I'm in a bed and I don't recognize it. Someone else was just in the bed. The covers are pulled back on the other side. I think that's what woke me up.

This is in a bedroom. White plasterboard walls. Framed photographs--that's an Ansel Adams over there, I think. Big gray mountain.

Where am I?

My eyes are bleary from sleep and poor vision. There's a bedside table. Glasses, but they aren't mine. Some other shit. Alarm clock. It's seven in the morning.

Dim light comes in from the windows. White translucent curtains pulled back. It's a gray Seattle morning.

Where am I?

I don't feel hung over. But I don't have any idea why I'm here or what happened last night. What--what. Lunch with dad at the pub. Did I drink? No. I had a coke. Pastrami grinder, the same sandwich dad has been making me since I was a kid. Dad talked about the Mariners. That new stadium they're gonna build or something. How is mom. The divorce. The usual.

I sit up and lean back against the wall. Shit. The bed smells like sex. Little trash can by the bed, tucked beneath the table. Pull it out, look in. Papers, fast-food wrappers. There. Used condom.

Shit.

That noise--white noise. Shower. Someone is in the shower. There's a door to the right. Closed. Shower noise coming from beyond. Clothes on the floor. I don't recognize them, but they must be mine. They're on my side of the bed, sort of. There's some other clothes there. A bra.

I scratch my chest and that's when I freak.

Scars. My chest is all fucked up. Big gashes, sewn up and healed.

Old scars. The flesh is tough and red.

My face. Hands and fingers. Legs, feet, dick, it's all there. What the fuck has happened to me?

Throw the covers back. Pivot around, feet go on the floor. I rub my eyes.

The glasses.

I pick them up from the table, open the arms, slide them on.

Everything goes sharp. I look around the room. These are my glasses. These aren't my glasses. They'll do for now.

On my left hand, a word written in pen. My handwriting. SALLY. Woman in the shower? Shit, I was thinking ahead.

Get up and get dressed. Wallet, keys, change, all mine.

Look around the room. Woman's bedroom. Clothes, purses, shoes.

Calendar.

1999 calendar. September.

1999.

That's fucked up. It's 1997. May. May--May--May 22. Yesterday was. May 23 now. I had a dentist appointment yesterday after lunch. Spent the morning with the cops talking about a case.

Old scars beneath my shirt. Weird sensation. I turn, I stretch, the unfamiliar feeling of scar tissue on my body. Small tugs at my skin.

Shoes I don't recognize. Must be mine, too. I sit back down and put them on and wonder what the fuck is going on.

A three-legged cat walks into the room. Gray, fat. She makes a little noise as she jumps onto the bed and walks over. Nuzzles my hand. I stroke her fur, and she sits down and starts purring.

There's a black address book on the bedside table. Big round red sticker on the front, white letters: DON'T PANIC. I think I smile a little. Science fiction book I read when I was a kid. A portable computer encyclopedia for galactic travelers, cover said DON'T PANIC.

I pick up the book and open the cover. It's full of little slips of paper grouped by alphabet. The inside front cover has a sheet of paper covered in writing, taped in.

My handwriting.

I read:

Hey Mitch--

First off, no, everything is not okay. But second, everything is cool.

The most important thing you can do right now is TAKE CARE OF BUSINESS. Get on with your life. Drink your milk. Do your daily shit like it was all normal. Okay? We still have to pay the rent.

May 23, 1997, we were in a car wreck. Somebody fucked up our brakes. Bad wreck. Brain damage. Months in the hospital. A Neurological Event. We don't remember anything since then, got it? Every morning we wake up and it's May 23rd. Every night we go to sleep and that's when we forget what happened to us today.

This book is the Brain. Our brain. It's the memory we don't have in our head anymore. People and topics are listed by first names. Car, job, apartment, family, friends, it's mostly here. Back in the apartment--same apartment, so far--is the Big Brain. Files, bills to pay, recent important stuff. Get back there ASAP and catch up on your life.

Write shit down. Add to the Brain, to the Big Brain. It's all we've got. That and each other.

We can spend the day moping and freaking out, or we can keep our shit together and keep moving. We advise the latter.

Good luck.

--022599 Mitch

p.s. We don't have a car anymore.

The shower stops while I'm reading. There are some more noises in the bathroom. Someone moving around. I don't have much time.

SALLY.

I open the Brain to S and start flipping through the slips of paper. She's there:

Sally Pierce. [a bunch of little hearts written in red ink]
Friend & lover. Post-wreck. Owns the First Bean coffeehouse on the Ave. Good cook. Likes movies. Knows the score. Cat is Myrna.
--020598 Mitch

She drew those little hearts.
--041699 Mitch

Another slip under S, not in my handwriting:

Sex. See Sally Pierce. [more little red hearts] Bring cat food or wine, Mitch! Call first.

