Chapter 1

"Good morning," the nurse trilled brightly. The sun streamed through the window as she parted the curtains. "It's another lovely day."

"Mornin'," he answered listlessly.

"How do you feel this morning?"

"Same as yesterday and the day before. Shit!"

"Now then, Mr. Doe, we can't have you talking like that. Besides, you're still alive and not too badly off, all things considered," she said in a semi-serious tone.

"You mean not too badly off for someone who doesn't know who he is or where he's from. I take it no one has come looking for me yet."

"Not that I know of. But cheer up ... it's only been a couple of weeks since your accident. Something ... or someone will turn up. You wait and see," she smiled.

"And if they don't?"

"I don't know. I've never had a patient like you before. There's always been somebody who knew who the patient was. This is a first for me."

"It's a first for me too, I'll bet," he mumbled.

"In the meantime, your leg is healing nicely and the stitches in your arm and head look fine. You'll be fit to travel soon. All you need is a destination," she offered idly.

"Didn't you tell me the police wanted to talk to me?"

"Yes ... do you want me to let them know you are ready? I'll have to get Doctor Leacock's OK first."

"Fine. Let's get this damn show on the road." His tone was angry.

The nurse frowned at him briefly, then walked swiftly from his room.

The policeman didn't show up until after four that afternoon. He strolled into John Doe's room and pulled out his I.D.

"I'm Detective Sergeant Polikoff, Mr. Doe. You up to answering questions?"

"Well, there won't be many answers," the bed-bound man snorted.

"Doc says you don't remember anything."

"Not a fucking thing," he spat.

"Hummphf. Take it you're not a college professor or a preacher."

"What makes you say that?"

"Language."

"College professors never swear?"

"Beats me. Doubt they sound like you, though," the detective paused, looking over the man in the bed.

"No one's come lookin' for you, if that's what you're wondering."

"How the hell can that be? People don't just drop off the face of the earth and no one notices," the man said, his anger beginning to resurface.

"Yeah ... they do. Not often ... but it happens."

"Great ... lost in fuckin' space. I don't suppose I'm at the top of your list of things to do, am I?"

"Not exactly. You couldn't guess the number of missing persons files there are. I gotta admit, we spend most of our time on the kids. That's what the public expects.

"As far as you're concerned, we've got nothin' to go on so far. Found you lyin' by the road down near the river. Haven't figured out what happened to you. Hit by a car, beat up, can't tell yet. No wallet, no money, not even a receipt or a piece of paper on you. Your clothes are everyday stuff from Wal-Mart or J.C. Penney. You don't have any old scars or tattoos or anything that would give us a lead. Nope, not much to go on," he finished with a shrug.

The injured man held up his hand, indicating a wedding ring.

"Can you have someone look at this ... maybe trace it?"

"I can try," the detective said, holding his hand out as the man removed the ring from his finger. He examined it carefully.

"I don't think this is going to tell us much," he said. "No jewelers mark or inscription. I'm guessing it was just a generic ring purchased at a chain jewelry story."

"Great. So what happens now? They'll kick me out of here at some point. I can't pay the bill, I don't have any I.D., can't get a job. Don't even know what I can do beside sweep floors or dig ditches," he said, closing his eyes and allowing his head to drop back on the pillow. "What about fingerprints?"

"Nope. Nothing. So far as we can tell, you aren't a wanted person and you don't have a record. That's got to be good news, I suppose."

"You think? Maybe if I did, I'd know who the hell I was. It would at least be something. Shit ... I don't have a fuckin' clue on what to do next," he said in resignation.

"There's a couple of halfway houses nearby. A bed for the night and a couple of meals. At least until you can find some work."

"Doing what? Using what for a name? What's the point of these people fixing me up so I can wander out the door and join the homeless, living in some cardboard shack? What kind of fuckin' life is that? What's the bloody point?" he raged.

"Calm down, mister. We're circulating your picture to other police departments. We're also trying to get you some publicity ... someone might recognize you. We'll do what we can," Polikoff said in a tone suggesting he didn't really hold out much hope.

The man closed his eyes and sighed.

The man knocked on the door of Major Thomas Matthews and received a polite, "Come in please," in response. The Major was rising from his desk in the back of the Salvation Army Thrift Shop. The office was part of the Family Services section.

The door opened and the tall, forty-something man stepped in, closing it behind him. Tom Matthews surveyed him. He looked to be in his forties. An unremarkable face with narrow, prominent long nose, thin dark eyebrows, hazel eyes, square jaw, medium complexion, neatly cut hair graying at the temples, tall with a slim build. He was clean shaven, bandaged along the side of his head, and wearing clean but worn clothes.

"Good morning. I'm John Doe," the man said politely. "Detective Polikoff suggested I see you," he said, glancing about the small office.

"Yes ... Martin called me and asked me if I could help. Won't you sit down, please?"

