Where is my car? He suddenly considered that he might have been driving before all this happened. Where was I going? That did not seem important but he was almost sure that he had been driving. And singing. Yes, he had been singing as well, out loud to the radio, he was definitely sure of that. Singing real loud, the way you do when you’re all alone in the car and no one is around to make fun except maybe that guy in the car next to you but who cares what he thinks. No one is around to make fun of you except that guy and… …and who? Was I alone? He paused. Something was missing. Someone was missing. For the first time since this absurd situation had begun he turned to look in the one direction he hadn’t: behind him. Looking behind him was like looking into the past. And why was the past (especially the recent past) something he feared deeply? He closed his eyes making the 180-degree turn and opened them warily only when facing squarely down the embankment. Resting at the bottom like. Truly, the man was still as much of a child at heart as he was a scatterbrain. And he was very much so a scatterbrain.So under his mother’s view, his place was sitting inside and reading the books that his mother’s father had given them before he died. But his father was of the opinion that that was no place for a young lad to spend his days, so it was off to the town square to kick a ball around with the other children or peek at girls changing, or steal his mother’s women friends undergarments from clotheslines. Wait a moment though, his mother would say. Playing in the dirt was no place for an upstanding citizen such as himself, and thus it was back to books, after a good spanking for being such naughty boy. And then to the forests to climb amongst their highest branches, after his father found him lounging in a sunbeam with a book. The Collected and Illustrated Book On Clockwork Mechanics, if he remembered that particular instance correctly. And, if his memory continued to hold.
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