"Hey Mitch," she says kindly. "You reading about me?"

"Yeah."

"It's cool, hon. It's not okay but it's cool, right?"

"Right. The note."

"Yeah, the note."

She walks forward and sits down on the bed next to me, toweling her hair a little.

"I gotta get to work, hon."

"Okay."

She snickers a little, touches my face, smiles.

"I know, it's weird. Don't worry about it."

She gets up, drops the towel on the bed, drops the bathrobe on the floor. I guess I stare.

Another snicker from her as she gets dressed. Panties, jeans, bra, a t-shirt that reads SLEATER-KINNEY.

"Listen, I'm busy tonight. But come by the Bean later if you feel like it. If not, don't sweat it."

"Okay." I'm on autopilot. TAKE CARE OF BUSINESS.

She brushes her hair for a moment, smiling in the mirror.

"So . . ." I start, stammering a little. "Did we, uh, did we have a good time last night?"

"Yep," she says. "Saw a movie. Made dinner. Talked."

"What'd we see?"

"Does it matter?"

"Guess not."

Another pause while she gets her shoes on.

"Was the movie good?"

She laughs. "Nah. Sucked."

"I don't remember."

"Good for you."

She stands up. "Okay, kiddo. Let's go. Can't hang around all day."

I stand, feeling awkward. Myrna protests, then starts grooming herself. Look around. The floor, the table.

"Uh . . . Sally. Am I forgetting anything here?"

"Hon, you're forgetting everything."

"No, I mean, do I have all my stuff? Are these my glasses?"

"Yeah, they're yours. I just let my eyes go to shit. Fuck it. But, uh, let's see . . ." She looks around, too. "Nope, that's everything. Let's go."

She leads me through her apartment. It's a typical U. District bolthole, but fixed up nice. It looks familiar. Not the stuff in it, but the apartment itself. Maybe I knew someone else who lived in this building, back when.

Pre-wreck.

We go out into the hallway, down some steps, then we're out on the sidewalk. Morning. Gray and chill. Sally walks down the street, me at her side.

"So that's my place up there," she says, gesturing to a storefront across the way. I don't recognize it, but I look around and realize. It was a Mexican place before. Eat it and beat it. I ate there sometimes. "Like I said, you can come by or not, whatever."

"Okay."

We cross the street, cutting through traffic. When we get to the door, she takes out some keys, then stops and looks at me.

"Go to your apartment, Mitch. Check in with the Big Brain. See what's up."

"Okay."

She smiles again, kind of strange. I don't know her well enough to read the look.

"Kiss Sally goodbye, hon," she says, putting her hand on my shoulder.

We kiss, she hugs me and I hug her back.

She withdraws.

"Remember, Mitch. It's not okay but it's cool."

"Got it," I say, trying to sound jovial. I'm drifting, lost. "Have a good day at work," I manage.

"Every day is a good day, Mitch." She winks. "See ya." Goes inside and starts turning on lights.

I step away, jostled by passing students. The Ave looks different. Stores have changed. They've widened the sidewalks here and there. But the people are the same.

I cross the street again. George's tobacco shop is open. No cigarettes in my pockets. I go in. Just as I step inside I realize that I don't know if I have any money.

"Hey Mitch," George says. Standing behind the counter, reading a paper. George is Korean, about fifty, fat little hands.

"Hey George," I say. Comfort from familiarity. "Gimme a pack of Sherman's."

"No can do. You quit."

"I quit?"

"You quit. Couple months ago. You came in here and said you were quitting and I wasn't supposed to sell you no more smokes."

"Jesus."

"I mean, if you really want 'em, I'll sell 'em. But you quit, and you said don't sell you no more."

"Well, okay. Thanks."

"Hey, no problem."

"George . . . do I come in here a lot? Anyway?"

Big grin. "Yeah, Mitch. Couple times a week."

"I'm sorry."

"No problem. You helped me out a while back. I'm just returning the favor."

"I did?"

"Sure did. You don't remember, I know. My daughter. She's okay now. It's in the Big Brain, if you want to look it up."

"Okay. Thanks." I start walking out.

"Take care, Mitch. Say hi to Sally for me."

Outside again. Still gray, still chill, still people, students, buses.

Still Mitch? I guess.

These people know more about me than I do.

I open the Brain.

Apartment.
Same place. Rent is $850/month now. Prices going up everywhere. We're on disability, though, so it's not a problem. New manager: Whit Cook. Rent still due the 1st.
--111398 Mitch

My keys work.

