It felt foolish to be sitting on an abandoned car. Sure, it appeared to be without an owner—not many people came back to claim a vehicle once it spiraled into this farmland. My farmland, I think. I wasn’t quite sure, but the horses seemed to recognize me. Did that mean I was here often? Or were these simply blithe creatures that took easily to strangers? I debated this while tossing part of my apple towards a foal.
The doors weren’t even locked. Peering into the sunroof I could see the outline of empty cans and crinkled potato chip bags, but nothing valuable enough to come back for. The driver, if he had managed to find the nearest service station at all, likely would be unable to retrace his path back to his car. I knew this: it had taken me almost a week to stop walking in circles. Even now, though, I hardly knew if this had been the destination I once sought. Had I planned to travel at all?
My past seemed to be a blank slate. What little I could recall—what plants were safe to eat and what animals to avoid—was just a hazy cloud floating through my mind. But it seemed right to stop here. This was the first car I’d seen in miles, and the friendliest horses I had yet to come across. Surely this was a good sign. But how could I be sure?
Determined, I slid off the roof and yanked open the driver door. The keys had been tossed haphazardly on to the passenger seat, yet another sign of abandonment. Even from my new vantage point I could discern no signs, no hint that I should be expecting company. I could only sigh in despair. When I turned to exit the car, though, I found myself bumping into a pair of jean-clad legs. Now I felt awkward as well as foolish.
“Hi,” I smiled weakly at the person standing above me. He had a container that was obviously carrying gasoline in his hand. And he was glaring at me.
“What are you doing?” The question came out as a growl.
I looked around. My position seemed obvious to me, but perhaps he had a vision impairment. Perplexed, I replied, “Sitting in an abandoned vehicle.”
“I can see that,” he growled once more. He didn’t appear to like me very much.
“Well, then why did you ask?” I questioned him. This man was making no sense to me.
“The question was rhetorical. If anything, you were suppose to explain why you’re currently in my car.” His brown eyes had hardened into cold stones and his face was turning red.
“Oh! This is your car?”
“Obviously,” he seethed.
Was this the typical reaction around here? Why was this man so angry? I hadn’t done anything wrong, had I? Entering the car had seemed like the prudent thing to do. I pried desperately through my memories for some indication of what to do now. How could I possibly calm this situation?
“Oh . . . Um, maybe I should get out?”
His glare hardened further, but he shifted to the side and created enough space for me to vacate the vehicle.
“Okay . . . Sorry,” I mumbled as I skirted past him.
He seemed tense and he refused to acknowledge me, instead glaring inside the car and snatching the keys from the passenger seat. I wasn’t sure what to do now. Should I leave? But this spot had seemed like such a promising one. And where would I go, anyway? Would I just wander aimlessly for another week?
When the man turned back around he seemed shocked to see me still standing next to him. Now that I could see him properly, I realized that he probably wasn’t much older than me. Not that I really knew my age, but I didn’t feel old. Perhaps I was in my twenties? Thirties, maybe?
He wore cowboy boots and a dark jacket, and he appeared to be looking at me expectantly. “Can I help you?” he finally asked me, his tone overtly suspicious.
“Pardon?” I asked in return, unsure how I should respond to this change in dialogue. Just moments ago he had been furious with me—surely the possibility that he would actually be willing to help me was obsolete. And, if by some miracle it was not, what could I ask of him? ‘Would you happen to know the events of my life prior to this moment?’ If such a question failed to make him think me crazy then I would be shocked.
“You look like you need some help,” he shrugged.
“You think I have a problem?” I questioned cautiously.
“Yes,” he crossed his arms and leant against his car door, “I most definitely think you have a problem.”
“Well,” I scoffed my shoe against the gravelly road, “you’re right.”
He quirked an eyebrow but waited silently.
“I’m a bit lost,” I flung my arms out in a helpless gesture as I said this, as though it helped to illustrate my point.
“Well, where are you headed?” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from a concealed coat pocket and I resisted the urge to scowl in disgust. “I’m new around here, but maybe I could point you in the right direction.”
“I . . . don’t know,” I mumbled, now hugging myself protectively, hoping to somehow shield myself from his scrutiny.
“You don’t know,” he repeated skeptically before taking a long drag from his cigarette. He looked to be contemplating this and I remained silent under his gaze. “So you’re something of an adventurer? Do you wander aimlessly often?”
“I don’t know,” I stammered under his stern glare. It felt suddenly as though he was judging me. I could hardly defend myself from his opinions—maybe I did venture aimlessly as a routine. I didn’t know. But I hated the feeling of his opinions clustering the air around. I felt as though I might drown in them and be lost forever.
“You don’t know.” He laughed and the sound scratched against my ears like the teeth of a tiger.
I stared down at my feet. I felt ashamed as I whispered, “no.”
“Do you know anything?” he asked harshly. His face was tinted red again.
“Not really,” I sighed, “I can’t remember much.”
This caught his attention. He frowned and stepped forward hesitantly, “do you know your name?”
I shook my head in response, determinedly mute.
“You’re an amnesiac?”
I nodded slowly.
“And, in my car, you weren’t going to steal it. You were just looking for something to jog your memory.”
This was not entirely true, but I nodded again, too exhausted to explain.
“And I just yelled at you.” His voice was softer now, as though he was becoming lost within his thoughts. I did not understand where he was leading the conversation with this sentence, but I did not intend to disturb him. “. . . I’m sorry,” he finally murmured.
“Why?” I asked, perhaps too quickly.
“I didn’t let you explain,” he replied.
“So?” I questioned, still confused.
He, however, brought an end to this portion of our conversation by thrusting out his hand, “I’m Adam.”
Cautiously, I took his hand, “hi.”
“May I interest you in a ride to civilization?”
“Sure,” I smiled.
He gestured me toward his car and, grateful, I ducked through the open door and slid across the width of the car to the passenger seat. Even he seemed to be hiding a smile now. It was almost entertaining how easily he ran through emotions.
Now that I felt less out of place in the car I found myself identifying more of the clutter that I had disregarded earlier. Much of it was loose-leaf paper that had been crinkled into balls and tossed into the back of the car, but in-between two of the seats were a few notebooks and binders that had evaded whatever frenzy had scorned so much paper. Hesitantly, I reached for one, managing to pull a forest green spiral on to my lap as Adam entered the car. His eyes flickered toward me, resting on the notebook for a moment before he started the car. I had not seen him transfer the gas he had been carrying from container to car, but the roar of the engine confirmed that fuel was filtering through the vehicle.
“They’re horrible,” he mentioned as he shifted from park to drive.
“What are?” I questioned, startled by his remark.
“The writings in there,” he gestured toward the notebook on my lap.
“You’re a writer?” I enquired, curious.
“Yeah,” he replied. “At least, I try to be.”
“You don’t seem very confident,” I observed.
“I have no reason to be. I haven’t been published in three years.” He sounded more bitter than despairing.
“Maybe you just need the right inspiration,” I offered.
“And you think you could find that for me?” He sounded skeptical again.
“Well, I have an idea.”
“Oh?”
“You can write me a past.”
He looked like he wanted to laugh, but one look at my determined expression and he nodded in consent. “All right,” he smirked, “then I get to pick your name?”
“You’re the writer,” I shrugged.
“Then I’ll call you Buttercup.”
I rolled my eyes, but let out a chuckle, “as you wish.”
