MW: Slate #1

[Ken Cooney]

               S         L        A        T        E


                    Issue #1 --  by Ken Cooney
                         
[This metaworld series is intended for a mature audience.  This issue
 contains some violence and language.]
 
"The more you try to erase me,
 The more, the more,
 The more that I appear."

-- Thom Yorke "The Eraser"

   I'm sitting at the bus terminal.  I have no idea why.  I have no
where to go, nowhere that I'm aware of anyway.  Music plays in the
overhead speakers; a mellow soundtrack filling the void.  A boy with
short black hair sits across from me, his eyebrows furrowed and his
eyes downward.  Next to him sits his mother, a brown coat draped over
her, covering a white blouse.
   "What are you thinking about?" she asks him.
   "Nothing." he says.
   That could have been my response.  Nothing.  I have nothing in mind
right now.  Absolutely nothing.  I have no memory of my past or how I
got here.  It was a little unnerving as I woke up.  That's the best
way to put it, although I wasn't asleep.  I only have memories of what
has transpired an hour ago.

                       *       *      *

   I was in a panic when I came to.  I felt the hair on the back of my
neck stand up and my fists turned white as I clenched the arms of the
chair.  I felt my blood drain from my face and part of me wondered if
I was about to pass out.  Sweat started to come down by forehear as I
let go my death grip on the arms and quickly looked for a tissue or
handkerchief.  I found one and patted my face.  I looked around and
found that I was in a public place.  I needed to calm down.
   I checked my left pocket.  A wallet.  I quickly opened it up and
frantically looked inside.  A ten and two fives.  No identification. 
No credit cards.  No notes.  I looked up.  The boy was looking at me
like I was a freak show.  "Nice job playing it calm," I thought to
myself as I put the wallet back in my pocket.  I looked around and no
one else noticed.
   I paused and tried to think.  I couldn't remember anything of my
past, but I knew what a credit card was.  I knew what a driver's
license was.  Did I have a car?  I paused for a moment.  I'm right
handed.  At least I think I am.  Wallet in the left.  That's where
right handed people usually put them, right?
   I checked my right pocket.  I found a key but my heart sank when it
didn't look like a car key.  A car would have a registration and a
registration would have my name.  What the hell was my name?  I tried
to focus, tried to force my brain to remember.  Nothing came, not even
a nick name.
   I looked at the key again.  It wasn't a house key either, not that
it would have helped.  I had no idea where I lived.  I also had some
change.
   I did an assessment of myself.  I was wearing a long grey coat. I
checked those pockets as well.  A piece of paper with handwriting on
it.  Was it my handwriting?  I looked at it but I couldn't tell. 
A-159.  Maybe it was for a locker of some sort?
   Bus terminals have lockers.  I looked around.  I decided to get up
and look around.  There were maybe a few dozen people around.  Most
were sitting around, some walking by.  I spied some rental lockers and
walked to them.  My eyes glanced over them, but they only went to 100. 
Someone wearing a uniform was walking by.
   "Excuse me, do you have any other lockers?" I asked.
   "No, that's it." he said, and continued walking.
   I paused and thought.
   Coffee.  I need coffee.
   I head out the door and cold breeze hits me.  I grit my teeth and
looked around, spying a cart at the corner.  He didn't have coffee,
but he had soda.  That'll do.  Maybe some caffeine will jog my memory
or wake me up.  Realizing that I was hungry, I ordered a hot dog.
   "Are you coming or going?" the man asked.
   I paused, kind of taken back by the comment.  Why was I at the bus
station?
   "Neither," I replied.
   "That looks like a bus ticket in your shirt pocket."
   I put my hand on my shirt pocket and felt the ticket.
   "That's just a business trip." I mentioned, trying to recover.
   "Yeah, that doesn't count, does it?" he said with a smile.
   "Not really," I said as I tried to remember buying the ticket.
   "Mustard on your dog?"
   "Huh?"
   "Your hot dog.  You want mustard on it?"
   Did I like mustard? "Yes." I replied.
   "Relish?"
   "Yes."
   He went off the list: onions, banana peppers, kraut.  I said yes to
them all, not having a clue if I liked any of it.  I guess I'll scrape
what I don't like.  I'll just make sure I do that somewhere else.  I
don't want him giving me strange looks, maybe call the police thinking
that I was high on something.
   He gave me the hot dog and soda.  I gave him a five.  He gave me
some changed which I pocketed.  I left and walked inside.  I took a
bite and decided that I didn't like the kraut.  I did my best to
swallow the bite as I headed for a garbage can and picked it off.  I
took a sip to wash out the taste and took another bite.  Perfect.
   I took another sip and sat down.  I pulled out the ticket. 
Cincinnati, Ohio.  I looked at the date and time.  I glanced up at
the wall clock.  I had two hours, assuming this ticket was for today.
I finished the hot dog and soda.  I looked around and spied a
magazine  store at the other end.  I walked over and checked out one
of the daily papers and saw the date.  Yes, it's the same day.
   Did I buy this ticket?  I grabbed the newspaper and looked around. 
I grab a souvenir pen.  I'll have to remember to buy a pad to jot
down notes.  I'm not sure what if anything I'll remember tomorrow.  I
paid the man and headed back to my seat.  Hopefully my answer is in
Cincinnati or I'm taking a one way trip to nowhere.

