Chapter 21: My Father the Insurance Salesman

It’s 7 a.m. and the alarm clock is cranking away. My mind stumbles headlong into a fog and reels around, fumbling for context. Trying to fill in the little blanks between my thoughts. Where am I? Who am I? What do I do?

I go through this routine every morning.

As my hand swats out from beneath the blanket, my fingers spider crawl across the bedside table in search of the snooze button, I think, who was I when I fell asleep?

Some mornings, I just can’t remember.

I wonder if this is a common issue, forgetting who you are. I don’t know of anyone who has problems with it. My father certainly never did. My father was a Salesman. An Insurance Salesman. He was Ernest Clever, the Insurance Salesman. When people asked him, “Who are you,” he’d say, “I sell insurance.”

He never forgot who he was.

My grandfather was a Dentist. He was Dr. John T. Clever, the Dentist.  When people asked him, “Who are you,” he’d say, “I’m a Dentist.”

He never forgot who he was.

I’m Fred Clever. Most mornings, I can’t even remember what my job is.

Sometimes people introduce themselves to me and I can’t remember my name.

Sometimes I’m buying groceries, and I realize I can’t remember where I live.

Sometimes I can’t find my way to work. I will take a turn and suddenly have no idea where I am. Driving down strange streets full of other people’s landmarks, I'll swerve around corners in a desperate panic, searching, searching, trying to find something that looks familiar. 

I’ll ask the rabbits if they know where we are.

“Fuck you,” they’ll say.

Steering the car at random, wheeling around school buses and women with walkers, stopping at green lights to check the cross streets, I’ll feel the tension looping my shoulders into knots. I’ll sigh in disgust and cuss myself.

“You fucking moron. How can you get lost like this? Jesus, Fred.”

I’ll yell at myself: “God, Fred, you are a fucking moron.”

Pounding the steering wheel as the rabbits chime in with their chorus.

“Woo hoo, right on, brutha! Sing it, pastor Fred!”

And when I finally do make it to work, I’ll think I’m in the wrong place — a cramped butthole of building brimming cheap yellow light. It's full of strangers who freeze to watch my entrance. I’ll stare at all those marble eyes and plastic expressions and I’ll say, “Excuse me.” I’ll start to duck out again when some guy will walk over.

“There you are, Fred. Where the hell have you been?”

“Sorry, I got turned around...”

I will infer from the guy's tone that he’s my boss. According to the nametag on his chest, his name is Ernest. Ernest, my boss. It will occur to me that he has the same name my father did. Have I told him that? I don't know ... I probably have.

My boss, Ernest, will stand there with his chin sagging to his chest and his eyes floating on wrinkled pillows (purple pillows), blinking at me while I resist the urge to ask him what we do inside the butthole building. 

Instead I’ll just wait for him to tell me something to do, somewhere to go.

And Ernest, my boss with my father’s name, will stand waiting for me to finish my sentence, but I won’t finish my sentence. My hands will flutter around on their wrists for a moment as I try to form excuses with my lips, but in the end, nothing will come out. My hung-over head will hurt and my gums will feel like sponges soaking the moisture off my teeth and I’ll be so distracted thinking about how miserable I am that I will forget what we were talking about.

So instead of responding to him, I’ll ask, “What time is it?”

“Eight thirty. You’re late. Again.”

And still I have no idea why I’m here.