“Hey man,” Marshall said, “First time, I–no, wait…” He looked a bit closer. He headed that way on foot, and after half an hour, pushed open the door to Marshall’s Cigar and Briar, and found Marshall and Kyle chatting with a regular. On the outskirts, he supposed, but if Pigtown were a circle, Depot was at the southern end, and his apartment was more to the east, closer to the river and the docks. It was a few blocks before he could orient himself with a half remembered landmark or two, and determined he was, in fact, in Pigtown.
He left, key phone and wallet in his pockets, and started walking. He might live here, allegedly, but he didn’t have to stay here. Sure enough, the address on the ID looked to match the apartment number and location. The address was not his home address, but after throwing on the clothes, along with some socks and beat up work boots, he left. His name was on it, his picture looked how he imagined a halfway point between his youth of yesterday and face of today might have looked. The wallet had some cash, no cards, and an expired driver’s license. This one was substantially older, and much less functional. The thing that he’d knocked off the nightstand was a cell phone, though not the one he’d had. The pockets had a key–probably to the apartment, but nothing for a car. There were some clothes on the floor, some torn up jeans and a wifebeater. He went back into the apartment, the man knocked on the door a few times while Jimmy cowered on the bed, embarrassed and frightened and angry at himself, before the stranger gave up and left. Someone passing on the sidewalk looked up, saw him, gave a whistle, and headed for the stairwell–it was only then that Jimmy realized he was standing there, stark naked under the early afternoon sun. He knew of them, vaguely, like kids in the suburbs knew about “Chicago”, or “London”, places that existed but had no real bearing on their lives. He’d never known someone who lived in one either. It was a studio apartment, more like a hotel room, really, but Jimmy had never been inside one. He went to the other door, opened it up, expecting to find a living room, or some other part of a larger apartment, but all he found was a concrete balcony overlooking a parking lot. A little numb, like something had been pulled out of him, something he couldn’t quite name, the importance of which was only clarified by the shape and size of the hole once pulled free. Exhaustion, sure, after the night he’d just had.
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He left the bathroom, not sure how to untangle the emotions swirling in his chest. It was too raw and too close, the emotions all threatening to overwhelm him in a place that he didn’t know, that probably wasn’t safe, in a body that wasn’t even his own. He ran his fingers over them–that had just been the night before, hadn’t it? They felt healed over, and yet the memory was fresh, and he felt a strange stirring in his cock from the thought of it, the bite of it, remembering how good it had felt laying into the shade, and– A tunic of body hair, running up his chest, over his shoulders and down his back, interrupted by a few fresh scars running across it, from the Warden’s flogger. A body that looked strong, though not particularly pretty or handsome. A thick beard trimmed short all over his chin and jaw, climbing high up his cheeks. At least aged into his thirties, if not a bit closer to forty. He stumbled towards the bathroom, found a switch that flicked on the beauty lights, though the bulbs in only half of them functioned, and stared at his face with a dull disbelief. The weight of his arms as he reached up, the smell that came from his pits, stronger and rougher than what had been his boisterous, youthful scent. He swung his feet over the side of the bed gave a stretch, and that was when he got the first inkling that something about him was off. There was a kitchenette across from him, bare of dishes but not necessarily clean, a bathroom at one end which didn’t seem to have a door, and in the other direction, a door that he assumed led elsewhere in the apartment. There wasn’t much of anything to see, really. He rolled over on the double bed, back to the wall, and looked around for someone who might have found him and brought him here, but he was alone that he could see. Nowhere that he had ever been before, that he could remember. He was face down still, head pounding, and he rubbed his face with both hands, drilling fingers into his eyes until he saw spots, and then tried opening them again. One foot struck a wall that the bed was shoved up against, the other leg hit air, one arm knocked something off the bedside table that hit the ground with a thud, but not a crack. It wasn’t asphalt, but it also wasn’t his bed at home, though as he swung his arms and legs, flailing a bit, it could tell it was at least a bed. Jimmy woke up on something soft, but not that soft.
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