ECHOES OF A DISTANT TIME

ECHOES OF A DISTANT TIME


AN ORIGINAL SHORT STORY

BY

CHARLES H. SCOTT


         From the outside, the Classic Rock Cafe is little more than your typical neighborhood bar on a very busy weekend night.

         Inside, it's smoky and crowded and noisy.  Walls are covered with Rock 'n Roll memorabilia: posters of rock legends performing in concert, autographed guitars, drum heads and sticks, gold records and autographed backstage passes.  A 14ft TV screen hangs from ceiling in corner playing MTV videos without sound.

         Middle-aged women prowl the room with vampish intent, while the men seem preoccupied with their liquid forgetfulness.

         Joe, the bartender, acts as the sometimes social director, sometimes matchmaker and all times pseudo-psychologist, in addition to his duties as resident mixologist.

         Butch Winkler, an especially disconsolate man in his mid-30's, sits alone at the bar hunched over a watery scotch.  His lips move but no one is near enough that he could be talking to.  His hair is unruly.  Clothes and fingers soiled from grease.  He's in desperate need of a shave.  He downs his drink, orders another.

         A stranger's voice interrupts his thoughts.  "Don't you think you've had enough?"

         Joe the bartender simultaneously hands him his last drink.  "This is your last one pal -"

         Butch besottedly takes offense.  "What'd'ya mean I've had enough?"  Butch looks menacingly at Joe.

         Once again the stranger's voice intrudes.  "You're a pathetic drunken bum -"

         "Think I'm drunk do ya?"

         Joe has a bewildered look on his face.  "I didn't say nothing."

         But by now, Butch's attention is wholly focused on the bar mirror behind Joe.

                Joe looks around to see to whom Butch is speaking.  He sees nothing, just his and Butch's reflections.

         Butch spies a scraggy-haired, mid-twenties ROCK 'N ROLLER staring back at him in place of his own reflection.  Roughly the same size and build as Butch, with very similar facial structure.  The rocker's unkempt appearance is out of touch with the general crowd and makes him more than slightly anachronistic to this time and place.

         "Think I'm a bum -- that I got no money?"  Butch gets off his stool, digs deep into the jacket pocket, staggering slightly.  He slams some greasy bills and coins down onto the bar.

         Joe backs away.  "Look mister, I ain't lookin' for no trouble."

         "Neither'm I," Butch insists.

         "Funny how trouble just seems to have a way of finding you, isn't it?" the mirror reflection wonders aloud.

         Joe the bartender's response overlaps, "Just drink your drink and let me go on about my business."

         "All I want's to be left alone.  You hear me?  Just wanna be left alone," Butch says.  He looks first at the face reflected in the mirror, then to Joe and then back at the mirror.  He speaks aloud to reflection, "Just leave me ALONE."

         A patron at the other end of the bar waves at Joe saving him further grief.

         Butch goes back uneasily, wearily to his drink.

         Suddenly - and without warning like a shot in the night - the jukebox comes alive, blaring one of those catchy tunes with the silly but memorable chorus and outrageous guitar riffs popular in the middle 70's.

                The older crowd sways, reminiscing.

         A wild, half-mad look seizes Butch's face.  He glares hatefully at the jukebox.  "What's that?"

         Joe has by now returned to his end of the bar.  He glances warily at the mumbling Butch.

         The mirror reflection taunts Butch, "I thought you might like a little music.  I've heard it said that music "soothes the savage beast" within us.  Don't you agree?"

         Joe the bartender responds to Butch's question.  "Only jukebox music."

         "Turn it off!  You hear me?"  Butch clutches his head in obvious and tremendous discomfort.  He shouts to block out the pain.  "Turn it OFF!"

         Joe tries reasoning with Butch, "Take it easy, buddy.  Relax."  Joe, an old hand at handling drunks, talks soothingly, "Everything's gonna be alright."

         "Don't believe that for a minute.  Nothing's all right.  And it won't be until - well, you know."

         Butch begins shouting at the mirror.  "Shut up!  Shut UP!!  SHUT UP!!!"

         The patron tries to calm him so Joe can be free to react.  "What's wrong, pal.  Get a hold of some bad ice?" the patron laughs at his obscure joke.

