told you that.” He rested back on the headrest. “Can’t you guys see who rented the car? My name?”

“I’m sorry sir, but we only know the names of our personal subscribers. We only know the company you rented the car from was Streamline in Chicago, Illinois. Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

He was getting irritated. Surely the first sign of recovery. “Yes, I am sure.”

“Can you feel your legs?”

He moved his knees first, then feet. Tensed the muscles in his thighs. Everything seemed fine. “Yeah.” The man rolled his head slowly from side to side on the headrest. “No neck pain, either.”

“Excellent. Now tell me if….”

The words were lost. Not because his mind drifted again, in fact his thinking was becoming quite clear. Clear enough for him to freeze dead when he saw the ripped duffel bag on the floor of the passenger side. Through that tear he could see something very interesting. He quickly reached down and unzipped the bag to expose its contents.

“Sir? Are you there?”

He did not hear Laura. He did not hear anything except for his pounding heartbeat. And somehow, despite the fact that he didn’t know his name, didn’t know what OnStar was and could not recognize the Cadillac shield embossed into the leather of the steering wheel, the man knew exactly what was inside the duffel bag once he opened it.

“Sir?”

“Where am I now? How long before the pol…..paramedics arrive?”

Laura answered quickly. “You are on US 12 outside of Coldwater, Michigan. I show that EMS is thirty minutes away. Sir, can you…..”

The man reached down and dragged the bag up onto the passenger seat. It was quite heavy, and hefting it off of the floor provided more pain in his back and shoulders. The tear in the fabric below the zipper line widened with a silent rip, spilling some of the bag’s contents onto the floor. His mind was razor sharp with concern. Doubt. Fear.

“…..gas? Sir?”

He just caught the tail end of Laura’s question. He found himself even more disoriented than he had been when he first woke. “What?”

“Can you smell any gas?”

His thoughts slipped away from the duffel bag. He inhaled softly and was surprised that he did not notice the aroma of gasoline until she asked. “Yes. Gas and oil.”

“You need to get out of the car, sir. Right now.”

The man did not waste any time. He was beginning to recall where he had come from and could vaguely remember who he worked for. He couldn’t remember who he was yet, but he had no interest in ever going back to deal with his employers. The idea of being in a rented car while it exploded however, somehow appealed to him even less.

“Sir, do you have a cell phone?”

He was already wrenching on the handle of the driver’s side door when Laura spoke again. He continued right along, pulling and leaning furiously. Even throwing his shoulder into the door was no use. Instead of thinking about another way out, the man was beset with panic and kept flailing his body into the door desperately trying to force it open.

“Fuck! It’s fucking stuck. Shit!”

“Sir! Do not panic. The door may be pinned shut and you could cause a spark.”

Spark.

He froze. Screamed. Laura spoke up again.

“Sir, check the passenger door.”

The man reached painfully over the console and across the duffel bag grasping for the opposite door. His fingertips danced slightly on the surface before he made the last few inches and put a death grip on the handle. It was unlocked and the door swung open with ease. He yelped in relief and started to claw his way over the seat before he heard Laura again.

“Sir, do you have a cell phone? Where is your phone?”

“I do have a phone.” The man looked on the floor before feeling his pants pockets. Quickly, he checked the driver’s side floor, dashboard and glovebox. Opened the console. Rustled through a couple of maps, papers and some change. Checked the visors. He looked over his shoulder and into the back seat. He checked the side pockets on the duffel bag and found his phone. Once it hit his hands he remembered it. Remembered how much he was on it for work and how much work he did with it.

He remembered its connection to the duffel bag full of drugs.

I have to get moving.

“Sir. You can call us and connect to me here. I need you to stay on the phone until he authorities arrive.” Laura suddenly sounded less robotic and decidedly concerned. “Let me know when you are ready for…”

He reached up and hit the “On*” button on the mirror, hanging up on Laura before sliding across the seat and out of his destroyed car. He thought it was time their conversation was over. Time was getting short. He stood out of the car and looked around outside. It was grey, crisp. Maybe fall or early winter, just before the snow. He was off of the road completely and impaled upon a large pine tree. Clear and yellow chips of headlight decorated the grass. The hood of the Cadillac was covered in pine needles and shattered glass. Grey smoke hissed out from under the folded metal and expanded into black before breaking up. It smelled like old charcoal.

He stood on the shoulder of a two lane highway. Seeing the pair of asphalt lanes split by the deliberate double yellow brought some things back. He remembered driving for work and spending plenty of time on the road. He was really no more than a delivery boy. A really expensive one that delivered really important items. Items that made people feel very nice, and made him a lot of money.

