Jamie was on his sixth wife beater of the evening when it first began to happen. He was plotted up at the window of his darkened eighth floor apartment, watching one of his neighbours indulging in a late night three-some. Everyone else had long gone to sleep. Freakily the neighbour had left the curtains wide-open and Jamie was able to see right inside. It was two guys and a girl, his neighbour, his neighbour’s friend, and a young Japanese girl. Shit, they were really going for it, and once they got into the spit-roast position Jamie began slowly stroking his hard cock. It was better than watching a porno, a bona-fide live show and best of all, a freebie.
But just as Jamie was about to explode something odd occurred. He couldn’t remember his neighbour’s name. The Japanese girl was taking it up the dirt box at one end and sucking away like mad at the other, but the peculiar thought put him right off his rhythm. He stopped stroking and concentrated. This new reality amazed him. He’d known his neighbour for over three years and said hello to him nearly every day. He racked his brains. What the fuck? What was his name? But try as he might, a name eluded him.
Jamie scratched his head and recommenced stroking with a somewhat bemused expression. The Japanese girl was now being pleasured orally. He watched as she arched her back and thrust his neighbours face deep into her pussy. Then, as one of the men came into the girl’s open mouth Jamie did indeed explode, a few squirts of cum landing on his leg and dripping all down his fingers.
After wiping off with an old dish cloth Jamie pulled up his trousers and returned to the window. One of the men had disappeared and now his neighbour and the Jap were sat around, enjoying a post-coitus joint. He went to the fridge and grabbed another cold one, ‘Fuck it,’ maybe I’m getting Alzheimer’s?’ He flipped open the can and took a long, reflective swig. That night Jamie slept fitfully. The inability to recall his neighbour’s name had unnerved him and he couldn’t get it out of his mind.
He awoke in the morning feeling exhausted, hung over, and a little perturbed. He set off for work in a strange state of mind. Then, when he got to the underground station, something startling happened. He didn’t recognise the name of the station, couldn’t remember how to get into work, and didn’t even know who he was. A wave of panic hit him with the force of a sledgehammer. He couldn’t recall who he worked for. What the fuck? As he fumbled for his wallet Jamie felt a cold sweat forming on his back, the drops dripping onto the underside of his shirt.
Jamie opened his wallet with trembling hands. There was a business card, one with his photo on, Jamie Smith, Business Change Analyst, Royal Bank of Scotland. ‘Who the fuck is Jamie Smith?’ wondered Jamie. He read the Central London address, but it meant nothing. He began to panic even more. Jamie Smith, Jamie Smith, Jamie fucking Smith! It must be him. He looked around, at all the other commuters, all rushing in one direction. Act normal, act normal,’ he told himself as he stepped into line and followed the herd.
When a train appeared on the near horizon Jamie impulsively showed the card to a young girl standing next to him,
‘Does that train go anywhere close to this address?’ He blurted out.
The girl glanced at the card, ‘Yes,’ she replied brightly. Then she saw the photo, did a quick one two, and gasped,
‘But that’s you isn’t it?’
Jamie quickly withdrew the card and marched off towards the other end of the platform feeling freaky. What was happening to him?
Once out of the station Jamie eyeballed the huge mirrored office with a mixture of fear and loathing. He watched all the suits walking in and out open-mouthed. Did he really work in such a hideous symbol of capitalism? He walked inside and headed towards reception with a feeling of trepidation. A security guard smiled as he passed by,
‘Great result last night, eh?’
Jamie was forced to think on his feet, ‘Yeah, blinding, stuffed em didn’t we?’
The guards smile retracted slightly, ‘Yeah, yeah, 1-0, still points in the bag, eh?’
Jamie hurried off and jumped into a lift. He pulled out his business card. External Relations, floor five. The lift doors opened to reveal a huge, sprawling, open plan office. It was then that Jamie realised the full extent of the precariousness of the situation. He no longer knew where he once would have sat. ‘Shit,’ he hissed between gritted teeth.
He scanned the room and saw a retarded looking chap smiling at him and marched over. Then he saw the name sign with his name on and breathed a huge sigh of relief. The smiling man was a one, Simon Hughes,
‘See the game last night Si?’ He muttered as he slipped into a comfortable feeling chair feeling incredibly uncomfortable.
‘Yeah, fucking tedious defensive shit as usual, but what I’m really interested in is whether you got your end away with old saggy tits Friday night?
Jamie spoke without thinking,
‘Saggy tits?’
Simon leered at him, ‘Don’t play the innocent, the word is out all over the office, so fess up. Do those bangers really reach down to her knees?’
Jamie forced a laugh out, ‘Over the shoulder boulder holder.’
Simon cracked up at that, ‘You dirty old bastard.’
Once his settings had appeared Jamie ploughed through his emails and other work related shit to try and ascertain what exactly it was he did, and to try and jog his memory into remembering stuff. He stared at meaningless spreadsheets and tables filled with strange data. Then he skimmed some jargon packed documents. ‘What the fuck is all this shit,’ he thought. None of it made any sense.