         Butch doesn't notice him.  His attention is riveted on the jukebox.  Recognition plays across his vacant eyes, but he is soon overcome by a searing pain in his head.

         Joe's not sure what to make of Butch.  He eases towards phone hanging under bar.

                The patron puts his hand on Butch's arm to calm him.  Before he knows it, Butch launches the patron off his stool and into a jumbled heap on the floor.

         Butch screams, "I can't stand it.  TURN IT OFF!"

         "If it bothers you that much, you turn it off," the reflection offers with a cruel smile.  "If you can, that is."

         Butch picks up his drink glass, flings it sidearm at the mirror's reflection.  It smashes with a resounding crash of glass.

         Joe and the patron move slowly, cautiously towards Butch.

                All activity in the bar has ceased.  The patrons anxiously wait to see what this madman will do next.  They don't wait long as the pace of events quickly escalates.

         Butch recovers his senses then heads for the jukebox.

         Joe vaults over bar counter like an Olympic gymnast, heading Butch off before he reaches it.

         Butch is a man on a mission.  "Must stop the music.  I must STOP -"

         The entire bar becomes funereal.  Everyone stares on not knowing what to expect next and not wanting to miss whatever is about to happen.

         In the hushed room the music is all the louder.

         Joe the bartender has reached the limits of his patience.  "Hold it right there, buster."  Joe interposes himself between Butch and the offending jukebox, ready to defend it with his life if need be.  No small man, his size would discourage most sane men.  But at the moment, Butch isn't acting within the bounds of sanity.

         Joe talks at Butch, "I'll have to ask you to leave."  Swiftly, Joe takes matters and Butch into his own hands.  He shoves Butch towards the door.  Instead of dissuading him, Joe's efforts galvanize Butch's resolve.

                Turning on Joe with seemingly superhuman strength, Butch throws Joe out of his path and proceeds towards the jukebox in the background.

                Joe jumps to his feet, grabs Butch from behind, swinging a hay-maker at Butch's head.  Butch ducks.  Joe's blow glances off Butch's temple.  Butch becomes further enraged.  Taking hold of Joe's arm, twists it and then he swings him like a professional wrestler releasing him and causing Joe to strike his head on the bar stool's foot rung, rendering him temporarily immobile and semi-conscious.

         Butch resumes his advance on the jukebox.  Upon reaching it, he relentlessly smashes his clenched fists into it like they were lifelong adversaries.

                Appearing in the plexiglas cover of the jukebox, the reflection ridicules Butch.  "It's time to face the facts, pal.  There's no place you can run, no place you can hide, that I can't find you."

                Butch pummels the plexiglas cover trying in vain to beat the reflection and the jukebox into submission.  But still it plays on louder, mocking Butch's futile efforts at silencing it.

         Finally, the song ends.

         Butch blinks in astonishment immediately coming to his senses as if awakening from a trance.  He glances around at the shocked faces for a moment, leaning on the beaten-up jukebox for strength and support.

         The patron has by now crawled behind bar and called the police.  Someone helps an unsteady Joe to his feet.

         Butch dashes headlong out of the Classic Rock Café, crashing through the front door.  He stumbles down the steps running before he fully regains his footing.  Shooting a feral glance over his shoulder, he races down the narrow street with reckless abandon.  He cuts through cars parked curbside, slashes thru speeding traffic as irate drivers blast their horns anf yell obscenities at him.

         A police car stops outside bar.  One of the officers jumps out of the patrol car.  He draws his gun, raises it and aims at Butch's retreating figure as  Butch's shadow disappears around the corner.

         The song begins again.  It carries over, crescendos as Butch reels up the stairs of a seedy apartment building.  The music comes into the room as the door opens.

                Butch enters the drab, depressing, one-room apartment, breathing heavy and dripping sweat.  He removes his jacket.  Flings it off into the gloomy darkness.
He rushes to the table where a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey waits impatiently calling to him.  Butch anxiously clutches the bottle in his shaking fists.  Raises it to his desert-dry lips.  Kills it in one desperate, gulping swallow.  He chokes against the grain alcohol's taste and bite.  Wipes his muttering lips with the back of his shaking right hand.  Perhaps he is attempting to drown out the music with a tidal wave of cheap whiskey.

