Corey thinks he’s dreaming, but it’s way worse than that.

I’m sitting in one of the conference rooms in a high back Herman Miller job with a damp rag on my face and a pounding in my skull. Marge led me here after the whole passing out thing. She seems nice but I can tell she’s worried this is taking too long. She knows she should care more, but doesn’t really. That’s my guess anyway.

So, now what? I’ve been assessing my options for the last 20 minutes and they haven’t gotten any better. I can’t remember anyone’s name, but I’m not sure that’s dawned on them yet. Forget the fact that to me these are all strangers. I know who I am and I know this isn’t where I work. I know a lot of things; I haven’t lost my memory. I’ve stepped into the body of someone who looks like me, has the same name, and has the same brother.

Like I said, my options haven’t gotten any better.

“The ambulance is here, Corey,” Marge popped her head in and delivered the best news I’ve had all day.

I nodded and said “thank you” without removing the cloth.

“You doing any better? How’s your head?”

“Splitting,” I told her. No sense in being rude I guess. “Thanks for the washcloth.”

“Gina had one in her purse” she said, as if to say all women had a washcloth in their purse. “Listen, I have a call I have to take. I’ll be back before you go. If not Tyrell is going to sit with you.” She moved aside from the doorway and in slipped a skinny, 20-something black man in one of those skinny suits, gray with faint stripes. The tie was orange, of course. His shoes were predictably worn and dirty, a sign of a true hipster business intern.

“Hey Corey!” His voice rattled slightly in that way that gives it character, but doesn’t sound like too smokey. “Heard you hit your head. Reading that 9/11 Truther stuff will do that to you.” He flashed a wide grin, comfortable in the way that said he knew Corey. In the back of my mind I groaned. This Corey was a Truther?

Instead I chuckled and smiled, taking the cloth off my face. “Riveting stuff, though. Cleanses the pallet.”

Tyrell leaned against the wall and looked over his red rimmed glasses at me, chewing something before deciding he could spit it out.

“They said you lost your memory.”

“As soon as I find it I’ll feel better. I think I left it in the car.” I shrugged.

“So it’s true?” he pressed. I looked at his face, trying to decide what my doppleganger thought of this guy. The thin goatee made tight outlines around his mouth. His teeth were a brilliant white peeking out between full pink lips. His eyes searched my face, trying to determine if maybe his friend was full of shit. I realized this guy was friends with Corey and that meant he had to be sympathetic. “You don’t know me or Marge or anyone on this floor?”

For a brief second I sensed the swell of the panic rising again, my breath caught in my throat, but I forced it down. Swallowing turned out to be harder than I thought and it came out sounding like a choke and whimper, probably both. Clearing my throat once more I shook my head. “I’m sorry, man. I can’t remember anyone’s name. Or face.”

“Damn,” he whispered. “Harsh. You thinking it’s when you hit your head?”

Now at this point I’d had long enough to think about my version of events. This guy, Tyrell, is nice enough. Even with my new-old lifelong new friend I can tell he and Corey get along. No idea how he processes something like “everything looks the same except I really work for Compaq, I’m married to a different woman, and don’t know any of you.”

Did I hit my head? Are you serious? It’s not empty where all my memories lie. It’s full of different shit is all. What have you assholes done with my life? So instead I do what any self-respecting, rapidly cycling person does. I lied.

“Yeah. What blows is now I don’t know what shows I like. I might find out they’ve cancelled X-Files again.” I tossed in a weak eyebrow wiggle, but all Tyrell did was make me cry.

“The what files?”

“Oh come on! You’re not that young, man. 8 seasons and two movies later?”

But on his face I saw truth. Nothing there, not even an Internet meme. Mulder’s quest for the truth, Scully’s stern rebukes, Skinner’s questionable loyalties all gone in the blink of an eye. Oh, Scully. Now we’ll never be together.

It was then the medics arrives, the stretcher in tow. Tyrell moved back out into the hallway while they lifted me up on the bed and strapped me down. Meanwhile one guy took my vitals and pumped me full of saline. Good ole saline, the miracle cure. He started off with basic questions, my name and age. Others I couldn’t answer, like what I did for a living. What was my wife’s name. My children. As he pelted me with questions I couldn’t answer I realized something.

If I couldn’t start answering their questions soon there would be another one of these fun rides to a different kind of hospital. And as crazy as I thought I might be, I knew what happened in those places, what kind of treatment you get. What if this condition had some crazy name, like Barkens-Colby-Dutchman Syndrome? Or worse what if they name it after me? Corey Stone Syndrome. No, they always add the doctor’s name that discovers it. No telling where it goes from there. At this point I’m just happy to have something to look forward to because while Questions Man keeps pelting me I felt a vibration go off in my pocket.

I pulled out my smartphone and tapped the screen. At least this guy and I shared the same phone tastes. It was from someone named Kate and it said “OMG. Are you ok? On my way to meet you at the hospital. LU!”

Perfect, I thought. My wife is meeting me at the hospital to help out. I actually felt a little relief, to be honest. No matter my memory of her was non-existent; it’s nice to know someone’s on your side. I wouldn’t be alone in this fight at least.

I mumbled to myself as they lifted me into the ambulance, “I wonder if she and I get along.”

 

Continued in Part 3