The black door, and The Baxter.

You seldom awake in a place you can't recall. Rarely is that place a restaurant on the corner of Burnside called Kincaid's. Find yourself to have been sleeping over your pan seared Kobe steak, alone. You have no logical ideas for you current state, no explanation for whats going on. You can't remember anything at all about yourself, other than the obvious. You are alive. You are breathing. Seem to be well. You are not hurt or injured that you know of. You are the man sitting at table six. The brass plaque on the edge of the table says so. You have in your possession, a worn leather wallet that hold no identification, two hundred and fifty dollars cash. All in fifties. A Levenger fountain pen, black ink. A brief case holding a leather day calender. No plans written on any date, simply just a single line across each day, that you suppose has gone by. Using the pen from your pocket you discover the lines were in fact written with this pen. You write out the words "the man behind me will not take his sunglasses off." Looking over your shoulder once more you see the man in sun glasses. He is eating his potted montchevre in absolute solitude. He spreads the tomatoes, cheese, and garlic over the crustini and pours olive oil over the top. Never taking his face away from his plate. You become more nervous as nothing happens. You begin tapping your fingers on the table in front of you. Sun glasses looks at you as he hears you tapping, and you see him stuffing the end of a crustini in his mouth hastily. You quickly look down at your feet. Why are you wearing such stiff shoes... Must be new you tell yourself. Polished and glistening. Still wet at the tip. You look outside to see if it had been raining, and much to your surprise its absolutely dry. Cloudy and gray, but dry. You finally notice that you had previously knocked a glass of water over. It has since been sopped up with your napkin, which is soaking wet, and there is a remnant of an ice cube next to your plate. A bubbly woman wearing all black with an apron approaches your table. The silver name tag pinned to her perfect bust reads "Candice".
"would you like your steak boxed up Mr.*******?" You stammer at the sound of speech. It seems alien... Almost void.
"Um... actually no, I feel wrong..." Candice looks at you discerningly, and replies.
"Yes Mr*******. Will that be all?"
"My check I suppose..." You quiver faintly as you try to understand whats happening. You rest your head in your hands gently... A phone in your pocket rings. It startles you and you quickly fish it out of your left breast pocket. You press the little green button. Place the phone against your ear.
"Hello?"
"Hello Thomas. 8296907. This is your life now. 8296907. You will live now. Now you are safe. You will find a door. A black door. The back of the Baxter building. Second floor. Go now." Then the call ends.
What do you do after something like this? Run. Run like hell.