         But the music plays on if only slightly muted.

                Butch holds his aching head, staggers unsteadily as he loses his balance, collapsing into a fetal position on the bed.  He buries his head in a pillow in a vain attempt to shut out everything.

         Agonized sobs rack Butch's body.  "What's happening to me?"
Butch holds back volcanic emotions that, if given free reign, would soon rend him apart.  He dissolves into restless, fitful sleep.

                A gray, dull afternoon outside a lonely gas station.  Weak sunlight cuts thru hazy skies.  Nothing special as gas stations go.  It has the basics: gas pumps, air and water hoses that seldom work properly, one hydraulic car lift stuck half-way up (or is it half-way down?), a shabby office and an out-of-order soda machine.

         Several cars in various states of assembly (or more likely, dis-assembly) litter the property, along with a vintage 1966 Mustang convertible that has seen its better years long since past.

         A brand new sports car drives over a pneumatic bell.  It dings twice.  The driver, Libby Fanok, is in her mid-30's and very beautiful.  She sits behind the wheel of a powder-blue Lotus Esprit convertible.  She is cool, confident and distant.  The sort of woman who knows what she wants and always gets it.

         The car radio plays last strains of "Stairway To Heaven".

         An attendant approaches from behind the car.

         Libby speaks with a naturally seductive low voice.  "Fill it up with premium."

         The attendant nears the driver's side.  Only now does she notice the attendant's name sewn onto his shirt.  It reads "BUTCH".  He stands there momentarily looking down on her.  His eyes widen as he takes her beauty in.

         Libby offers him the key to the locking gas cap.  Their hands touch.  A spark of electricity passes between them.  Their eyes meet, linger on each other briefly.

         Butch is the first to snap out of it.  He shakes his head, returns to the business at hand.  He unlocks gas cap.  Pumps gas.

                Libby adjusts the side and rear view mirrors looking at him the whole time.  An all too brief and sudden image flashes into the mirror: it is the reflection Butch saw at the Classic Rock Cafe, the face of the stranger.  Startled, she takes a sharp breath.  The image is replaced by Butch's confused look as he pumps gas and looks back at her.

                Butch fails to notice her reaction.  He returns hose to the pump then turns back to her.  "That'll be eight-fifty," Butch says, checking her out.  "Cash or charge?"

         Libby hands him a credit card.

                He walks over to the gas pump island, runs a charge slip, writes down her license plate number, amount of purchase and quantity of gas.  Butch passes it through window for her signature.

                Libby looks him over real good.  "This may sound strange, but you look familiar."

         Butch replies matter of factly, "People are always mistakin' me for someone they used to know."

         "Have we met before?" Libby inquires.

         Butch takes the slip from her, tears off copy, gives it to her.  "Not likely.  I'd never forget a woman like you.  Unless, of course, it was in some former life."

         "It's strange, I know, but for a second there I thought ... I thought you were someone I used to know."

         Butch isn't sure if she's sincere or just having fun at his expense.  He doesn't like to be made fun of.  A bit impatient, "Where would a guy like me meet a beautiful woman like you?"  It being a rhetorical question, he awaits no reply.  Instead he turns, heads back towards the shabby little office.

         Libby sits there for a long moment watching as he heads inside the station.  She is very perplexed.  Finally, shrugging it off, she selects a cassette tape from a large case, inserts it into the stereo then presses play.  The same song from earlier in the bar emerges thru the Blaupunkt speakers.  She turns up volume, gyrates to the rhythm of the pulsating beat.

         Butch's complete attention is drawn to the music just as she peels out.  Once again he appears in extreme pain as if the song was the cause of his discomfort.  He wraps his fingers around his ears in an effort to block out the music; the violent shaking of his head shows it's to no avail.  He stumbles back into gas station office.  Music grows louder until the chorus drowns out all other sound.

         A car pulls up to pumps.  The driver honks his horn several times.

         Butch doesn't hear it as now the music is inside his head, wreaking havoc like a swarm of bees buzzing in his gray matter.

