Howard Hunt, Private Eye #2

Howard Hunt…. Born: June 3, 1905… Residence: 725 White Plains Road, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania… Hair color, black… Eye color, brown... Standard issue license, no certifications. He can now deduce that he wasn’t a motorcycle rider. This slip of paper told him a lot, but it raised more questions than it answered. He may be Howard Hunt, but did that tell him any more about his life up to now? He waited for his memory to be jogged by this information. And kept waiting.

First he had to make sure that this was him in the picture. He had to find someone to confirm. Admittedly, it would be a strange, but not unreasonable, request of someone he didn’t know at all. The sunrise was still in its early stages. He looked around him and the pier was deserted. He walked very quickly, then broke out into a little jog. Loafers knocked against the wooden boards beneath him

When he reached the main road, he scanned left and right searching for another soul. An odd thought occurred to him in the early morning, looking at this empty street. Was it possible that he was dreaming? Would he wake up from this moment and return to the life he was familiar with? How else could he feel so out of place?

If he was dreaming, he decided, he might as well carry on. There was nothing to be done differently. He briefly thought of testing a jump to see if his body all of the sudden took flight. Perhaps he could soar through the skies of his subconscious, diving through dream clouds, doing barrel rolls in the vast skies of his rapid eye movements. On the other hand, if he wasn’t dreaming, he would just be a guy who didn’t know who or where he was, jumping around wildly.

Stop questioning reality, he told himself. That’s just the fear talking. He continued to scan up and down the beachfront road. He could now identify the massive buildings that staggered him earlier as being hotels. A narrow strip of grassy park opposed the high rises. He could overlook the beach below and saw, off in the distance, the place he woke up less than an hour earlier.

A short distance ahead of him, he saw a truck pull over. The vehicle looked like nothing he’d ever seen before, but he decided he had to approach it anyway. As he walked up to the truck, he saw the driver get out. It was immediately obvious she was in the middle of work, but something about her seemed welcoming.

“Uh, hello? Excuse me, miss? I’m wondering if I could take a moment of your time? I seem to need some assistance.”

She looked up with a half smile. “Good morning! I’m sure you’ve got a sincere story, but I’ve got to cut you off. I hear and believe your pain, but I can’t give you any cash or change. Please understand, it’s not personal, you seem nice. And, sharply dressed… But it’s a matter of personal policy. Nothing to do with you. I hope you have a great day, good luck on your endeavors, and thank you for asking.” Her response rolled out too well composed to be the first time she’d used it. Despite her formality, he could still hear her heart in her words.

The woman continued about her task. She was doing something with some scrap metal, wheels, and trash on the ground. The scene looked to him like someone had detonated a bicycle shop.

“Oh, no, it’s nothing like that. I’m not a vagrant asking for a handout. I’m… Well, I’m having a health issue, a mental health issue. Struggling with my memory…” The words felt weird coming out of his mouth.

“Yeah? Look, I’m no expert in things like that. Maybe you should go see someone? Have you spoken to any police? Not that it’s a crime to forget who you are... I mean, stolen identity, of course, but that’s not what you’re... no. Uh, police? Professional help? Can we do that? I’m sorry, I’m in the middle of it here.” Her eyes shifted back and forth, clearly uncomfortable, but she wasn’t yet backing away. He took that as a good sign.

“I barely know where to start. Ok. Well, I’ve got some identification, but I can’t really make sense of it. Here, can you just take a look at something for me? I need another pair of eyes.” He made to open the wallet, empty but for the one clue.

“I’ll look in my phone, too, I’m sure there’s a non-emergency number, social services, something like that. There’s probably an office around here somewhere. I always have trouble tracking down these numbers.”

As he offered her the wallet, she stopped poking at the small, rectangular, device in her hand. He wondered privately what she meant by referring to this thing as her telephone. She took the wallet and studied the scrap of paper with a keen stare. Casual at first, then expanding to absorb every detail. She then looked back at the man before her.

“What is this?” Her keen stare had moved from the license to the man. A sharp contrast from the welcoming expression she wore earlier.

“I just woke up a little bit ago, and I found that in my pocket. The thing is, I’m not even sure if it’s mine. Could you just let me know, you know, if that’s me in the picture? I’ll take that as a positive piece of evidence and leave you alone to continue your work. I don’t mean to bother you, I’m just… I just don’t know.”

“This picture is definitely you. A few years ago maybe... A bit more shine in the eyes… Admittedly with a youthful glow that…” She looked up from the photo once again, “you must have enjoyed.”

“Uh huh. I just woke up on a beach, ok? The “twilight of my youth” is going to be the last of my concerns right now.” He wasn’t really annoyed, just struggling with her confirmation.

