Howard Hunt, Private Eye #1

He barely remembered the dream he was having as soon as he realized it was over. That moment always struck him as sad: the moment he realizes he’s dreaming, he ceases doing so. But his consciousness was drawn away from that thought by the bark of seagulls. Hearing them reminded him of a time when he went to Atlantic City. But he wasn’t there now. He didn’t think so.

More barks to shout down his doubts. He’s no longer dreaming after all. Eyes still closed, he moves his head back and forth, swallows, and tries to remember where he is. He fails. He tries to remember again, and he fails again. Doesn’t feel like home, doesn’t feel like his parents', doesn’t feel like… It felt hard, this wasn’t a mattress. His fingertips felt sand. And heard the seagulls once again.

The man squinted his eyes open into the early light of dawn, and sat up on a white, sandy, beach. An enormous body of water sprawled out before him, the blue was just starting to lighten in the burnt orange glow of the new day. He looked to the left and to the right, and he saw no end to the coastline, he took this to mean he was looking at an ocean. At least that narrows it down.

But even as sleep vanished, his memory wasn’t included in his awakening. He wasn’t sure which ocean this was, and what’s worse, he didn’t even know which one he hoped it was. When he tried to recall the city he lived in, he was at a loss. He looked and felt and seemed to be an adult male, but that could be confirmed by visual evidence. As he asked question after question about his situation, he was met with more fog, more blank.

His palms sank into the cold sand as he sat up on the beach and tried to dust himself off. He was fully clothed in a pretty plain, chocolate colored suit. It was worn in, but didn’t show any outward signs of age. Apart from the layer of sand, the jacket and pants were in good condition. A narrow black tie matched the loafers on his feet, and a full brimmed hat lay in the sand, crushed beneath his formerly sleeping head.

The man stood up on the beach now, continuing to brush the sand off of his clothes and trying to reshape his malformed headwear. He took stock of his surroundings automatically and confirmed that he was quite alone on this deserted stretch of beach. The sunlight was just barely coming over some buildings at his back. Not the ocean side. This meant that this beach must be facing west. How was he so sure of that? He didn’t ask the question twice, just grateful to hold onto anything at this point.

Facing the land behind him, he saw a row of tall buildings atop a rocky embankment. The towers stretched as far as the sand did, and his gaze followed them, stunned by their height. He’d never seen buildings quite like these, that’s for sure. His eyes followed the skyline until they met the beach again and he saw, far off in the distance, an outcropping: a pier maybe, or a jetty. He took his shoes off and started stalking, barefoot, toward the only clue he had, off on the horizon.

As he walked, his bones creaked into place, his muscles gradually loosened, and his thinking became easier. His mind started to construct the mystery he had before him. He wasn’t frightened, he was grateful for that. His mood was more confused than anything, swirling with wild notions and theories. Was he kidnapped? Did he feel like he’d been drugged? What’s the last place he’d even been? To stop this spiral, he took an inventory of what he knew he had.

He had clothes, he had a full night’s rest, he had the day ahead of him. As he walked it became clear that he had reasonable health, he had full use of all of his senses. He was a little bit hungry and thirsty, but no more than any other morning was supposed to feel. He had those, too; ideas of feelings, a vague sense that he was missing something, late for an appointment maybe...

The sun kept rising as the man kept walking, and behind him, he soon heard the sound of fast footsteps charging through the sand. He turned around to see his companion. It was a woman. A woman running. But she didn’t look like she was running from anything. She was dressed in a strange bathing suit and tight slippers, running down the beach at a steady pace, not really looking at the man, or anything.

He immediately sensed something must be wrong, “Are you ok, miss?! Is everything alright?” He called out to the woman but she didn’t even look his way as she passed by him. He saw two wires coming out of her ears, he thought maybe she must be deaf or hard of hearing.

So the man trudged along on his own, continuing to compile available information. He was dressed for a day at the office, but he woke up on the beach, completely alone. He doesn’t remember friends or family members, he doesn’t know where he is or where he lives, and he can’t even recall his own name.

Where does a person even start with this kind of thing? He’d walk to the pier, try to find a police officer or something, perhaps? Turn himself in? Had he committed any crimes? No, he didn’t feel like he was on the run...

He approached the pier and climbed the stairs to the top. Once he reached the platform, he was stopped in his tracks. Everything looked strange and familiar at the same time. He walked up and down, he saw popcorn stands, funnel cake advertisements, and photo booths -- all classic boardwalk attractions -- but they weren’t right. They looked fake. He couldn’t see the paint, everything was made of metal. There was an odd, replicated feel to the whole thing. He walked up to some carnival rides, but even the ferris wheel didn’t look quite like it should, there were lights everywhere, and it struck him as more enormous than usual.

Not knowing what to make of these odd surroundings, the man walked toward land in the hopes of finding another human soul to confirm that he wasn’t simply losing his mind. He reached the top of the jetty and read, across a large arch, “The World Famous Santa Monica Pier”. Santa Monica, California. He added it up in his head, that made sense with the sunrise.

As the last grains of sand dropped off of his clothes, he reached the main road. Here he stopped in his tracks. His analytic brain had crashed with all the stimulus it now faced. The cars. There were only a few on the road at the time, but they looked incredible, like nothing he’d ever seen before. Like smooth pods on wheels, all different sizes and colors, zooming down ultra smooth pavement. Something was not right. He was in a city, but it didn’t look like anything he’d ever dreamed of.

His fear and panic finally started to rise, he didn’t know what to do with all he was seeing. There were lights and signs everywhere. Great sheets of glass surrounded the fronts of massive buildings. The roads were as black and smooth as he’d ever seen them, and little dotted lines separated it into segments. There were large signals that changed color in unison, all of the cars followed the color signal, stopping and starting at will, speeding along.

He clutched his chest as he felt his heart begin to race. Just then he felt something inside his jacket. Pockets! Why hadn’t he checked his pockets before? He felt ashamed at the oversight. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an old, leather wallet, brown to match his suit.

Everything around him disappeared as his focus zoomed into this clue in his hands. He opened the bifold and searched the thing thoroughly and found it all but empty. Only one scrap of paper remained inside of it. He pulled it out and unfolded it carefully. A Pennsylvania driver’s license, issued to… Howard Hunt… and expired in October, 1939.