The apartment is a little different. Some new furniture--at least, some different furniture. Probably not new when I bought it, judging by the look of it. Clean and tidy, oddly so. Do I not spend much time here? Is there some cleaning regimen I'm supposed to follow?

There's food in the fridge and pantry. Some dirty dishes in the sink. The boom box is on the counter like always. There's a CD in it. I hit play and start washing dishes.

The music is loud, some punk girl group. What is this? Did I buy this?

I get into it. Washing dishes to the music. Head bobbing, swaying a little. Dancing shoes.

This almost feels normal.

I dry my hands and walk back into the living room. Sign over the door to the spare bedroom: BIG BRAIN. An arrow pointing down at the door. I go in and turn on the light

Bed's gone. Six filing cabinets. Four of them are from my office. Two new--new to here, at least. Old someplace else. My office desk and chair, phone, fax machine. Above the light switch, an Ansel Adams photo in a cheap frame. Another gray mountain. I lift it off the wall and look at it. Note on the back:

Gift from Sally.
--060599 Mitch

Office.
We closed the office. Too expensive. Work from home now. We still have a job, you lazy shit.
--120897 Mitch

I'm a detective. Evidently I'm still a detective. How the hell can I still be a detective?

Paper on the desk:

Appointment Monday at 2pm, dad's pub. First meeting. Cynthia Leeson. Cheating husband. Two kids. No file yet.
--092499 Mitch

Trays stacked on the desk, labeled. BILLS. BANK. CURRENT WORK. Appointment book. A Polaroid instant camera to one side, packs of film. My visual memory?

Sit in the chair, comfortable as ever. Roll over to the file cabinets, pull out S. Smith, George. Tobacco store George. I want to know what I did for his daughter.

Smith, Paulina. 052299.

Read.

Case ran three days. My notes--our notes--are pretty good. Junkie, strung out, flophouse, jerk boyfriend/wannabe pimp named Louis Sanders. Extraction. Me and some guy named Frederick. I stop and open the Brain:

Frederick Dancey.
Friend, occasional strongarm. Post-wreck. Sleeps in a car by the park on 55th down the hill. Met in halfway house. Another brain job. Reliable when sober. Mild hallucinations, some aphasia. Photo, more notes in Big Brain.
--071998 Mitch

Another Mitch.

George said his daughter was doing okay now. I get a piece of paper and write that down. I sign it:

--092799 Mitch

It hits me: I'm thirty-eight years old. Yesterday I was thirty-six. Jesus.

Meeting at dad's pub. Alive? Well? The Brain:

Dad.
Same as ever. Seeing some lady named Frances, we haven't met her. Hates the new Mariners stadium.
--071999 Mitch

Mom.
Moved to Tacoma w/Richard, new husband as of 110898. He's post-wreck. Decent guy. Mom gets weird about us. Don't call her if we're just gonna freak; she won't handle it well. Likes to hear from us when we're happy.
--021999 Mitch

"Hi mom."

"Mitch! How are you, dear?" She sounds a little nervous.

"I'm good mom, I'm real good. I just wanted to say hello."

Relaxing breath on the other end. "Oh, that's wonderful, Mitch. Are you working?"

"Yeah, mom. I've got a client this afternoon. How's Richard?"

"Oh, he's fine. His business is doing well." She pauses. "He owns a construction company."

"That's good work."

"It's hard work is what it is. He comes home smelling like grease and plaster."

I laugh at this. Dad is a fastidious little guy who smells like Old Spice.

"You still seeing Sally, dear?"

"Yeah, I am. She's doing well."

"That's good, Mitchell. She's a nice girl. Potty mouth, but a nice girl."

I laugh again. "Well I just wanted to say hello, mom. I'll let you get to work."

A pause. "I retired, Mitch. I'm at the church most days now."

"Oh, okay. That's great mom."

"It's nice there. The people are really wonderful."

"That's great."

"Well take care, Mitch. Thanks for calling. Love to your father."

"Sure thing. Bye, mom."

"Bye, dear."

Phone goes down. Take a deep breath and let it out slow, a pantomime of smoking. That went well. It was a good test. Good to know mom's okay. Now I'm itchy to see dad, but not just yet. Have lunch at the pub before the meeting. Pace myself. This is my life now. Take it slow.

BILLS. Some envelopes there. Take them out, sort through them. Wonder if I have any money. BANK. Last statement. Some ATM slips. Checkbook. A piece of paper with a list of recent dates and account balances, in my handwriting. Many dates skipped. Looks like I have $209.16. Never this careful about money before. No choice now. Bills: $54.27 to the phone company due in a week. Write a check. Find stamp, fill out payment stub, get it all ready. Put it in the mailbox in a bit.