         The driver gets out and takes a few steps towards the office.  Butch's back is to him.  The driver stands in the doorway.  He spins Butch around by his arm, ready to lecture him on the meaning of good service.  But when he sees the twisted features of Butch's anguish, he runs to his car without looking back.  Takes off like the hounds of Hell were nipping at his heels.

         Butch slumps into the desk chair, lays his head on the oil splotched desk, covering it with his arms.  He cries, not knowing exactly why or what's wrong or what to expect next.

         Sunday in the park: picnickers, joggers, Frisbee dogs with their owners and ethnic youths with ghetto blisters on "permanent hearing impaired".  Butch comes walking along a walkway parallel to the road that winds its serpentine path thru the park.  He heads toward entrance in no particular hurry, just mostly killing time.  His eyes downcast, he aimlessly wanders into the roadway.

         Tires screech nearby.  A horn blares before Butch realizes he's nearly gotten wiped-out by the Lotus driven by Libby.  Only this time she's not alone.  Accompanying her is Antonio Schmeck, an unsavory, unpleasant Italian.  Antonio shoots a hateful look Butch's way.  He leans over, blasting the horn at the hapless Butch.

         "Watch where you're going, asshole.  What's wrong with you?"

         Butch pays him no mind, only stares at Libby.  She stares right back.  Something about her is familiar.  Now he'd swear he'd seen her face before.

                Libby appears embarrassed by Antonio's behavior.  Antonio grows increasingly impatient and points up the hill.  A small crowd looks on from a distance.  "Find some other way ta do you'self in if that's your thing."  Antonio barks impatiently, "Let's go, Libby."

         Butch steps off the road allowing Libby to drive past.  Their eyes meet and hold in the rear view mirror.  They exchange a look approaching recognition till she vanishes around the next turn.

         Butch continues down the path another 20 yards when, abruptly, everything becomes horribly distorted.  Images flash across his mind's eye.  Images unrelated to and unfounded on any living memory.  Images such as: families on a private jet landing at LAX; limousines; backstage rock concert preparations; a long haired musician bows to thunderous applause.  These images seem so real to him -- but how can they be?

         Butch crumples to his knees in the middle of the grass field again holding his head in unfathomable pain.  He screams out something undecipherable just before everything goes black.

         Inside a Hospital psychiatric observation ward some days later where the time of day or night is uncertain -- there are no windows or clocks in this room --Butch is strapped down in bed with multiple restraining devices.  He is awake and semi-alert.

         Doctor Jay and nurse Riddle examine his chart.

         A dull-eyed Butch asks, "How long?"

         Doctor Jay hands the chart to Nurse Riddle.  "Three days.  You came in here on Sunday after passing out in Griffith Park."  Doctor Jay takes the chart back from Nurse Riddle.  "Remember?"

         Butch is groggy but responsive.  "Vaguely.  Where is here?"

         Doctor Jay replies, "Psychiatric observation ward at County General."

         Butch tries to sit up then notices the restraints.  A concerned look flashes across his face.  "These really necessary?"

         "For the time being."  Doctor Jay makes a note in chart.  "When the paramedics brought you in, you were unconscious.  Then, as you regained consciousness, you became violent, like someone on PCP."

         "I don't do drugs," Butch retorts.

         "We know that now.  All the tests were negative for illicit or prescription drugs.  You said you were hallucinating, seeing faces talking to you in the mirror."

         "Not talking to me - talking AT me."  Butch inquires gravely, "Give it to me straight Doc, am I losing my mind?  You know, cracking up, coming apart at the seams?"

         Doctor Jay assumes his best psychiatrist's stone face.  He pulls on an earlobe, "Frankly, I don't know.  You tell me."

         "Wish I knew."

         "Has this happened before?"

         "A few times.  But only recently."

         Doctor Jay makes another note in Butch's chart.  "What triggers these episodes?"

         "I can't be sure.  But lately loud music.  One rock and roll song especially makes me lose it."

         "When you say lose it, what do you mean?"

                "I can't explain - it's like nothing I ever felt before."

         "Try," Doctor Jay entreats.  "It may help."