He glanced sideways at Simon. He worked in a calm and methodical manner. What was he doing? Jamie shot a sneaky glance at his screen. It appeared to be some sort of computer game, where bricks slotted together to form a wall. Jamie eyeballed a worker on another bay of desks directly in front of him. The woman was staring at an email. Jamie kept watch. Twenty minutes later the woman was still staring at the same email. The message consisted of two short sentences.
‘Fuck this shit,’ thought Jamie. He switched his computer off and stood up. Simon shot him a worried glance,
‘You ok?’
Jamie hardly noticed, ‘Yeah, just need some fresh air,’ he mumbled.
Simon smiled, ‘Burning the midnight oil, a?’
Jamie glared at his alleged colleague and then stomped off, ‘Get fucked stranger cunt,’ he thought angrily.
Outside, Jamie wasn’t quite sure what he was going to do next. Money, that’s what he needed. He went to an ATM and pulled out his bankcards. Seconds later the machine asked him to input a pin number. Pin Number? Jamie felt the fear again, the fear that he no longer had any control over his life. He found the nearest bank and explained to a dour faced teller that he had forgotten his pin numbers. He would be sent a reminder via email. Jamie explained patiently he needed cash that very day. It took awhile, but eventually the bank decided it was okay to let him have his own money. After gaining authorisation from the banks manager, Jamie withdrew every penny he had.
Outside, Jamie reflected on the situation. Ok, he couldn’t remember shit, an acute and inexplicable case of amnesia, but he was still healthy and all his other mental faculties remained intact. Jamie mulled over things. He had withdrawn his entire life savings. Over fifty grand in cash, a tidy sum all things considered, but he should really go and visit a GP or the nearest hospital. Now what would the Doc prescribe? Heavy medications probably, maybe even a brain operation. Jamie shuddered at the thought.
Then he cast another glance at the office he worked in. What a fucking dump. Then he eyeballed some of the workers passing to and fro, not one was smiling. Maybe the memory loss was a sign, a wake-up call. He couldn’t remember anyone or anything. It would be an extremely simple process to change his life completely. He could go and live on island wilderness somewhere, commune with nature, return to the earth, and escape from the rat race.
A week later Jamie had changed his name to Leaf and re-located to an uninhabited island in the outer-Hebrides, his only companion a golden retriever called Bert. He’d purchased an abandoned stone cottage for next to nothing, a remote dwelling situated next to a babbling burn, that sparkled and dazzled in the summer sunshine. The wild Atlantic Ocean was just a stone throws away, but the cottage was protected from its mighty power by a series of impressive sand dunes.
Leaf was still unable to remember anything about his former life, but it felt like he had been re-born. He spent many weeks learning all about backwoodsman techniques and relevant aspects of bush craft. He was able to furnish the cottage merely by beach combing each morning. The coastline was a veritable treasure trove. He fished for eels in the burn, snared rabbits, cultivated an extensive vegetable patch, and fished the plentiful sea in a little wooden dinghy. Life was basic, but sweet.
But no matter how sweet his new life was the sunshine day came when Leaf/Jamie felt an overwhelming desire to get pissed. He wandered the thin ridge of the mighty sand dunes that protected his stone croft from the relentless wrath of the Atlantic Ocean, all the while contemplating his dilemma.
‘Man, I could do with a beer,’ he said aloud, as he flitted soft-footed upon the glistening sands.
Then he glared at the tumultuous ocean and the tumultuous ocean glared back at him,
‘Fuck it; I’ll take a trip to the mainland for a few swifties!’ He declared triumphantly
This was a big mistake.
By the time Leaf/Jamie got to the mainland the authorities were lying in wait. Fuck, he didn’t even have time to take a single sip from his pint of wife beater before five well-fed government agents were upon him,
‘Hey, what the fuck are you doing?’ Protested Leaf/Jamie just after the men had knocked the pint out of his hand and wrestled him roughly to the ground.
One of the agents leant over and whispered into his ear,
‘Thought you could just opt out of society did ya, Jamie Smith?’
Leaf tried hard to maintain some sort of equilibrium, ‘What the fuck are you talking about, I just came in here for a quiet pint or seven, and who the fuck is Jamie Smith?’
Another of the agents gave him a sneaky punch to the kidney, ‘Traitor, and what if everyone else thought like you, a? What if everyone else just decided to drop everything, leave their wife and kids in the lurch, where would the country be then?’
Leaf fought hard for a breath, ‘But I don’t know what you’re talking…’
‘Bullshit,’ hissed another agent, ‘What you did amounts to a dereliction of duty arsehole.’
Leaf was crying, ‘But I’m innocent, I really didn’t….’
Another agent appeared with a strait-jacket,
‘Put the fucker on him, the head doc’s can sort this one out, what a cunt!’ Screamed the first agent.
As this scene was played out the landlord of the boozer, the one who had grassed Leaf up, felt a twinge of guilt, but as the police and ambulance sirens faded away into the distance he quickly forgot all about it,
‘Same again Alan,’ he said to one of his regulars, an old man with a very red, but strangely contented face.
‘Aye!’
(c) Joseph Rigdwell 2008