Breakfast.

The CD is still playing in the kitchen. I bop back in there, rummage through the fridge to see if anything is on the verge of spoiling. Looks pretty clean. There's a paper bag, written on the outside:

12 MUSHROOMS
--092599 Mitch

Shit, forgot the coffee.

Can in the freezer: FRENCH MARKET COFFEE WITH CHICKORY. What's this shit? I must like it. Take it out, piece of masking tape stuck to the side:

It's good. Cream no sugar. NO SUGAR. Tastes bad. Found it on New Orleans trip. Available at QFC.
--091899 Mitch

Get the coffee together. Burbling away. Omelette cooling on the counter. Punk girls banging away on the box. I eat the omelette while the coffeemaker purrs. Finish, put the dishes in the sink. Big coffee cups in the cupboard, FIRST BEAN logo. Gift from Sally? Pour, add milk.

Add sugar. I always take sugar.

Tastes bad. Throw it out, make another cup without sugar. Tastes weird, but good. Sturdy coffee. You could degrease an engine with this stuff. Four more sips and I'm in love with it.

No sugar. I take the can out of the freezer again, find a marker, add a note to the tape strip:

Really. NO SUGAR.
--092799 Mitch

Back to the Big Brain. Check the files: T for Trips, nothing. N for New Orleans. Bingo.

Some Polaroids, three packets of regular photos. Flip through them.

Me and Sally.

Jesus.

New Orleans looks beautiful. Sally looks beautiful. I look happy, also frequently confused. I can't imagine what that trip would have been like. How could I afford this? Sally pay?

Other things in the file: matchbooks from bars, napkins with scribbled notes about good places to eat and drink, funny things that happened, references that I don't understand. Notes from Sally to my future selves about what a great time we had in New Orleans, little memories she wanted to share with the Mitches. Most of the photos have captions written on the back about our adventures.

Reading them, I break up. I lose it. I start crying. I drop the file on the floor and it spills everywhere, dozens of fragments of my non-existent mind, my Big Brain shattering on the carpet. If I lost this file, all of those memories would be lost to me forever. I take my glasses off and let it come. The whole morning, the dislocation, the kindness, the strangeness, it all pours out of me. Just when I think it's over I look up and I see the Big Brain, the six filing cabinets.

Files. Hundreds of files. Every file contains memories, stories, friends, lovers, good ideas and bad decisions, triumphs and regrets. Could I read them all in one day? Is it even possible? Could I assimilate this entire Big Brain into my own fucked-up little brain, truly be Mitch for just a few hours?

Could I make myself whole?

I wallow in self-pity for a minute or so before I get my act together. TAKE CARE OF BUSINESS. I start putting the New Orleans file back together. Now I notice something that I missed before: some of the papers and photos are stained with tears, the paper bumpy and irregular.

Jesus.

How many times? Yesterday? The day before? The day before that? How often do I see that can of coffee, wonder about this New Orleans thing, come in here, look it up, lose it, cry.

I could fix this. I could edit the Big Brain. Throw this file away, throw that can of coffee away. I do that, tonight I forget, this never happens again.

Can't do it.

A fragile thread. No can of coffee, no connection. No file, no memory. Maybe one day, a shopping list, in the grocery store I stare at that unfamiliar can of coffee, decide no, buy some other brand, and that's it. This is lost. New Orleans is lost to me.

I resolve to buy six cans of this coffee today and stick them in the pantry. I do not want to lose New Orleans.

File back in the Big Brain. Return to the kitchen. The music ended while I was in the office. Start it again. Look in the pantry.

Eighteen cans of FRENCH MARKET COFFEE WITH CHICKORY. Tape strips on every one. NO SUGAR eighteen times.

I lose it again. Slump on the floor, face in hands, sobbing. Glasses still in the office.

This is me. This is us. The Mitches. Date after date, day after day. Looking after each other. I am not the only one of us who does not want to lose New Orleans.

I pick myself up. Back to the office. Glasses on. I read and re-read the New Orleans file. Sally's notes make me laugh. They are little windows into her being, glimpses of this defective relationship we have. Strain to make sense of my writings. Some of them I get; some of them are cryptic, a mystery, maybe forever.

A piece of paper in the file:

See videotape #22
--061299 Mitch

It runs three hours. Three beautiful, wonderful, perfect hours. I watch it straight through, crying sometimes, laughing many times more.

I love this girl.