                       *       *      *

   That's the extent of my life experience, at least those that I'm
aware of.  I wrote it all down on a full page advertisement that was
mostly blank; afraid that I might "wake up" again and forget it all. 
I felt that I couldn't write it all fast enough, writing in fragment
sentences and pieces.  The most relevant stuff first.  The key.  The
ticket.  The approximate time I woke up.  Then more details.  It was
filling in the in between like filling in the white squares of a
crossword puzzle, but not knowing what the clues were.
   I was now waiting for the clock to tick the minutes of my
departure.  Waiting for the unknown was a bit unnerving, so I decided
to look through the newspaper.  I recognized names and faces of
various figures: actors, actresses, models.  I don't know if I have
seen them in a movie, on TV.  How could I know these names, these
faces, and not know my own? 
   I needed a name.  I glanced through the newspaper, looking at the
by lines.  Walter.  Andy.  John.  I settled on Matt.  Matthew?  No,
Matt.  I looked for last names, feeling kind of stupid in doing so.
I needed a starting point of my identity.  Waters.  Phillips.  Hole.
I chuckled to myself at the absurdity of that one and moved on. 
Douglass.  That will do.  I wrote it down in the newspaper.  "I don't
know my name, but I'm calling myself Matt Douglass."
   I paused and decided it was time to walk to the bus terminal.  I
folded the paper, rolled it up, and put it in my coat pocket.  I
walked to the terminal and found a half dozen people there.  It was
getting dark and there a slight breeze in the cold air.  The bus
arrived and the door opened.  A few people exited the bus; only a few
stayed on board.  Another worker opened up the cargo door in the side
of the bus and started taking bags.  Of course, I didn't have any and
stayed in line.  I was fifth to enter and slowly walked towards the
door.  I walked up the steps and handed the driver my ticket.  I
picked a seat about five seats from the front and sat down.  It was
going to be a long drive, so I took off my coat, bunched it up, and
placed it against the window, making it a makeshift pillow.  I rested
my head and slowly drifted to sleep.  Hopefully I'll remember
everything I wrote down and if I'm lucky, everything else

                       *       *      *

    "Okay, we're taking this bus to Mexico!"
    I open my eyes a bit disoriented.  A bus.  Okay, I remember now.  
Well, I remember at least as far back as when I woke up at the 
terminal.  I rub my eyes.  There's a thin man with pale skin, wiry 
black hair, and black scruff around his chin.  He's holding a gun to 
the driver.  His attention is directed at the driver.
    What did he say?  I pause as the whole thing sinks in.  We're
going to Mexico.  Mexico?  We can't do that.  The only shot I have at
figuring out who I am is in Cincinnati.  I get up off the seat and
move to the aisle.
    He turns around and directs his gun at me.
    "Good, sleepyhead is up.  Get in the back of the bus with everyone
else!"
    He waves his gun at me, directing me to go back.
    "I gotta go to Cincinnati." I tell him.
    "What are you stupid or deaf?  I said get to the back of the bus!
I ain't gonna say it again!"
    "You don't understand-"
    A large blast rings in the bus and all I can feel is a sharp burst
of pain in my chest.  Everything gets fuzzy and my legs get weak.  I
buckle over onto the floor.
   "Aw shit!" That voice must be the bus driver.
   "He had it coming!" the gunman explained.
   "He's going to bleed over the carpet walk way.  I just got that
carpet clean."
   The pain is immense.  I tightly close my eyes, grit my teeth,
trying to keep conscious.
   "Look, you gotta help me get him out of here if you wanna go to
Mexico."
   I hear the bus stop and the two men lift me up.  I feel pulled
forward and then pushed off the bus.  I roll over and land on my side.
I slowly lift my head, trying to focus.  The gunman is in the doorway,
his gun pointed at me.
   "You go, too!" the bus driver exclaims as he pushes the gunman out.
   The gun man falls a few feet ahead of me.  The bus quickly lurches
forward, door still open.  The gunman curses and shoots at the bus,
hitting the side a few times.
   "Fuck!" he yells, storming around, kicking dirt up in the air.
   He turns his attention to me.  "You're a dead man!"  He aims the
gun and pulls the trigger.  Click.  "Fuck!"
   He gives me two kicks to the stomach and storms off.  Everything
goes fuzzy again and I start hearing static in my ears.  The last
thing I hear through the static is his words: "You've gonna be dead,
anyway."  

======================================================================
   SLATE   Issue 1  "A Fresh Start"  A Metaworld comic.
   Copyright 2009 by Ken Cooney, all rights reserved.
======================================================================