| Move over, Matt Damon. |
[02 Oct 2006|09:12pm] |
If you ask anyone what their earliest memory was, they'd more than likely tell you it was the time they fell off the tire swing in kindergarten and sprained their ankle, or the time their dad moved them out to the city from the country when they were four years old and they had to leave their dog Sparky behind. Or maybe even it was when Grandpa died and Uncle Lester got drunk at the funeral and fell into the casket.
My earliest memory was two hours ago.
I awoke in a hotel room on the 9th floor of the Rio, staring up at my reflection on a mirrored ceiling wondering who the heck the guy in the rumpled blue teeshirt was. Then I realized it was me, except there's a lot to be said about the feeling you get when you don't even know who 'me' is.
I knew Las Vegas, and I knew exactly where I was - I figured that out by looking out the window. Sparkling lights on the strip stretched out for miles in the distance, and there I stood wandering why I could recite verbatim hotel locations on the map and yet my own face in the mirror was as unrecognisable to me as any stranger i'd ever yet to meet. I knew my shoe size, I knew I didn't like carrots, and for some reason, I knew I happened to be a really big Jimmy Eat World fan then wondered why I'd never been to a concert.
I suspected initially I was probably still asleep, but half wondered to myself if it was really sleep from which I had actually awoken from in the first place. You regain consciousness in a hotel room without knowing how you got there, and there's bound to be some questions. But I guess in times like these, I suppose the first thing someone would do was panic, and once that feeling came and went, it began to nag at me when I realized I didn't even know my own name.
The wallet in the back pocket of my shorts revealed nothing but a credit card, which I assumed was mine because it was one of those super-duper platinum Mastercards with a photo on it that looked my reflection. The name at the bottom read 'Elian DeMattéo', and for lack of a better reason, I figured that's who I was.
I held the card up and looked at myself in the mirror in the bathroom. "Elian Deh-Muh... tay-o?" I asked aloud, enunciating syllables yet not recognizing the sound of my own voice. I looked at the card and then back at myself. "Is that French? DeMattéo?"
A long pause. "Am I French? I don't sound French, do I?" I asked my reflection with a perked eyebrow. "Bon-joore?"
On that note, I assumed I probably wasn't French.
"What the hell kind of name is Elian?" I asked, the corners of my mouth turning downwards, half in confusion, half in distaste. I flipped the card over in my hand and continued to examine it as I walked back into the main part of my hotel room. Maybe i'll just call myself Eli. Chicks'd dig that.
And on that note, I assumed I probably wasn't gay, either.
The credit card was well-worn though. My signature on the back had half worn off, and the date on the front said I got it in 2007, which totally blows my 'I was created on the spot' theory out of the water.
I ended up back infront of the window, looking out to the Strip in the distance. The spotlight on the top of the Luxor could be seen clear and bright in the night. In the back of my mind I thought about that movie, The Bourne Identity, you know, with Matt Damon. Guy wakes up full of bulletholes and a wicked case of amnesia. I also thought about that other movie, Memento, about the guy with the loss of short term memory and the polaroid camera and the tattoos all over his body. Funny how I remember both of those movies, but don't actually ever remember watching them.
I lifted up my shirt and found no tattoos, but apparently, I have a set of abs you could do your laundry on.
A calculated and thorough search of my hotel room in it's entirety revealed absolutely no clues that I may or may not have left behind before I ended up on the bed. No notes, phone numbers, no personal items. Not even a gum wrapper. Just the bible in the top drawer of the desk by the bathroom door. So much for short-term memory loss. I supposed I should also rule out the special agent theory.
After I realized there was nothing left in the room that would help me, I figured it would be best to try my luck on the streets, although if I woke up in a hotel, I wondered if even lived in Vegas to begin with. But there's a big city out there, full of people. Chances are, sooner or later, maybe i'd run into someone who knew me.
However, before I left my room, there was one last question that boggled me more than anything.
Where the hell was my other sandal?
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contemplative