The man sat in the wooden chair across the desk from the Major.

"I understand you've lost your memory and that you don't have any idea of who you are or where you're from."

"That's it in a nutshell, Major."

"Call me Tom, John. We're pretty informal around here."

The man nodded, wincing slightly.

"You still have some pains?"

"Yeah ... and headaches. They're gettin' better, but slowly."

"Well, I can offer you a place to stay for a few nights with breakfast and supper. I can point you in the direction of some work ... if you're up to it."

"Thanks. I need something to survive on. I can't live on the street. I wouldn't know how."

"Well, you appear to be educated, but I don't suppose you know what at, do you?"

"No clue. I'm hopin' my memory will come back over time. If it doesn't, I'm up sh ... up the creek."

"Don't give up hope, John. We're here to help." The Major pushed a piece of notepaper across the desk to the man. "Here are some people who hire for cash. Usually day jobs, but they're legal and they won't cheat you. I suggest you go see them this afternoon just to get your face in front of them."

The man nodded, again wincing slightly.

"I'll show you where you can sleep and where the bathroom is. Do you have any toiletries?"

"No ... not a thing."

"OK ... we have some. I can get you some soap, razors, toothbrush and toothpaste. The towels are in the bathroom. It gets pretty busy early in the morning, so some of the men shave and shower in the evening, just to avoid the rush. You might try that.

"Thanks. I hope I'm not here for long ... but ... thanks."

"You're welcome. Come and see me anytime if you need help," Matthews stood, extending his hand.

John Doe closed the door behind him as he exited the office and allowed his breath to escape. He now had place to sleep, to eat, and some leads for work.

He took the Major's advice. With a borrowed city map he walked to the three locations noted on the paper. Asking for the contact man, he introduced himself, explained his situation and then moved on the next place. The work was mostly menial tasks; moving boxes, cleaning toilets, sweeping floors. The duration was usually only a day or two.

Sometimes, when you least expect it, you stumble into some good luck. John Doe found that good luck on the third day of his search. One of the Major's references steered him to a Chinese restaurant nearby that was in need of a dishwasher. The pay was low, but it was something. He explained his circumstances to the owner, an Asian man with limited English. The man pointed to an older woman in the kitchen and indicated John should talk to her.

"Hi. I think the boss wants me to talk to you," he said. "I'm John Doe."

"Yeah ... I heard. Tough deal, huh?"

John shrugged. "What do I need to know?"

"Well ... first off, I'm Muriel. I kind of act as chief cook and translator for Mr. Leung. He's not a bad guy," she said, looking over at the busy owner.

"You're a cook ... in a Chinese restaurant?" he said, barely able to contain a chuckle.

"Yeah ... not what you'd call typical, huh?"

"How many days?"

"You mean for this job?"

"Yeah."

"Long as you like. The last guy disappeared a couple of days ago. Drank himself out of job, I guess."

"What are the hours?"

She laughed. "How long can you stay? This place opens at eleven in the morning and closes at one in the morning. You get fifty bucks a day. Most people show up early afternoon, take a break before six and after eight and then finish up about two in the morning. No shortage of hours, son," she said with a smile. "It's a six day job if you can hack it. We're closed on Mondays."

"Can you show me what needs to be done?"

"Sure. There's a rubber apron, some rubber gloves and a hair net. You'll need them. Detergent's in the big jug. Wash in one sink and rinse in the other. Don't use the same water for more than twenty minutes or for more than one job. Do the glasses first, big plates second, utensils and other china third, pots and pans last. Got it?"

"Yeah. Pretty straightforward. How often does the boss pay?"

"Once a week ... Sunday night. You'll get cash, so be careful. You'll need a place to keep it safe. Where you livin'?"

"Salvation Army. Gotta find a place though. It isn't permanent."

"OK. You got any other questions?"

"Nope."

"Then you can get started," she smiled.

He started on Wednesday afternoon and by Friday, he was coping. It didn't require a lot of thinking or heavy lifting, just developing a method and sticking to it. Muriel nodded her approval at his work and gave him a pat on the back and a smile.

When Mr. Leung paid John on Sunday night, he counted out $250, handed it to John and smiled. Apparently, he too was happy with John's work. He had already discussed putting some money in the safe at the Salvation Army office with Major Matthews. Without identification, John couldn't open a bank account.

Monday was his day off and John spent most of it looking for a place to live. His calculations told him that earning only $300 per week he couldn't afford any more than $150 a week for rent and even then he was stretching it. He could eat for free at the restaurant, but as much as he enjoyed Chinese food, there was a limit.

He trudged through the streets within walking distance of the restaurant, but found nothing in his price range that wasn't a flop house, a crack house, or a whorehouse. Discouraged, he went back to work. It was Muriel who came up with a solution.

"No luck with finding a place, John?"

"No. Some ugly places around here. I'll have to look further out, I guess."