The emotion comes welling up out of me, from some secret space, unlocked by the file and the tape and the morning. Somewhere in my stupid little brain, some hidden love lobe, the emotion is intact. I lose the day to day, the memories of events and moments. But somehow this emotion has remained, hidden away until triggered. It comes from some other part of my brain, some part that didn't get dented and broken like the rest. There are no memories attached to it, but the emotion is there, pure, too powerful to be called crystalline; it is granite, solid and reliable and strong. But buried in the strata until some excavation calls it forth.

The sensation is strange. I love my dad, I love my mom, but those emotions call up scenes from my life, pre-wreck. The house where I grew up, birthday parties, bicycles, homework, my first car, dad yelling at me when I didn't walk Freddy and he crapped in the living room. These emotions are just as strong as my love for Sally, but they are yet so different.

The tape ends and I sit back in the armchair, shaken. How many days go by when I don't even know that she exists? How many Mitches have come and gone without experiencing this sensation? How many days have I spent with her, present but absent, glad for the companionship but ignorant of how deep the feeling of her resides within me, waiting to be called forth by some unreliable combination of found memories?

I pick up the Brain and turn to L:

Love.
See Sally Pierce, you oaf. We love her, believe it or not. See Big Brain: New Orleans, Gasworks Park, Orcas Island, Movies, Cooking, Myrna, Christmas, Birthdays. Update this entry with new files.
--071699 Mitch

Shower. Change. Get my briefcase together. Dad's pub is open. Time to go see him, have lunch, get ready for my client. First a stop.

First Bean is bustling with students. It's a nice little place, rough-hewn but cozy. Music is playing--I recognize it. Nirvana. Cobain. That whole thing. It makes me happy that I know this music, even though I never cared for it much.

Sally is behind the counter, wiping the steam nozzle on the espresso machine with a damp rag. She notices me as I walk up, and smiles.

"Hey, hon. How are you?"

I must be grinning like an idiot. I set my briefcase down and walk down to the end of the counter. She comes out and I give her a hug.

"I love you," I whisper into her ear.

She pulls back, looks into my eyes, surprised.

"Well hello," she says, grinning back at me. "Good day, huh?"

"Yeah," I say. "Every day is a good day."

"Yep." Her hands are still on my shoulders. "But some are better than others."

We kiss for a long moment, embracing, then step apart. She sighs and rubs her forehead.

"Goodness, Mitch."

"I had a really great time in New Orleans."

She nods a little. "So did I, hon. But I'm glad to hear it all the same."

"Why do you put up with me, Sally? It must be hell."

"Well, duh," she says, cocking her head to one side. "I love you, doofus. I love all you crazy Mitches."

"This crazy Mitch loves you back."

She tears up a little and hugs me again.

"All of you do, hon," she says softly. "You just don't always remember it."

We stand there for a moment holding each other, some kind of weird miracle.

"Okay, love. I gotta get back to work. If I don't see you again today . . . well, thanks for coming by."

Now I'm the one tearing up. "Yeah. Take care. I'll see you again. I mean, some Mitch will."

"Yep," she says, stepping back, a little pale now. "You got work?"

"Yeah, got a client over at dad's place."

"That's good."

"Bye."

"Bye."

I walk out of the coffeehouse, wave to her through the window, stumble off down the street, wrapping my arms around myself against the cold. Inside I am warm.

Dad's pub is down at the end of the Ave, in a basement beneath a little hotel. I grew up in this pub, worked here off and on when I needed money, surrounded by the ebb and flow of students, a new crop every year, some becoming regulars until they graduated or left or just moved on. Mom always hated the place, hated how dad would come home smelling of smoke and beer. He'd take a shower first thing, get cleaned up, put the day's clothes in the hamper and wear something fresh for her to lose the smell. I was never sure if he was this careful before they married or if it was something he developed in response to her; he never gave me a straight answer. There are no straight answers.

Dad behind the bar. "Hey son!" He's cheerful as ever.

"Hey dad. How's business?"

"Can't complain. How are you?"

"I'm good. Mom sends her love."

"You talked to her?"

"Yeah, I gave her a call this morning. She said she retired."

"Few months ago. I think it was Richard's idea, but don't tell her I said that."

"I won't, dad."

"So what can I get you?"

"Pastrami."

"Coming up. Coffee?"

"Coke."

I go take a seat in the keg booth--the one that backs against the big wooden storage locker where the current kegs are, cold, tubes running through hatches to the taps. Someone is smoking and it makes me want a cigarette.

But I quit.

Dad comes out in a minute, leaving the bar to some young guy I don't know. He sits down with two pastrami grinders, some fries, two cokes, and we dig in. This is like wearing clothes, so familiar.

"What's new?" he asks between bites.

"Everything," I say, and we laugh. "I'm meeting a client here at two."

"That's great! Ya gotta work."

