"How'd Day One go?" Waitress asked me, already putting the sugar, cream, and nutmeg in by the time I got to the counter. I pulled out my wallet and tossed the two dollars and fifteen cents onto her side. She started the coffee jet stream.
"I stocked two cans of peas and watched a video about a sixteen year old kid named Peter who thinks he'll be able to retire at age 38 on the 401K the Little Red Hen is providing him with," I answered.
Waitress smiled, slid the cap onto my coffee, and put it down in front of me. "Sounds very productive."
"Doesn't it?" I turned and started to the door.
"Good luck on Day Two, Stock Boy," she called as my hand pushed the door open.
"You too, Waitress," I answered before the door slammed shut behind me.
Stocking shelves at the Little Red Hen was easy, but I was still happy when my lunch break rolled around at 1:00 and I yanked my apron off.
I sat down at the table in the breakroom and looked around. There wasn't much to see besides the typical posters and announcements. Five folding chairs, two card tables, a microwave, a mini-fridge, two vending machines and the lockers was pretty much it. A bulletin board at the far end of the room had been decorated with paper hearts and lacy doilies, each heart was an envelope and had a name on it. I noticed there was one with my name on it. I got up and walked over to it and studied the board for a long moment.
"They're for Valentines."
I'd been so intently staring at the bulletin board hearts that I didn't even hear Marty come in on her break. I turned around, "What?"
"The pouches," she said, pulling out a chair next to the one I'd left. She put down two plastic containers from the deli on the table - one in front of her and the other in front of my empty chair. "Lunch. Come eat."
I returned to the table and looked at the container, "What's this?"
"Broccoli Salad," she answered.
"There's no fingers in it?" I joked.
"Ha." Marty pulled the lid off her own, grabbed two plastic forks off a cup at the end of the table, dropped one by me and dug into her container with the other. "I noticed you didn't have a lunch when you came in this morning."
I picked up the fork and stabbed a piece of broccoli. Carrots and bacon appeared to be ingredients in the salad also. I shoved it into my mouth, chewed, swallowed, and announced, "Mr. Wilder's right, this is good."
"Everything I make is."
"If this is any indication..."
Marty swallowed the mouthful she'd been gnoshing and turned to me, leaning back. She studied me a moment. "So where are you from, kid?" she asked.
I stared at the salad. "I dunno," I answered, "You know. Around."
She eyed me for a long moment. "What's your story?"
"What's yours?"
She turned back to her salad. "I was born and raised in Wisconsin," she answered, "Home of the cheese." She chewed her salad loudly. "I moved to Atlanta when I was twenty. Married once, divorced by thirty. I've now lived alone with my dog for the past thirty-two years - yes I'm sixty-two, don't look so shocked - and am perfectly happy about it. Your turn."
"Two years and three months ago, in November, a police officer was paroling the park and found me on the grass passed out. I woke up from a coma four months later, in March, unable to remember who I was or anything about myself prior to having woken up." I chewed a piece of broccoli. Marty was staring at me, jaw slack. "I lived for two years in a psychiatric center trying to remember my name but couldn't so finally they called me Ben, gave me an apartment, and told me to enjoy my life."
Marty let this stew a moment between us, then smiled. "So where are you really from?" she asked, "You have a bit of an accent, but it certainly isn't one from these parts."
I smiled, "California." The word slid off my tongue - the first place that came to mind. It wasn't remembering, it was just a random word.
Wasn't it?
Marty laughed. "You're funny, Kid."
"Thanks."
"So the Valentines," she gestured with her fork at the wall, "Basically we're supposed to do the whole Kindergarten thing. Nobody ever does it."
I stared at the wall. "That's kind of sad."
"Yeah, well." She put the lid back on her broccoli salad. "Enjoy your break," she said, standing up. She put the salad into the fridge.
"You're leaving already?"
"Yep," Marty nodded, "I'm a smoker." She held up a pack of Marlboro Lights.
I laughed, "Is that your deep, dark secret?"
A faint smile slipped across her face, "Oh if only that was the darkest." And with that, she slipped out the break room door to indulge her nic-fit.
Mr. Wilder came to find me fifteen minutes before I was scheduled to go home. I was kneeling on aisle five by the cereal, facing some boxes of Cheerios when he came down the aisle, sing-songing, "Ah Ben, just the person I was looking for."
I looked up, "Hey, Mr. Wilder," I said. I stood up, dusting off my knees.
He turned and inspected the cereal aisle, "Nice, nice, good job, thank you." He smiled at all the even-to-the-edge-of-the-shelf cereal boxes, nodding his head. "Very good."
Honestly, freshly faced shelves like this made me feel slightly claustrophobic.
"I just wanted to check in on you," he said, "Make sure your first day went all right."
"Went great, sir," I answered.
"And to give you this," he added, holding out a name badge. Little sticker letters had been assembled in a slightly crooked manner spelling out Benjamin with a little red ribbon that hung down off it saying I'm Training!
"Thanks," I said. I pinned it to my apron.
"Not a problem." Mr. Wilder smiled. He flapped his arms uncomfortably and rocked his heels. "Well, Ben, if you ever need anything, you know where my office is. Let me know if you have any questions."
"Yes sir," I said as he turned and scurried away. I looked down at the cereal boxes. I was just about to kneel down and continue on with the facing when I felt a tap on my elbow. I turned around and found myself looking down at a little old woman with the whitest hair I've ever seen. She grinned up at me.
"Excuse me, son, can you tell me where I might find the dill pickles?" she asked. Her voice sounded uncannily like Mr. Wilder's had the day before. Clearly, this was a frequently repeated question.
"Aisle three," I answered, "Across from the taco kits."
"Oh thank you so much," the woman's voice shook like it was about to give out on her. She waddled away, clutching a basket with three cans of cat food and a jar of peanut butter already tucked inside.
Turning back to the cereal facing, I hoped she at least didn't plan on eating the cat food herself.
That night, I sat down at the computer and open up Google. I typed in the phrase pictures of California. A bunch of pictures of the Golden Gate bridge showed up, and the Hollywood sign, both of which seemed familiar of course out of obligation to being a human being who breathes in America. It wasn't anything to get excited about by any means. I scrolled through the images tab on Google for what felt like hours. My eyes were watering and I was pretty sure I was getting carpal tunnel in my wrists from sitting with them on the down arrow key so long when it showed up.
I stared at it. I clicked on the picture's source link and found myself on a Wikipedia.com entry about the Los Angeles International Airport - LAX. I felt like I was dreaming, some furry feeling crawled over me and I could literally imagine -- no, I could see with my minds eye -- what this space-age structure looked like during arriving to Los Angeles in an air plane and it gave me a feeling of comfort.
Like going home.
I stared at it for a long time, wondering. How, if I really was from California - if saying California that afternoon to Marty had been a memory - then how in the world did a cop find me in Atlanta, Georgia, in the middle of the night, in a park, completely wiped clean of my memory?
When my back became tired from sitting at the desk, I moved the lap top to my night stand and set it up so that the picture was my screen saver, and I fell asleep laying on my side in bed, staring at the picture of the airport that made me feel more at home than I'd felt in two years.