A lot of money he would trade in a second to remember details again. Starting with his name.

He checked the time on his phone and tried to remember how long it had been since Laura said “Thirty minutes.” He wasn’t sure, but felt there wasn’t much time regardless. He had to get far enough away from the scene of the accident that the police and paramedics would have no chance of finding him. He knew exactly where he would be going if he were caught and he had no intention of going back there. He’d rather have gotten back in the car and tried to cause some sparks.

He put his phone back into the side pocket before zipping the bag back up. The rip on the side was small enough that he could carry his supply with him. He stopped on this idea and thought for a second.

What’s better? They find the stuff on you or in your rental? Either way they know its yours and you are on the run. No sense in the extra weight. You’re kind of busted up in case you didn’t notice. You just hit a tree.

There weren’t a whole lot of options. The cops were maybe fifteen or twenty minutes away and he was in the middle of nowhere. It would be quite obvious to them who he was when they found him here like this. And that meant he had to go back. He had to get away from here immediately.

But then what? By the looks of it he could be hours, Hell days away from civilization. He could almost recall Michigan’s location on a map but certainly had no clue where Coldwater or US-12 were. Once the cops found the car full of drugs without a driver they would spread down the roads and through the woods in search. He would have to follow the road in one direction and hope to get to a town before he was caught.

He pulled his phone back out and tossed the bag back onto the floor. He threw the passenger rear door open and looked into the back seat. There was his briefcase. A briefcase that he remembered had his other cell phone. He remembered suddenly that there was also cash in the briefcase. Exactly $68,211 in cash.

The man pocketed his phone, snatched the briefcase and started off in a hobbled jog. His legs and ribs flashed in pain, significantly worse than it had been already. Despite that, adrenaline flowed free and blocked much of his senses. Slivers of memories were weaving through his mind, slowly revealing the fabric of his life.

He remembered his boss. Thought that he would not fire him for a transgression such as this. No, that type of man would keep him around and ratchet up the level of professional un-comfort forever. Keep him on edge. His boss would enjoy that greatly. He was a sadistic man with a lot of influence and he was unpleasant to work for even when you were doing your job right. That could all be remembered clearly now, but…

I still can’t remember my goddamnned name.

The man continued to stagger away. He turned back to see there was already a fair amount of space between him and the smoking wreck of his car. It was enough to feel safer about a pending explosion, but not enough for him to feel any better about his overall situation. He needed to put a much greater distance between himself and his life. The man remembered specific days and deliveries leading up to today. He remembered that he had just lost his girlfriend and remembered all the cocaine he was doing lately. He thought to the cash in his briefcase and recalled draining his checking and savings accounts. The receipts were with the money. He realized he was trying to get away. That if even had he been healthy, he couldn’t possibly run fast enough. Here he was though and he was certainly going to try.

In the distance, he wasn’t sure what direction, the man heard sirens.

The pain was increasing. The man had to pick up speed and get inside the tree line if he was to get away. Despite the fact that his ribs and legs felt full of broken glass he intended to go as far as his adrenaline could carry him. And the man was so afraid of going back to his life that he felt his adrenaline could carry him to Mars.

The sirens were getting closer. He was certain they were approaching from the way he had come. It put his wrecked car between him and the cops. It bought him some time but it wasn’t enough for him to feel any better about his chances. He was certain that any minute they would catch up with him and his chance of escaping the miserable existence he had crafted would be long gone.

The man staggered along and dragged his aching body off the road. Sliding behind the foliage along the shoulder was harder than he had expected; the ground was soft and mushy and each step into the mud was like walking across a mattress of pain. Arcs of sharp heat sliced through his midsection with each motion. He was able to keep his footing as long as he moved slow. Much slower than he wished, but his body was not in the mood to allow him a choice for much longer. He slipped briefly and dropped his briefcase to grasp a thick branch to steady himself.

The briefcase! Shit!

The man realized that he had been carrying the key to piecing together the details in his blood-streaked right hand since he left the car. He dropped haphazardly in the squishy mass that was the Michigan earth, ignoring the pain and the chill that began to seep into his bones from the newly appearing drizzle. Looking down upon the briefcase he saw the pair of combination-equipped tumblers that stood between him and his gray, misty memories. Thinking for a second, the man turned the dials to triple zeros with trembling fingers and flipped the buttons in opposite directions. He was sure the briefcase would remain locked.

