Jerry
I addressed the young stranger sitting alone on a park bench:
"Hi, I'm Jason Bills." His handshake was firm, his smile uncertain
but warm.
"Hello, Jason. I--I don't know my name or where I am!"
And so began the odd but fulfilling relationship between the amnesiac
and my entire little sheltered Southern town. Enveloping him in
concern and love, we created "Jerry" and a life for him, making him
brother, son, friend to us all. We took pride in our--uh, invention--gladly
taking care of his needs and wants. He did odd jobs quite skillfully; we,
of course, paid him in cash.
At first, we asked few questions, since he so quickly became nervous.
Then, after a few weeks, the town's conscience reared its accusing head,
demanding that we make an all-out effort to awaken his past. Loved ones
surely were grieving and searching for him.
We weren't very subtle. We probed and prodded: "Any memories,
even vague ones, of family? Past surroundings? Profession? Hobbies?
Religious faith? Problems that might've traumatized . . . ?"
By then, "Jerry" was trembling, almost in tears. "I--I just don't
remember--ANYTHING. I'm sorry!"
We promised, "Okay, Jerry, no more interrogations! Some day soon,
maybe we can contact authorities to help us discover who you are.
Surely you, deep down, want to know."
Jerry's smile was gone. The next day, so was he.
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