The October Amaryllis

Chapter 66 - May 21st, 1957 - 12:35 P.M.

I saw them instantly; Rosie and Ricky were sitting side by side on a maroon picnic blanket and discussing some story they had read about from The New York Times that I couldn't hear too well. It had something to do with the Cold War and communism, though. I'm pretty sure they mentioned the Cuban Revolution, too, but I can't confirm this. Fidel Castro was such an interesting person. He did many great things, like providing free education and healthcare, but he also oppressed the population. And don't even get me started on Che Guevara; I still don't know if he was a hero or a mass murderer. My uncle bought me a Che shirt when I turned fifteen. The bastard probably doesn't even know who he is. Che being commercialized by capitalists is hilarious to me because the guy was a Marxist.

Moving onto the Cold War now.

I remember Ricky once telling me about how they had all these drills in his school where they made you hide under a desk to prepare them for a nuclear attack. Not sure how hiding under a desk is supposed to save you from an atomic bomb, though... It's honestly not that bad for those caught in the explosion; it's far worse for those who survive and suffer from radiation poisoning. Read about Chernobyl sometime; it's a horrifying story. I've seen the pictures of the abandoned Pripyat amusement park and felt a pang of pain knowing that nobody ever got to go there. It was supposed to open five days after the disaster, but well, you know...

"Are you lost, fella?" Ricky asked, noticing my confusion.

"Yeah, I'm not from here. Do you know your way around this place?" I asked, hoping that I wouldn't be stranded on this beach for the rest of time. I had no money and must have looked like a fool in my M83 shirt; it was the cover art to their album Hurry Up, We're Dreaming. I braced myself for having to explain to everyone who M83 was.

"Sure, why there's the Sundance Hotel just a little north of here," Rosie replied, standing up and pointing straight ahead.

"I'd go there if I could, but a bunch of hoodlums took all my dough," I lied, trying to sound like I belonged in the 50s.

"You're a little young looking; where are your parents?" Ricky asked, raising an eyebrow.

I knew I'd get asked that eventually...

"I'm nineteen; I just look young. Could you sport me some cash, Ricky?" I asked, instantly regretting calling him by name.

"How in the world do you know my name?" he asked anxiously. Boy, his expression was one of pure fear; he looked at me as if I had just leaked his address to the world.

"Everyone knows about your little street races, mac," I replied with a wink. For once, I actually came up with a pretty solid lie.

Instead of replying, he just blushed vermillion and gave me thirty dollars.

Sweet.

"Stay safe, beatnik," Rosie said as I parted to find the Sundance Hotel. On my way there, I had begun to notice just how hot and humid it was; it was as if I was being choked by it. I have been to Florida once in my life when I was thirteen, and all I remember is seeing about a thousand iguanas and it raining all the time. I also remember this one restaurant that would constantly play Elvis Presley songs; I believe it was called Blue Suede Shoes. I had a gigantic banana split there and felt like my stomach would burst for the next few hours; it was the best thing I ever had. When you're hungry, everything tastes fantastic. How I love being a supertaster at times... Just don't ever give me black licorice; the first time I had it, I swear I nearly threw up; it's a miracle people actually buy it with how disgusting it tastes. Same with eggnog; that stuff makes me feel ill. I do love nutmeg, though. Well... except for that one experience I had with it as a kid. What happened was... never mind, I promise to explain it all later. If I don't, I'll allow you to punch me in the face.

While walking there, I swear I saw my dad at least eight times in the crowds; it was as if his face kept being pasted over others and each time it happened drove me closer and closer to insanity. I was about a nanometer away from breaking when I decided to calm myself down by getting something to eat despite not being overly hungry. I have a habit of eating when I'm down, even if I have no appetite; that's another one of my bad habits. Luckily I have a fast metabolism, so I can pretty much eat anything and not gain any weight.

I decided to stop at the first place I saw called Big Jakes and got in line behind about five other people. The smell of cigarette smoke was overwhelming and made me nearly cough my lungs out; it made 1931 seem like a playground. The men were smoking Newport's, and the women were smoking out of those cigarette holders they show in old movies. As crazy as it sounds, I almost asked for a puff at that moment to calm myself down; I was so desperate for something to calm me down that I was tempted to do just about anything to ease my anxiety. It would have been a massive help if my doctor prescribed me clonazepam at the very least. That and some Ambien because falling asleep for me is nearly impossible sometimes. I've heard some weird stories of people sleepwalking and eating bizarre combinations of food on the latter, though...

Eventually, it was my turn to go up, and the guy up front gave me a weird look like I didn't belong in 1957, which wasn't exactly wrong. His expression said, "Where did you come from?"

"What will it be, mac?" he asked, still giving me a suspicious look.

"I'd like number seven, a Hot Dog Deluxe, please," I said, giving him thirty dollars. He gave me a look like I was an idiot, no doubt because the meal only cost a quarter. Man, everything used to be so much cheaper back in the day...

"Your food will be ready in a few minutes. Would you like a milkshake with that?"

"Sure, I'd like number nine, the Lady Killer," I said, giving him more of my considerable amount of money.

"Your number is 67; we'll call you up when your order is ready," he replied, handing me a slip of paper.

I grabbed the slip and sat down at a table near where I heard Chuck Berry's Roll Over Beethoven playing; they had this crazy giant jukebox you could drop a nickel in that would play rockabilly and jazz. I would have picked Rock Around the Clock by Bill Haley & His Comets, but I, unfortunately, didn't have a nickel on me. I find it hilarious that when rock came out, a lot of parents thought it was the devil's music or some crap. I'd much rather let my children listen to rock than rap, personally. It's too bad people had to kill it... People always ruin good things.

I zoned out once again until I heard the number 67 being repeated several times. When I'm dissociated, you practically have to yell at me to get my attention; that's how bad it gets. It's like I completely forget about everything and everyone and just blank out staring at nothing. I even lose a sense of my identity; I forget that I'm alive and lose a sense of who I am. Sometimes when I'm dissociated, I stare at myself in the mirror and hardly recognize the person looking back at me. It's almost like being trapped in a dream or some surreal movie where everything has an artificial feel to it. I feel more like a robot than a human sometimes.

"Sorry, man," I replied sheepishly. He just sighed in response and muttered something about how "Tourists give him a royal pain."

I sat back down and took a bite out of the hot dog; it was one of the most delicious things that I had ever eaten. I finished it in about twelve seconds and had to force myself not to get another one.

They probably put drugs in it.

I tried the Lady Killer shake after and found it to be heavenly. It consisted of chopped-up strawberries and a drizzle of caramel on top of some whipped cream with a maraschino cherry.

I was about to give the guy upfront a tip for the food being so good when I noticed the symptoms again. The rushing sound started up again at full force, and I found myself back at St. Clara's ten hours later. I almost felt happy to be back, to be honest with you.

Home sweet home.