Miraculously the latches popped. With a fragmented squeal of joy he flung the case open and let his eyes scan the contents.

Behind him, the sirens reached their destination and stopped.

The first thing he saw was a picture jetting out of a pen pocket. He removed it to see a beautiful woman that he vaguely recognized. Attached to the picture with a thread of scotch tape was a note. With labored, troubled breaths the man unfolded the note and read…

It’s me or the job, Charlie. I can’t take it anymore. When you’re ready, IF you’re ready…you know where to find me. -L

“L.” Charlie was so fixated on reaching back through his mind to recall the remaining letters of his girlfriend’s name that he didn’t much care for the revelation of his own. Remembering seemed hopeless and he continued to shred the inside of the briefcase striving for another piece of the puzzle. In a pocket to the right of the picture he found a small vial of cocaine. Addiction being what it is, he opened it and snorted the contents without hesitation. He clearly hadn’t forgotten how to do that.

Charlie’s hands fell to a manila envelope that rested atop a pile of miscellaneous papers. Inside the folder was the $68,211 along with two receipts. Atop those receipts his name stood defiantly against the smog of amnesia.

Charles Ray Leyland.

I’m Charlie Leyland. My clients call me C-Lee.

Below the folder was another distinctive piece of paper. It appeared to be a notice to appear in court.

I’m in trouble. Charlie thought. Big fucking trouble. I’d rather die than get caught.

Behind him, a Michigan State police cruiser was approaching. Charlie did not hear it.

He started to frantically claw his way to the bottom of the briefcase. No document was safe as he even tossed the envelope of money aside while he dug deeper. Pens and papers erupted from their bed of stitched leather. He tossed a calculator and another cell phone into the woods. Stacks of addresses and names fluttered around him as he plunged headfirst into the pile, praying for an answer. Not to his memories which were flooding back, but an answer to his current question of how to get away.

“Don’t move, son.”

Shit.

Charlie froze. He suddenly wished there was a gun in the briefcase. At least he could end his life on a newsworthy note rather than be captured and forced to slither back to the place he wished so badly to avoid.

“Let me see your hands.”

He stole a glance over his let shoulder and saw a State Trooper in a pale brown uniform. A quick look over his right showed a younger officer that had flanked him. It was over. Charlie stood slowly, arms elevated.

“I can’t go back. Don’t make me go back.” His body shivered all over. Not from the cold, but from fear.

“Son, we only want to check on you. Is that your car back there?”

He turned to face the officers and noticed they had not drawn weapons on him. Still afraid to answer, he remained quiet.

“I don’t know how you survived, son. I hope you have insurance, that Caddy is shot.”

Charlie chuckled. “Kill me”

The troopers stopped and stared. “What?”

The younger guy spoke. “Why the Hell would we do that?”

Then the elder, “You would have a lot of unhappy customers if we did that, I’m afraid.”

Charlie took a deep breath. “I’m not going with you. You’ll have to kill me ‘cause I’d rather die than go back.”

The older trooper took another step forward and rested his hand upon his holstered pistol. “Why would you say that, Charlie?”

His mind raced from wondering how they knew his name to remembering his wallet in the visor of the Cadillac. They have my ID. Why didn’t I find it first?

“Come with us, son. Let the EMT’s check you out.”

The rest was a foggy as his memory when Charlie awoke. He put up a struggle and was quickly subdued. He remembered tasting mud and plants as his face ended up deep in the muck. As the troopers dragged him back toward the scene of the accident, Charlie remembered everything. His slave driving boss, always expecting more and more from him. No amount of sales were enough. He remembered Laura and her constant pressure to change employment.

It takes you away too much, baby. Can’t you be home more?

He remembered the money he was making. Good money too, more than enough to sustain the rest of his life. But he also remembered the driving, the drugs, the fact that the job had pushed him into an unwanted addiction, just to keep up. He despised his life, his boss and his line of work so much that anything was a better alternative. He remembered that he had drained his bank account and rented this car to just drive until the gas tank was almost empty.

He recalled the needle reaching “E” before stomping on the pedal and piloting the rented CTS directly into a tree in an effort to kill himself. As the Troopers led him back to the scene against his will, he saw them pulling the bag of drugs out of the car.

“All this stuff says Missouri, son. Why are you way the Hell out here?”

Charlie did not answer. They would corral him and take him in for questioning, then therapy. From there, he wasn’t sure where he would end up.

A Pharmaceutical Representative on therapy. Imagine that. Maybe some Xanax was in order.