"Do I work much?"

He sort of rocks his head side to side. "Here and there. Couple times a month I guess. I think most of your background-check jobs went to the internet, so it's just bits and pieces these days."

"The internet?"

"Never mind. What's this one?"

"Cheating husband."

He nodded. "Never be short of those."

I chuckle. He gives me a sharp look. He cheated on mom towards the end, but their marriage was all but over anyway. It's ancient history.

"How's Frances?"

"She's good."

"Tell me about her."

He chews thoughtfully for a few moments, then swallows.

"She works for the city, up the street at the community service center. Utility bill payments, that sort of thing. Nice lady."

"How'd you two meet?"

He smiled. "Paying my bill. I've known her for a few years, but didn't have the guts to ask her out. Finally she did. She's smarter than me."

I laugh. "That's great. I'm really happy for you."

We eat the rest of our food. Dad rattles on about the Mariners for a couple minutes. I have no idea what he's talking about--the players, the league, the stadium. But I like listening to him talk.

Finally he leans back and rubs his stomach, satisfied. "Oh yeah," he says. "That's good."

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"What's it like with me? Coming in here, blank slate."

He leans forward and winks. "You're still Mitch, son. What's a couple years? Things were good with you when the wreck happened. So it's like you're always in that good place, you know?"

I shake my head. "It's so strange. What's it going to be like when I'm fifty, sixty, waking up in an old body? Every morning I'm gonna be screaming and clawing at the walls."

Dad frowns. "Hell if I know. You got a good system going, you and your brains. You'll make it work. When I retire you can take the pub, settle in like I have." He smiled again. "Maybe you'll wake up every morning and think you're me."

"Jesus."

"Hah! It ain't that bad, son. Being your old man."

"Yeah, I know."

"You make me proud. Me and your mom both. You're so damn clever. God knows where you get it. You must be a changeling."

"A what?"

"In the old fairy tales. The fairies'd come and take a baby, leave one of their own behind, a strange one. More clever. Magical. They called them changelings."

I let this sink in. The parallels are more than I really want to contemplate.

"Well, back to the bar. You want to read the paper while you wait?"

"Sure thing. Thanks, dad."

"Don't mention it."

He brings the paper and I get comfortable. Still itching for a cigarette. How does that work? Is my 1997 mind still addicted to nicotine, even when my body might be getting used to not having it? I am full of mysteries.

Cynthia Leeson shows up just before two. Dad pegs her for my client and sends her back to my booth.

We have a conversation that I've had dozens of times before. Suspicions. Distant spouse. Little pieces of evidence. A confrontation, denials. More suspicions. Kids in college. Love lost. Needs evidence for a divorce. Surveillance, photos, on and on. I'm comfortable with this. I'm used to this. I can handle this. Then I realize that I probably should have brought the Polaroid and taken her picture so I'll recognize her again; idiot move to show up with photographs of her and her husband, thinking she's the other woman. I write down a description of her on a pad with the rest of my notes.

I became a detective because it sounded like fun. Plus I didn't want to go to college. There was a little detective agency on the Ave, dad knew the owner, got me a job. Frank Carson. Wily old guy, abrasive, but good with clients. Taught me a lot. It wasn't much like all the crime novels I'd read as a kid; as some hard-boiled writer once wrote, "The last time a detective solved a murder was never." Frank and I worked a few murders even so, dead-end cases where the police had hit a brick wall. Never went anywhere. I liked the life, set up my own shop when Frank died of cancer, liked being my own boss, liked being sneaky and clever. I kept my life simple, stayed out of debt, content to make a modest living my own way, on my own terms.

Cynthia Leeson is crying now, bitter, middle-aged tears. Best years of her life. The usual. I'm not at all unsympathetic; it's just a familiar scene. I cheer her up, get her talking about her kids, her plans for a post-divorce life. When people come to me in these situations, they usually aren't really looking for confirmation of betrayal; they're just looking for catharsis, for a point of departure from which they can set out in search of a new life. They're in the chrysalis, molting, but they need someone to slice open the cocoon and let them out. That's when they hire me.

She tells me what I need to know, I tell her what she needs to hear, then she leaves. I wait a discreet few minutes before I say goodbye to dad and head up the stairs into the world of light. As I go up and out I realize that I probably won't see dad again today, which means I will never see him again. Not this I; not this Mitch. Maybe some other Mitch will walk down these stairs tomorrow or the day after, wondering who this Frances person is and what's up with that stadium.