         "You ever hear a song on the radio, you know, one that you can't stop singing in your head?  Now matter how hard you try, it plays over and over, night and day, day and night, until you can't escape it?"

         Nurse Riddle interjects, "That's happened to me."

         Doctor Jay shoots her a "let him talk" look.

         "Only with this song, it's like someone jams a red-hot poker through my eyes and into my head.  I can't make the pain go away as long as the song is inside my head."

         Doctor Jay nods meaningfully.  Notes this too in the chart.  "Any idea why this particular song would elicit such a violent response?"

         "None.  It's not my even kind of music."

         "Tell me, Mr. Winkler, what are your earliest memories?"

         "That's the thing, Doc ... I can't remember anything for very long until about seven years after -- I mean ago."

         "How is your sleep at nights?"

         Butch leans back in bed, gets as comfortable as the hospital bed and straight-jacket restraints will allow.  "Haven't had a good night's sleep in I don't know how long."

         "Do you drink excessively?"

         "What's excessive?"

         "More than two drinks a day."

         Butch shows a fleeting sheepish grin.  "It helps me forget ..."

         "What are you trying so hard to forget?"

         "I can't say.  But whatever it is, I sure as hell don't want to remember, I know that much for sure."
         
                Doctor Jay turns to Nurse Riddle.  He makes a final note in the chart and hands it to her.

                Nurse Riddle walks over to the stainless-steel countertop.  She reaches above and opens a cabinet.  Withdrawing a small bottle, she takes a syringe from the drawer then she prepares a hypodermic needle that she then hands to Doctor Jay.

         Butch reacts wide-eyed.  "What's that?"

         "Something to help you sleep."

         "Good.  I could use some."

         Doctor Jay jabs Butch's upper arm.  Butch winces.  Doctor Jay injects the medication then Nurse Riddle rubs the pearl-droplet of blood and the area around the shot with an alcohol swab.

         "That stuff burns," Butch complains.

         "Only for a moment.  Just relax, let it take effect."

         "What can I expect, Doc?"

         "Your eyelids will become heavy.  You'll feel drowsy and ..."

         "And then?"

         "You'll sleep."

         Forty minutes later Butch is in heavy R.E.M. sleep.  His eyes dance about underneath closed lids.  Even with the restrains he tosses and turns fitfully.

                Closed before, the curtains are now parted revealing what seems to be a window -- it's really a one-way mirror.  On the other side, Dr. Jay and Nurse Riddle observe Butch.

         "Whatever's doing this is somehow related to a past he can't or won't remember," Dr. Jay speculates.

         "Could it be post-traumatic stress like Vietnam vets?"

         "Perhaps.  Or maybe it's cluster headaches or migraines or multiple personality disorder or ..." his words trail off.

         "Poor guy.  How long can this last?"

         "That's impossible to determine.  I'm not sure what he has, but it's not amnesia.  At least, I don't think so," Dr. Jay says, circumspectly. "Whatever it is, the answer's locked inside his head."  Their reflected image too observes Butch thru mirror.
 
                Close in on Butch's eyes just before they snap unexpectedly open.  Butch stares sightlessly at the ceiling.

         The same fervid, feverish flash of images from before capture his mind, only this time there are others like: the tail-end of a car leaving the road, smashing into a large, unbending tree, bursting into flames upon impact; a woman's outline, her profile appearing as a kirlian apparition come alive -- she entreats him to come to her, imploring him without words, as a formless yet beautiful face, greatly resembling Libby, materializing before him as if viewed through a fish-eye lens.

         Butch's body contorts as his mind fills with these unknown, disconnected and therefore disturbing mental pictures.  Sweat collects in pools from his saturated hair.  He twitches involuntarily.

         Bright sunshine streams cheerfully into the semi-private room Butch has been moved to.  Only now he is clean-shaven and groomed, creating a noticeable difference.

         A TV set attached to the wall gives forth one of those myriad variety talk shows so common in the afternoon.  Butch isn't watching at the moment as his eyes are closed.  The host, Reg O'Donaho, an aging bon vivant from the early days of TV, greets his lovely guest on stage.  This guest happens to be Libby.  She and Reg shake hands and take their seats on the set to the applause of the studio audience.
              Libby's manner denotes one who is accustomed to celebrity status and being in the public eye.