“Hang on, this says it expired in 1939. You said this was a license? Is this a prop or something?” Betrayal flashed across her face, then she added the details on the license with the man’s sand covered suit. “You do kind of look like something out of a movie… One of those shoot ‘em up gangster movies probably. Masculinity porn with pinstripes.”

“This suit doesn’t even have pinstripes! Which I am feeling happy about... But what do you mean? Why does everything look… like this? What day is it?” It was beginning to dawn on him that maybe lack of identity wasn’t his biggest problem.

“It’s Tuesday… the fourteenth...” She replied nervously, like someone walking slowly down the stairs to a dark basement.

“And what month is it?” He was starting to feel that way too.

“February…” Another step.

“With this weather!? Criminy…” Something inside of him couldn’t resist. He chose not to explore this part of his remnant personality.

“Yep. Welcome to California.”

Now the question he’d been dreading. “Now this one might sound strange, but… what year is it?”

“2019”

The number “2,019” had never occurred to the man, much less the year. It was like she was speaking a foreign language composed of words he already knew. As silly as he was looking before, he must have looked doubly so as a confused, dumbstruck face instantly paralyzed him. He stared at her for a solid five seconds. There was no lie in her eyes. Then he took a few steps, taking in this new world sprung up around him.

“That… has taken me by surprise...” He continued to walk, pacing around in small circles.

“What year did you think it was?” This was a new question for the woman’s diction as well, but she was handling it better than he was.

“Well, I guess I don’t know... But I’m still feeling shocked.”

“But you said you’d lost your memory. That you didn’t know who you are. Now you know something, this should be a welcome windfall. Tuesday: zero. You: one."

Her words were simplifying, but he wasn’t sure they were comforting. “Don’t you see that license? It says it expired… Eighty years ago! What am I? Some kind of man out of his own… a time shifting… temporal hobo?!”

“Ok, you’re not a temporal hobo. I’m sure a shower, and maybe a Shop Vac, will have you looking as good as new. Even if this license is real, which I doubt, that would put you in the catbird seat! You’d be a time traveller, an explorer, one of destiny’s wildcards!”

“I don’t feel like I’m in the catbird seat…”

“Well, that’s only the best case scenario. You’ve got to take that ID, get yourself to the police station, and tell them you’re a missing person. Now I’ve got to get back to work. I still have an identity, and right now, it’s taking care of these broken scooters.”

Message received, he’d imposed on her long enough, time to part amicably and move on. “Police station… sure… um… is there any chance you could direct me there? I know it’s asking a lot. You’ve been great. What did you say was broken?”

“Scooters.” Her reply was short, as though that explained everything. “Look at these. My job is to pick up the ones with dead batteries from all over, relocate them to target locations. But these, man. I don’t even think the mechanics are going to be able to fix them, just destroyed.”

The man looked down and examined the wreckage. When he looked close, he could tell it used to be a group of four, but now there were over fifty pieces laying in front of them, each individually smashed and mutilated. “A crime of passion”. He said, almost under his breath.

“What did you say? What kind of freaky shit was that?” Her keen stare was back. She had sharp eyebrows, he noticed. Not mean, certainly not overgrown, but they seemed to lead her face.

“The way they’re taken apart, it demanded a lot of time, expertise. Someone took care destroying these machines.” The words flowed out of him as though they made perfect sense. And to him, they did. He bent down to take a closer look at the shredded metal.

She shrugged. “Drunk kids, most likely. Tourists. The beach. Take your pick, all kinds of craziness happens here.”

“I don’t think so…” He picked up a piece from the scene and took one last look to verify. “See this bolt? Requires a fourteen sided key wrench. Most drunks I know can’t even count that high.”

“Let me see that” She took the bolt from his hand and examined it more closely. “Hang on a second…” Her expression changed instantly. “That rat skunking turncoat! Hmm… Or that other sneaky son of a rat’s ass… I know who did this.”

“Friends of yours?” It was his turn to shoot her a keen stare with some pointed eyebrows.

“Used to be. Now they’re competitors. Hey, thanks for the help.” Her fist closed on the bolt while her mind drifted away from his troubles.

“I mean, back at you. You’re the reason I’m one step closer to knowing who I am. Considering I used to be at step zero, that’s everything.” He mustered all of his earnestness to get ready to say goodbye.

Her mind snapped back to the present and she extended a hand his way. “Don’t mention it. My name’s Samantha.”

“And I guess I’m Howard Hunt.” It was the first time he’d ever said it that he can remember. Did it feel familiar?

Her eyes were sizing him up through their whole handshake. “Say Howard, do you maybe want to come with me and stand in the corner while I bust these guys’ asses?”

After a moment of surprise, he answered on instinct. “I’ve got to say, I can’t think of a better way to spend my time.” He then climbed into the truck, felt some relief that door handles at least hadn’t changed in eighty years, and they took off down the road, in hot pursuit of some vicious scooter vandals.