When I reach the sidewalk I take the Brain out of the briefcase and pull out a pen. I turn to dad's entry and add a note:

See Frances.
--092799 Mitch

Frances.
Dad's girlfriend. Works at the Community Services Center on the Ave. Known dad for years, asked him out.
--092799 Mitch

The service center is up north of 45th. Inside I ask for Frances, and am introduced to a trim, sharp-eyed lady in her fifties. I introduce myself and she's a little taken aback, but we chat for a couple minutes. She knows about my condition, which is good. I say I'll come back sometime and take a picture of her so I'll know her again. She seems nice. I'm happy for dad; he doesn't get out much.

Back outside. I add a couple more notes to the Frances entry and cross out the bit in dad's entry about us not having met her.

Us. I'm settling into this notion, this idea that every day's Mitch is a different Mitch, that we are a group whose membership increases constantly, all of us pulling together. It's weirdly comfortable, but that makes sense. If it wasn't a comfortable notion, it wouldn't have stuck.

While I'm standing there musing to myself, this guy across the street stops and stares. He comes hustling over, looking happy.

"Mitchless!" he calls out as he walks up. "How are you, man?"

He's a burly black guy wearing dirty clothes. I have no idea who he is.

"Hi," I say, wondering what to do. Then I figure why not? "Who are you?"

"Frederick, man. Check the Brain."

"Oh, Frederick! I read about you this morning."

"No shit? What'd you read?"

"That thing with George's daughter."

"Aw hell!" he blurts gleefully. "That was some shit! That guy still in jail?"

"Supposed to be. Paulina's okay. George said she's doing fine."

"That's good, man, that's real good. Hey, what're you doing right now?"

"Nothing, I guess. Just met with a client."

He perks up at this. "Yeah? Any work for me?"

I smile. "Not unless she wants us to beat up her husband, no."

"Well, you know where to find me, man. I'm always up for some work. So look, I'm going over to Gasworks Park to see my friend Mary. You wanna tag along?"

"Sure. Let me drop this briefcase off on the way."

We walk down the Ave, stopping off at my apartment long enough to ditch the briefcase. I find a satchel and throw the Brain in there, plus the Polaroid and some film. Then we're off again.

The whole way, Frederick talks. Sometimes his sentences get all fucked up and he's babbling nonsense. I'm not sure which parts of the babble are aphasia and which parts are just descriptions of past or present hallucinations. Occasionally I realize he's talking to someone else who isn't there, but he never forgets I'm around, too, and he makes an effort to include me in these conversations. He seems stuck on permanent happy; maybe it's medication, maybe his brain is just locked in somehow. Or maybe it's just a good day for him, too.

He has a lot of great stories about our time in the halfway house. I can't figure out how long I was in there; when I ask he says it was years, but I know that's not the case. Another mystery. His stories are full of weird characters, and again I can't tell who is real and who isn't. There's some guy named Bear he talks about, and eventually I realize that he sometimes thinks Bear is there with us, walking along, while other times I make a reference to Bear and Frederick gives me this funny look and says, "Man, Bear isn't here. Who are you talking to?" Whatever. I'm having fun.

Eventually we get to Gasworks Park. It's a beautiful place, a park built around the ruins of an old natural-gas refinery, right on Puget Sound. We saunter through the park, laughing and talking. This is a beautiful day, cold and gray and beautiful.

Mary is down at the shore off to the side. I don't know her and Frederick hasn't said anything about her on the way over. I meant to ask about her but I got lost in the strange, looping conversation.

The first thing I notice is she's crying. She looks about twenty, with dirty black hair that goes down to her waist. Looks like she sleeps on the streets. There's a patchwork bag on the ground next to her.

She's leaning over the water, crying.

"Hey, Mary, honey," Frederick says, kind. She looks up and smiles.

"Frederick!" She stands up and gives him a hug.

"You remember Mitchless?" he says as they step apart.

"Oh, hi, yeah. Hi Mitchless."

I smile politely.

"He doesn't remember you, honey. He's loopy in the ain-bray," he says, conspiratorially.

"Hey, that's cool. Nice to meet you again, Mitchless."

I look at Frederick. "What's up with this Mitchless thing, man?"

He laughs big, tossing his head back to let the joy out. "That's what I call you! 'Cuz you ain't Mitch no more. You're Mitchless."

I chuckle and smile again. "Jesus."

"So what are you guys up to?" Mary asks.

"Jack and shit," Frederick says. "Just seeing how you doing."

"I'm okay. The usual."

"Why were you crying?" I ask carefully.

"I have to," she says, matter-of-fact. "We're using up all the water. I have to keep refilling the Sound or it'll go dry. Hey, did you bring some?"

"Right here," Frederick says proudly, pulling a scratched-up water bottle from his pockets. "Here you go, honey."

