Eddie Arana, Rick Thibodeau, & Chris Bakunas San Diego, Ca. March 2012

Eddie Arana, Rick Thibodeau, & Chris Bakunas San Diego, Ca. March 2012
Eddie Arana, Rick Thibodeau, & Chris Bakunas at Luche Libre Taco Shop in San Diego, March 2012

Saturday, December 10, 2016

Fragments Of A Mystery

He had woken up in an elevator. It was stopped on the garage level of a 36 story office building located in the heart of Chicago.

His wallet was still on his person, as was were his car keys. But he could not locate his cellphone.

The events of the night before were hazy at best. He was sure he had met up with a few co-workers at a bar near west Barry & north Racine, but for the life of him he could not remember who had actually been there, or how long they had all stayed, or where he had gone afterward.

Running his hands through his hair he reflexively checked his head for bumps, but he felt nothing unusual. He also checked out his face in the highly polished steel of the elevator doors, but did not notice anything amiss.

He pushed the open door button and walked out into the parking garage after the doors did just that.

Looking around at all the cars in the the spots near the elevator bank it suddenly occurred to him that he could not recall what kind of car he drove. Wasn't it a sedan? Maybe a Toyota Camry? What color was it? Blue?

He fished his keys out of the pocket he had felt them in when he had patted himself down and found two keys to two different vehicles on a key ring that also held what looked like 3 keys for doors of either a home or a business.

The two keys to vehicles were both the type with remote fobs. He pushed the horn button on both of them and waited. A full thirty seconds of silence passed before he tried again. Still nothing. 

Momentarily he thought he would walk down every row in the garage but then it occurred to him that this might be just one level of many levels of a large parking garage.

Then he thought that there might be something in his wallet that could help - maybe a parking stub or a receipt for payment.

He pulled out his wallet and flipped it open. The familiarity of his wallet in his hands helped to calm a slight panic that had been slowly building.

Then he looked at his Drivers License. The picture was him, he was certain of that, but there was something a little bit off.

The picture was the same face he had gazed at in the polished steel of the elevator doors, but the hair...his hair...looked grayer in the picture, and his hairline appeared to be a little more receded.

Putting his fingers to his face he traced them over his features as if he were looking for a lost needle in a shag carpet. He felt smooth, soft skin on his forehead and around his eyes, and morning stubble on otherwise taught cheeks and chin.

The picture on his Driver's License, however, showed wrinkles and creases on a face - his face. The picture on the Driver's License showed a face that had to be at least twenty years older than the one he was tracing his fingers over.

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