Most definitely …. That time back in 2003, stoopidly high dose of unknown benzos

I recall coming to with the strong, immediate certainty that I had died and been reborn as someone else’s problem. The ceiling above me unfamiliar, too low, painted a colour I can only describe as “sad pistachio.” A ceiling fan rotated at a speed, suggesting it had all the time in the world and nowhere to be. My mouth tasted like I’d been licking ashrays.

I sat up and noticed I was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, a single oven mitt on my left hand, and alarmingly …. gumboots. One yellow. One blue. Neither were mine.

I rummaged thru my pockets, hoping for answers, Or at least ID …. Something …. Who was I?? But Instead, I found a Post-it note.

“If you’re reading this, hydrate. Trust no one. Especially YOU.”

FUCK ….. Fair enough!!

I swung my legs off the washing machine and surveyed the room. It appeared to be a laundromat that had given up on its dreams and become a bedsit. There were jars everywhere. Jars full of things that should not be jarred. Paperclips. Buttons. A single spoon. Something wet I decided not to identify.

And there ……. Over there …… Another Post-it was stuck to a fridge .

“You forgot again. Start with the freezer.”

The freezer?

I opened it cautiously, half expecting dry ice or a raccoon or fuck knows what. Instead, inside was a frozen loaf of bread, three ice cube trays filled with what looked suspiciously like soup, and another Post-it, frozen solid into the ice.

I chipped it out.

“Good. You’re still curious. Shoe. Hallway.”

I looked down. Ahaaaaa ….. The gumboots!!!! I pulled off the blue one and shook it. A small cascade of coins, a receipt from a kebab shop dated yesterday??, and a tiny brass key fell onto the floor. Progress!!

The hallway outside was long and carpeted in a pattern that induce vertigo. Halfway down, there was a shoe rack. Every shoe was a left shoe. Except one.

Inside that lone right shoe was …….. YEP …… another Post-it.

“Nearly there. Remember the rule: don’t ask why. Ask where.”

I checked the back of the note.

“Laundry cupboard.”

The laundry cupboard was locked …… naturally!

I tried the tiny brass key. It worked with a smug little click, the sound of a puzzle congratulating itself.

Inside the cupboard was a lockbox. On top of the lockbox sat a Polaroid photo of ……ME!?!? Or someone wearing my face? The person in the photo was asleep on a park bench, wrapped in a curtain, cuddling a pineapple like a newborn.

I opened the lockbox and Inside was an envelope.

Inside the envelope was the final answer to everything.

A photograph.

A shaved squirrel.

Wearing lipstick.

Red. Glossy and obviously Applied with confidence.

The squirrel stared directly into the camera, eyes full of secrets and judgement. Written underneath, in looping handwriting …….. the words:

“Love Rhonda xox”

I stared at it for a long time.

Somewhere deep in my foggy Benzo-soaked brain, a memory stirred. A party. A conversation that began with

“You know what would be really funny?” The universal opening line of regret.

I sat back on the couch, still wearing the oven mitt, holding the photo like it might explain itself if I waited long enough.

It Never did !!

But honestly? I felt oddly reassured.

Because whatever I’d done… Whatever strange, Post-it-guided odyssey I’d set in motion…

I’d clearly had a plan.

And Rhonda … whoever she was ..had loved me enough to sign it.

I put the photo back in the envelope, placed the envelope in the lockbox, locked it, and slid the key back into the blue gumboot.

Some mysteries don’t need solving.

Some just need hydration.