Two Bit Hack by Billy Jones
Part 22, Jamais vu
“Time has lost all meaning in that nightmare alley of the Western world known as the American mind. We wallow in nostalgia but manage to get it all wrong. True nostalgia is an ephemeral composition of disjointed memories …” -Florence King
I woke up in the middle of an orgasm with Irene on top of me — one of my favorite sex acts but an uncommon occurrence in Asylumland. “You’re finally awake,” she smiled, “I was beginning to wonder if you were going to sleep through the whole thing. I hope you don’t mind, you’ve been gone so long and when I noticed you were hard I just couldn’t help myself.”
“How long have I been gone?” I asked as I pulled her down to kiss her lips.
“Weeks, maybe a month or more,” Irene answered. “They said you were sick and took you away.”
“I don’t remember any of that,” I replied.
“You don’t?” she asked.
“All I remember is yesterday,” I said. “At least I think it was yesterday.”
“What did you do yesterday?” Irene asked.
“I rode my motorcycle to the top of the hill over there and looked down over Asylumland.”
“But The Brain wrecked your motorcycle, remember?”
“Not that motorcycle,” I explained, “My motorcycle, the one I keep at home in North Carolina. I was at home yesterday and I rode to Virginia and found Asylumland.”
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Pretty sure,” I answered, pulling her closer. “Any more I’m not sure if anything is real. I might be dreaming right now.”
“Oh,” Irene snarled, “so I’m just a figment of your imagination.”
“Could be,” I laughed. “What if we only exist in the minds of others?”
“Don’t even go there,” she complained. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“Where’s my pants?” I asked.
“What do you need your pants for?” she asked, “it’s the middle of the night, you can’t go anywhere.”
“Just give me my pants,” I complained. “Where did you put them?”
“Okay,” Irene mumbled as she got out of the bed, walked across the room and returned with my pants. “Here, Grumpy.”
As I suspected my wallet, keys and cell phone were all gone but hidden in the waistband, right where I had left it was the $2000 I had picked up from the bank the day before. “I knew it,” I said as I pulled out the money, “We are in Virginia.”
“But how did you get that?” Irene asked. “How did you get all that money?”
“I went to the bank yesterday or whatever day it was that they let me go free, and took it out of my checking account,” I answered. “Then I rode my bike a few hours to here and found out where we really are.”
“But why?” Irene asked. “Why are they doing this to us? Why did they let you go then bring you back?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s like everything I remember is one of those tiny pictures and I don’t have a Viewmaster to look at them with. They all seem disconnected and far away. The only things I’m certain of is that I’m not supposed to remember going home and we’re not supposed to know where we are.”
Continue reading Part 23, The Zahir
