A man walked into a room…

One day a man walked into a room. He didn’t know where he was; come to that he didn’t know who he was.

Nothing like this had happened to him before.

Probably.

As rooms go the one he found himself standing in wasn’t entirely unpleasant, it just didn’t have much in the way of character. What it did have was a lot of chairs, none of which matched and they were all pushed back against the wall as if space had been cleared for dancing.

There was a large window framed by cheery floral print curtains, they were more cheery anyway that the real flowers dying slowly of neglect in a vase on the windowsill. Beyond the smeared glass was what looked like a garden, all low maintenance flower beds covered in bark chippings and grass badly in need of cutting, if he strained his ears he could just make out the insect buzz of passing traffic.

Those were the details of where he was; now for the hard question, who the hell was he?

There was a neatly folded brown jumper lying on the chair nearest to him, he had a vague memory of having put something down, maybe a jumper and another of clothes having name tags sewn into them, perhaps for school. The man picked up the jumper and twisted it about in his hands to test his theory.

There was a label in the neck, but the letters written on it seemed momentarily jumbled, as if they were all running around like children who refused to get neatly into line. He screwed his eyes up, concentrating hard in an attempt to impose order on alphabetical anarchy.

Mark Sand Spencer, was that his name?

It was a good name, the sort of double barrelled name that wears a cummerbund with evening dress and gets its owner announced at golf club dinners. Major Sand Spencer and, and who exactly?

Wife? Consort? Antelope? I am here with my wife and another antelope.

The words flashed into his mind one after another without forming anything other than the vaguest contextual connections. A sudden flash of panic hit him; to keep it off he tried to list the facts of his situation as he knew them.

First of all he knew he was actually here, wherever here might be. To prove the point he stamped his foot on the carpet stirring up a small plume of dust, terra was very much firma in this vicinity. Secondly he was in a building, obviously, maybe one in a major town, which would explain the constant buzz of traffic.

The buzz of cars driven by bees on B roads, maybe they are all characters in a B movie.

The thought appeared from nowhere, he examined it from all angles with the sort of surprise he might have shown to a wet fish that had dropped suddenly from the ceiling. There was a certain mad logic to it.

Perhaps this was the explanation of the situation he found himself in, he Mark Sand Spencer, was a character in a B movie. A square jawed hero down at heel but honest going down the mean streets of a city where the sun always shines. Mickey Finn had hit him over the head or given him chloroform while he was waiting for trouble to walk in the door and this was where he had ended up; but where?

Never mind knowing where he was, knowing the time would be a good place to start. There was a clock hanging on the wall, he watched it hammering seconds into minutes and wondered if knowing the time mattered because he was waiting for someone.

A femme fatale slinking towards him through the twilight and cigarette smoke of this B movie he seemed to be starring in, was that who he was waiting for?

Godot

Garbo

Avant Garde

An hour glass shaped vision of troubling perfection shimmering towards him across the polished floor of his imagination in a dress she must have been poured into.

“Miss Garde, have you met Mr Sand Spencer?”

“You can call me Mark”

A swish of bat-wing eyelashes and then in a voice made husky by unfiltered cigarettes:

“I’m sure I can.”

On the wall the clock went on hammering seconds into minutes tick, after tock, after; no that wasn’t right. There seemed to be something wrong with its mechanism.

The rhythm was all out of synch, instead of a marching beat of tick, tock, tick, tock, it went something like; tick, tick, tock, tick, tock, tock, that couldn’t be right. There was something wrong with the hands too, when he looked at the clock out of the corner of his eye they were in one position, when he turned to face it they were in another. It was as if time were playing grandfather’s footsteps with him.

He walked towards where the clock hung, thinking that he would take it down from the wall and put it right. One, two, three footsteps, the floorboards under the faded carpet creaking each time, he stopped and the floorboards creaked a fourth time. There was someone else nearby; maybe in the next room.

He turned around and saw for the first time that the room he was in was divided by a set of folding glass doors that had been propped partially open. Through these he could see a tall woman standing with her back to him.

Miss Avant Garde?

Dressed in a floor length satin gown sewn with diamonds and wearing a million dollars in rubies around her neck the toast of the magic kingdom of Hollywood, where anything can happen; and probably will.

Forgetting the clock with its dissident hands and discordant ticking he walked quickly towards where the woman stood. Even though he couldn’t see her face he felt she was someone that it was very important he should meet.

The woman, Miss Garde as he decided to think of her, must have been taking lessons from the clock, without seeming to move she had turned around to face him. Her arms were held out like wings and on each upturned palm she balanced a delicate green vase.

As he approached she smiled, her full lips opening to reveal a row of polished white teeth. It was the kindest, warmest smile he had ever seen, like the promise of peace and happiness held in every homecoming since time began.

Just as it seemed she must be about to speak, to tell him his fugitive name and that of the place they were in woman, vases and smile all burst into a cloud of tiny golden stars that shone brilliantly for a moment then vanished.

One day a man walked into a room. He didn’t know where he was; come to that he didn’t know who he was.

Nothing like this had happened to him before.

Probably.