KenBruen Array - Slide

Max Fisher opened his eyes, looked at the blurry mess around him, thought, Where the fuck am I? He managed to turn his head, stare at a wall. It was a white wall. The walls in his apartment were white-okay, he was probably home. What day was it? He thought it was Monday because yesterday was Sunday, right? Didnt he see a football game on TV, at the bar he was drinking at? Or was that two days ago? Wait, it wasnt football, it was baseball. It was July for Christs sake. The Fourth was just, what, last week? He remembered loud noises, explosions, fireworks. Yeah, it definitely wasnt football season.

He rolled over toward the night table, misjudged it, fell onto the floor. Right on his hip. Mustve been a bad fall because the pain killed even though he was still smashed.

Aw, Christ, he said, wincing, tasting vomit.

He stayed like that for a long time, mightve passed out, then managed to struggle to his knees. The pain in his hip was excruciating, but he figured if hed broken something he wouldnt be able to move.

Using all his energy, he squinted, trying to focus on the digital clock. There was a 7 there and a 1 and was that a 5? No, it was an 8. 7:18. There was light outside behind the curtains so it was morning-okay, things were coming together. Then he made out the letters above the numbers: W E D S. Fuck, it was Wednesday morning-a workday. He had meetings to go to, people to see, deals to close.

Holding onto the bed, using all his might, he was able to stand. It was hard to stay upright, though. What was with the floor? He needed to shower, put on a suit, get to the fucking office. He took a couple of steps, almost fell, then a voice reminded him, You dont work anymore.

Then it all came back to him, how his whole life had been ruined by his former executive assistant-and, briefly, ex-fiance-that Greek-Irish whore, Angela.

Angela. Max wished he could strike that name from his brain, like they did in that Schwarzenegger movie, Totalwhat the fuck was the name of it? Max couldnt even watch TV anymore. Angelas Ashes, Angela Lansbury, Angela Bassett. Suddenly Angelas were fucking everywhere. Even on the street there were reminders-the hair, the tits, the sickening Irish accent. One day Max heard a tourist near Rockefeller Center go to his friend, Id fancy a pint me own self, and Max wanted to strangle the Guinness-loving fuck.

The first time Max had laid eyes on Angela and her incredible bust, he shouldve known how things would turn out. Big tits meant big trouble; every guy knew that. Max always listened to his instincts, but the one time he let his guard down-kaboom.

Things had been great before she came along all right; yeah, his life had been hopping. He was the fucking man, the head honcho, the big enchilada, you ask anyone. He was a player and he had freaking mega plans, he was riding that gravy train all the way to the goddamn zenith. He owned a successful computer networking company, lived in a spectacular town house on the Upper East Side. Then Angela came along. Fucking Angela. She was like a living curse, a goddamn virus.

And not only had the cunt wreaked havoc all over his perfect life, shed given him herpes! When you see those blisters in the morning while youre having a long lazy piss, you see agony, you see fucking terror.

After Angela ran off to Ireland-charging the flight on his AmEx-hed gotten revenge. One night he was drinking at some bar in the Bowery and he met a witch, Glinda. Her name wasnt really Glinda-he didnt know what the hell her name was-but that was what hed called her in his mind. Anyway, Max went to her, You mean you can cast spells?

Of course I cast spells, she said, as if offended. I said Im a witch, didnt I?

Max glared at her, then said, Yeah, well, I want you to put the evilest spell you can come up with on my ex-fiance. Make her life and everybodys life around her a total living hell.

The witch cast the spell, said it was the harshest shed ever done. Did Max sleep with her afterward? He vaguely remembered some wild, crazy woman, babbling about Wicca while he was banging her, but that couldve been a dream.

The witchs spell mightve ruined Angelas life, but it didnt make Maxs any better. So Max had been trying to drink Angela out of his mind. It had been working, too. Or at least hed thought it had been working until he wound up here. Wherever here was. And the sad truth was this wasnt the first time something like this had happened. Blackouts, those holy rollers in twelve-step programs called them. But this was worse than usual. Before now hed never gotten fucking lost.

After stumbling and wobbling into the bathroom, Max looked at a mirror, almost not recognizing the bum with swollen, bloodshot eyes and pasty white skin and strings of greasy gray hair hanging over his face. And why were his teeth all yellow, and was one missing?

Aw, Jeethus, he lisped. Or Jaythus, as that Irish cunt would say. Not a toof gone. Gimme me a fucking break.

Maxs big problem was, despite all hed been through over the past few months, his ego was all there. He mightve looked like a cesspool on the outside, but inside, he was still the same happening, suave, debonair, hip Max Fisher hed always been.

He splashed some cold water onto his face and toweled off and something clicked. The towels-they werent his. And the vanity and tiles-this wasnt his bathroom. Where the fuck was he?

He stutter-stepped back into his bedroom. Wait, it wasnt his bedroom, it was a fucking hotel room. He parted the curtains and brightness stung his eyes like he was Dracula getting out of his coffin. His eyes finally adjusted and he saw a parking lot. He was in a motel, on the ground floor.

Jeethus H, he said.

It took him a while to find his pants on the floor. They had stains all over them. He put them on, inside out first, then the right way.

Shirt, shirt, hells my shirt? he said, fumbling and stumbling around the room.

Finally he found a wife-beater T slung over a chair and put it on.

When he opened the door, the sunshine stung his eyes again. He went to the front of the motel, to the office. A young unshaven blond guy was on the phone.

Max stood there, rolling his eyes, while the guy took forever to get off the phone with his girlfriend or whoever. Max felt like raising hell for this kind of treatment-write letters, make phone calls, get this jackass fired. Firing people, this was Maxs gig, how hed risen to the top. And, by Christ, hed rise again.

Finally the guy hung up, said, Can I help you? and Max went, Where the fuck am I?

The kid gave Max a look like hed never heard the word fuck before, then said, The Golden Star Motel.

Where the fucks that, Jersey?

Another long look. Max wondered if the guy was retarded, had one of those learning disabilities. Or maybe he was dyslexic, was hearing everything backwards, like he thought Max was speaking Hebrew.

Finally the kid went, Youre not serious are, you?

Do I look like Im not fucking serious? I dont see buildings anywhere so I know Im not in goddamn Manhattan.

No pause this time, just, Sir, youre in Robertsdale, Alabama.

Max looked at him like he was full of shit, said, Youre full of shit.

The kid showed him a business card, a brochure. Shit, Alabama. And the kids accent wasnt Jersey; it had southern hick written all over it. That also explained why he was so slow, like everything Max said seemed to have to bounce off a satellite before reaching his brain. Didnt they fuck sheep or their sisters or both down here?

How the hell did I get here?

Long delay then, Well, according to what it says here on the computer, you checked in yesterday afternoon.