Muriel gave him a thoughtful look. "How much can you afford?"

"I figure I can get by on one-fifty a week. It won't leave much for food or clothes, but I need somewhere to drop."

"I got a spare room at my place. If you can behave yourself, I'll give you a look at it." She was smiling slightly when she said it.

"You're in no danger from me, Muriel," a faint smile on his lips. "Thanks for the offer."

"Yeah ... well ... you seem like a decent sort of guy. As long as you don't cause a fuss or get drunk or something like that, I'll take a chance."

"Thanks ... appreciate it," John nodded.

"Go get your stuff on your afternoon break and bring it back here. I'll take you back to my place when we're done tonight."

He did. Muriel had a car that she parked in the back alley behind the restaurant. They drove in silence through the darkened early morning streets for a few minutes, arriving outside a medium sized brownstone. It was a middle-class neighborhood that had declined somewhat over the years.

"This looks far better than some of the places I was in earlier. In fact, I get the sense that it's familiar ... the neighborhood, I mean."

"It's fine for me ... I feel safe here," Muriel mused.

As they walked up to the third floor apartment, John commented on how quiet it was, unlike the rooms he had looked at earlier. Muriel unlocked her door and stepped inside, John following her.

"This'll be your room," she said, pointing to an open door. It was a ten by ten square with a closet, a set of drawers, a small night table, and a window. It was clean and neat and the single bed was made.

"Since we both work the same hours, you might as well ride with me. A bus trip takes nearly forty-five minutes and there are damn few of them at this time of night."

He nodded. "What time do you get up in the morning?"

"Nine or so. As long as we leave here by ten-thirty, we're OK. Lunch crowd doesn't show up until eleven thirty."

And so it began. Muriel Bartlett, widow, age 61, occupation cook, and John Doe, aged approximately early forties, occupation dishwasher. As the days progressed and Muriel and John got to know each other better, they established a routine for themselves in the small apartment. John would hand Muriel $150 each Sunday night for room and board. Muriel seemed reluctant to take it. She bought all the groceries and household supplies.

It wasn't long before they began to talk about John's circumstances. Muriel was a good listener. She suggested that one way to help was to ask him about the things he liked and didn't like. She explained it was a way to help him stimulate his memory.

John was able to produce quick answers to her quick questions. He liked Chinese food. He disliked Thai food. He liked history books. He disliked science fiction. He liked Mel Brooks. He disliked Woody Allen. And so on. They were beginning to build an inventory of information about John Doe.

"I know I'm learning some things about myself, Muriel. And the game is a bit of fun. I wish that it would stimulate something more dramatic, though."

"It's early yet, John. Give it some time."

"I'm very grateful to you, you know," he said with a peaceful smile. "You've done so much for me. I don't know how I can repay you."

"Just get better, John. That will make everything worthwhile." She had extended her arms and was holding his hands as she spoke.

"Someone out there is looking for you, I'm sure."

"Why do you say that?"

"The ring ... it's a wedding ring. Some woman ... some family ... is looking for you," she said with certainty.

"There's no inscription on it ... not even initials or a date. No clue at all."

"Don't give up, John. Never give up."

While John lived with Muriel, she taught him to cook. In fact, he was now helping her in the restaurant when he had the time. She was a patient teacher and John was a quick learner. Mr. Leung expressed his satisfaction on how well the kitchen was running at the Bamboo Terrace. That admiration didn't extend to his wages. It was $300 a week and that was all.

Muriel opened up to John and told him about her life. She had married young. Ralph Bartlett had met her when she was working at a small diner in the south side and he was smitten with her. He began coming in every day she was there just for coffee, a donut, and a chat. Ralph was a small businessman, running a local delivery service with two medium sized trucks. He made a decent living and was thinking of buying a small house in the suburbs.

They began to date, fell in love, and were married. Muriel was nineteen and Ralph was twenty-seven. They had two children; a boy, Ralph Jr. and a girl, Maureen. Muriel's parents didn't approve of Ralph or the marriage and virtually cut her out of their life, even when the grandchildren came along. They felt Muriel had married "beneath her." Ralph's parents were the opposite. Kind and generous, they welcomed Muriel and accepted her as a daughter. And of course, they spoiled the grandchildren.

The children grew and finished school, Ralph Jr. going off to college upstate while Maureen went to a commercial school to learn administrative skills. Both married, but both were now living far from Muriel and they didn't see each other often. Muriel used her two week vacation visiting her children and grandchildren, spending a week with each. It was her big event of the year.

Ralph was diagnosed with ALS, Lou Gehrig's Disease, when he was only 55, passing away four years later. Muriel was 51 when he died. She sold her home and put the money in mutual funds and went out looking for a job. When her neighbor, Mr. Leung, needed a cook, she admitted she didn't have much experience but would be happy to learn. She did and had been at the Bamboo Terrace ever since.