Ed Gorman: Serpent's kiss

Andy Todd then gave himself permission to slip into warp drive. He called Frank Dvorak so many names so fast and so loud that neither man could be sure of what was being shouted. All both of them knew was that it was awful, awful stuff. And Andy knew it was not exactly what the doctor had in mind when he said Andy should take things easier and not get so excited.

Andy Todd hung up by slamming the receiver back onto the cradle three or four times and so hard the whole phone started to tear from the wall.

"He got out in the fucking laundry truck," Todd said to Ames who was sitting there watching the show his boss was putting on. "The fucking goddamn laundry truck."

The time was 9:46 P.M.

The jock on KFAB had just pronounced it 10:07 A.M. — "ready with more of the hits you want to hear"-when the man in the back seat of the Yellow cab realised that he had no idea who he was.

No idea whatsoever.

He leaned forward, trying not to show the least trace of panic, and said, "Excuse me."

"Yeah?" the cabbie said, his brown eyes suddenly filling the rear-view mirror.

And then the man realised: How can I say it?

Excuse me, sir, but I don't happen to remember my name. Do you happen to know who lam?

And realising this, all he could say, his voice nervous now, was, "I was just wondering if you had the time."

"Like the guy on the radio said, 10:07."

"Oh. Right. Thanks."

And slumped back into the seat that smelled vaguely of vomit and slightly more so of disinfectant.

This was impossible.

Impossible.

He was merely a man-a nice normal man-riding along in the back seat of a taxicab and he'd merely forgotten his name.

But only temporarily. The way you forgot who you were dialling sometimes. Or the date of your birthday.

Or-

"Here you go," the cabbie said.

"Pardon me?"

"I said here you go."

"Go?"

"This was the address you gave me."

"It is?"

This time the cabbie turned around. He was this little guy in a blue Windbreaker and a white shirt. Shiny bald with freckles along the ridge of scalp bone. "This is where you said you wanted to be left off."

"Oh."

The cabbie stared at him. "You all right?"

"Yes. Sure."

"Because you don't look too good."

"I don't?"

"Kinda pale."

"No, really, I-"

"Maybe you got a touch of the bug that's goin' around. My old lady's got it and-" The cabbie shook his head miserably. Then he put his hand out. "Ten bucks, please."

"Oh. Right."

For a terrible moment, he thought he might reach inside his pocket and find it empty.

But there was a small fold of crisp green new bills. He counted out twelve dollars and gave it to the cabbie.

"You take care of yourself," the cabbie said.

"Thanks."

He was halfway out of the rear door of the cab when he realised that he didn't remember giving the cabbie this address. But he had to have given him this address or else why would the cabbie have stopped here?

He said, "May I ask you a question?"

The cabbie regarded him in the rear-view again. "Sure."

"This address."

"Uh-huh?"

"This is the address I gave you?"

"Sure thing, chief. I always write 'em down. And I wrote this one down same as always."

"I see."

"4835. Ain't that right?"

"Uh, yes."

"So anyway, like I say, you take care of yourself."

And get the fuck outta my cab, asshole. I got other fares to worry about now.

So he got out.

And the cab went away.

And here he stood, sniffing.

Actually, it was a perfect morning for sniffing, and enjoying. This was the Midwest at its most perfect apple blossom weather, the temperature in the seventies even though it was still morning, and the wind at ten miles per hour and redolent of newly blooming lilacs and dogwood. Girls and women were already wearing shorts and T-shirts with no bras, breasts bouncing merrily beneath the cotton. Dogs appeared in profusion, tugging masters behind them; everything from Pekinese to wolf hounds were on parade this morning. Babies in strollers waved little pink hands up at him and a couple of college girls in an ancient VW convertible gave him mildly interested glances.

At one time the Italian Renaissance buildings of this area had been beautiful. This was back in the days when the neighbourhood had been largely populated with young middle class families who couldn't yet afford houses. These apartment buildings had shone with respectability, the pedimented windows and arcaded entryways not only fashionable but elegant.

Now the neighbourhood was given over to student housing, serving the sprawling university several blocks north. Middle class aspirations had long since fled, replaced now not only by students but by those who preyed on students-drug pushers, hookers, muggers, and merchants who automatically marked everything up 20 percent more for the college kids.

From open windows came a true cacophony of musical styles-heavy metal, salsa, jazz, and even country western. Students today were much more eclectic than his generation of the sixties had been when the official music had run to the up-against-the-wall lyrics of the Jefferson Airplane, the Doors, and the Stones.

If he couldn't remember his name, how did he remember music he'd listened to over twenty years ago?

Trembling, he started across the street.

He stood in front of the place, looking up at the arched entranceway and remembering… nothing.

He knew he'd never seen this place before.

Then why had he given the cabbie this address?

The front door opened. A young black woman, pretty, slender, came down the stairs carrying an infant. "Hi," she said.

"Hi," he said.

She saw the way he was looking at the entrance and said, "May I help you with something?"

He shrugged. "I just want to make sure I've got the right place."

She laughed. "It's the right place unless you're selling something." She pointed to a discreet sign, black letters on white cardboard, NO SOLICITORS.

"Oh, no," he said. "I'm not selling anything."

She laughed again. "Then this is probably the right place."

She hefted the infant and walked on, looking eager to be caught up in the green flow of the perfect day.

He stood there a few more moments and then went up the stairs.

The vestibule smelled of cigarette smoke and fresh paint. The hallway had been done in a nice new baby blue.

He went over to the line of mailboxes. He checked the names carefully. None looked familiar.

He tried once again-it seemed pretty ridiculous, when you thought of it: What's my name?

He dug his hand into his right pocket. He felt two quarters and a dime. He also felt a key.

When the key was in his fingers, and his fingers in front of his face, he saw the number 106 imprinted on one side of the golden key.

He looked at the mailbox marked 106: Mr. Sauerbry.

Who was Mr. Sauerbry? Was he Mr. Sauerbry? If he was, why didn't he remember?

The inner door opened. A fat man in lime-green Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt that read OLD FART came downstairs leading a pretty collie on a leash.

"Morning," the fat man said.

"Morning."

He could tell that the fat man was suspicious. "Help you with something, pal?"

He wasn't sure why, but it irritated him to be called pal. "No. Just looking for my friend's apartment."

"Which apartment is that?" the fat man said. The collie was yipping. He wanted outside with the green grass and yellow butterflies.

He said, too quickly, "Number 106."

The fat man lost his expression of suspicion. Now he looked curious. "You actually know him?"

"Who?"

"The guy who lives in 106."

"Oh. Yeah. Sure. As I said, he's a friend of mine."