She takes the bottle and unscrews the cap, then pours the water into the Sound. As she pours, natural as can be, she looks at us.

"So how are you?"

"Can't complain," Frederick says. "Well I could, but then I'd do nothing but." He laughs again. This guy is just so full of happiness, I can't get over it.

"And you?" she asks me, shaking out the last of the water.

"I'm good. I'm really good."

"Why is that?"

"I'm in love," I blurt, catching myself by surprise.

"Oh, wow!" she says. "That's wonderful!"

"Shit, man, what's up with that?" Frederick asks.

I shrug. "Sally. It's a good day."

"Oh I get it," he says. "Bear was telling me about this. She works at that coffeehouse, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well that's great, that's really great."

"Here you go," Mary says, handing Frederick the water bottle. "Thanks."

"Sure thing. I'll bring you some more tomorrow."

Mary wipes her eyes. "Hey, you guys want to play frisbee?"

"Hell yeah," Frederick replies.

"Sure."

Mary rummages in her bag and pulls out a red plastic disk. She's drawn a big smiley face on it with a marker. We walk up the way until we get some ground to play in, then start tossing the frisbee around.

This life is so strange and so wonderful. I feel like I can't even begin to get my arms around it, to encompass the complexity of what I'm experiencing. I have this sense of divine freedom, a connection to the world around me and all the people in it, crazy and otherwise, all of us unencumbered by anything save bliss.

Eventually we tire of the game and collapse on the grassy hillside. Frederick and Mary hold each other, and she kisses him on the cheek. I take the hint and say my goodbyes, but first I pull out the Polaroid and snap some pictures. I give some to each of them, and take some others with me.

Back in the U. District I eat teriyaki with some gyoza. The Neptune is playing a revival of North by Northwest and I wander inside on impulse; what else is there? Cary Grant on Mount Rushmore.

Back home, gin and tonic. I sort through my notes from the client and write up a short summary that I leave on my desk. New file into the CURRENT CASES tray. Entries in the appointment book for surveillance on Cynthia's husband later this week. I start to add an entry for Mary into the Brain, but there's already one there:

Mary.
Post-wreck. The crying woman. Her tears fill the Sound. Dog shot by kids in Cowan Park 011899. Friend of Frederick.
--041799 Mitch

Bring her a bottle of water. She likes frisbee.
--092799 Mitch

An hour into the tape we're playing frisbee with Mary and Frederick.

Jesus.

Life is a mystery. No wonder I'm a detective.

Eventually the phone rings. Sally. She was having dinner with some girlfriends, but she's home now. "Can you come over?"

"Yeah. Do I bring cat food or wine?"

She laughs, a bright spark in the night. "I have a cupboard full of your cat food, Mitch. Myrna can't keep up. Bring wine."

I do. I bring the Polaroid, too. I want more pictures of Sally. I also want pictures of me, this me, this happy me who is in love with Sally and the world. I want to put these pictures up on the wall, I want to find some combination of words and images that will put me into this wonderful space every day of my every life. This may not be possible. But I will try.

At Sally's we laugh and drink wine and play with Myrna and take pictures. She tells me Mitch and Sally stories, stories of the many Mitches that Sally has known and loved, and of the Mitches who loved her back, and even those who didn't, but who tried for a day now and then, fumbling for feeling in the dark, trying to fill the Sound like the crying woman of Gasworks Park.

On the couch we get cozy, make out, move to her bedroom, make love, talk some more.

I'm getting sleepy.

I realize what is happening. I'm going to go to sleep soon. All of this will go away. Everything that I am feeling now, this joy, this engagement with life, it is all going away. In the morning I will wake up in a strange bed with a strange woman and wonder where the hell I am. In the morning I will be dead, and another Mitch will take my place. In the night the fairies will come and steal me away, leaving a fresh new changeling in the bed with the woman I love.

Blank slate.

I hold Sally close in the dim light. "I don't want to go away," I whisper. "I don't want to lose you."

"You never do. Not for very long."

"All of this, it's going to leave, it's going away, the fairies are coming." I'm close to tears now.

She strokes my face. I can barely see her, here in the dark, but I know the look in her eyes. It radiates from her entire being. I don't need light to see Sally.

"Oh, Mitch. I know. This is always the hardest part. It's okay."

"It's not okay."

"But it's cool."

I laugh a little, but only a little.

"Yeah."

She kisses me on the forehead. "Go to sleep, Mitch. Go to sleep."

"I love you."

"I love you."

She holds me and slowly, eventually, we fall asleep.

In the night the fairies come and take me away. But they leave this weird miracle behind for some other Mitch to discover anew.

Goodbye. Goodbye.

--092799 Mitch