         "My, you're looking good Libby," Reg greets her.

         "Thanks, Reg.  Good seeing you again."

         "It's been more than 6 years since you last appeared on our show, ever since ..."  He stops mid-sentence.

         She holds herself erect, a proud woman.  We can tell by her answers that she is accustomed to these particular questions.  "Ever since Bennie disappeared."

         "Does it bother you to talk about him after all these years?"

         Libby offers up a brave smile.  "Not so much anymore.  At first, I couldn't hear his name or his music without crying.  But now ..." she wipes away errant tear, "... it's only every other time."  She forces another smile, her courage is heartening.

                Close in on Butch's eyes before they snap open.  Butch stares sightlessly at the ceiling.

         "Doesn't seem like it's been that long ago, does it?"

         "Yes and no.  His music's still played on all the classic rock radio stations.  And those gossip sheets are always dredging up rumors that he's still alive and living in Mars, PA."  She sighs heavily, "But, in other respects, it seems much longer."

         Reg acknowledges a cue from the stage manager.  "I'm talking to Libby Fanok, wife of seminal rock guitarist Bennie Koff who disappeared 7 years ago."  He speaks to the camera as if it was the audience.  "Stay with us.  We'll be right back after these important words from our sponsors."

         Reg puts a comforting hand on Libby's arm as the audience clapping gives way to a tampon commercial on the studio monitor.

                Nurse Riddle brings Butch's lunch.  He sits up.  She rolls the bedside stand over his bed, places tray before him.  Then she removes cover to reveal an assortment of bland, creamed foods.

                He is very disappointed and it shows.  "How about some regular food for a change?"

         Nurse Riddle admonishes Butch, "You get what the doctor orders."  She leaves him to feed himself.

         He pokes at a creamy mixture of beets, apple sauce, bullion broth and jello.  But eats little.

                On the TV, the commercials have ended.  Theme music comes up and over accompanied by rising audience applause.  Libby and Reg are in their chairs center stage where we left them.

         "Tell us about your new book, Libby."  Reg holds a copy of a new hardcover book as the cameras zoom in for close shot, before he hands book over to her.  On the cover is a picture of Libby and a long-haired rocker- type backstage at a concert.

                Libby takes a deep breath before starting.  "Well, it took me 3 years to write.  It's about Bennie.  His music.  Our relationship and his mysterious disappearance 7 years ago next month."

         "If I'm not mistaken, that happened after he crashed his sports car into a tree?"

         "That's right."  She holds up picture.  "It was right after a concert.  He often went driving after a major gig.  Said it calmed his nerves."

         "But it was foggy that night --"

         "Yes, and it was pouring down rain.  The road was flooded --"

                Reg leans forward in his chair, anxious to ask his next question.  "Was he driving intoxicated?"

         Libby's reaction tells she's used to this question.  "Definitely not.  He'd never drink and drive.  The summer before Bennie disappeared his drummer was killed by a hit-and-run, drunk driver."

         "I remember that.  Bennie was devastated by it."

         "Yeah, Bennie thought it was such a stupid waste."

         "Had he been drinking that night?"

         She shakes her head emphatically no, "He never drank before or during a show.  He believed it wasn't fair to his fans.  That night, he left right after coming off stage."

         "And you haven't seen him since."

         "No one has."

         "The car burned.  They never found a body.  What happened to him?"

         "I don't know.  That's why I wrote this book called: "HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?"  She holds book cover facing camera which zooms in on the man.  The face, the image that both Butch and Libby saw in the mirrors, stares back at her.  Uncannily, it resembles Butch as he might have looked some seven  years ago.

         "Bennie may be gone but he's not forgotten."  His words are spoken gravely, "Bennie's legion of fans believe he's still alive.  Do you think he's dead?"

         Libby nods and shakes her head yes.  "He'll always be alive to me.  On a more practical note, however, the administrator is having him declared legally dead next week, the seventh anniversary of his disappearance, so his estate can be settled."  Her plucky courage apparent when she says, "Ooh-blah-dee, ooh-blah-da, life goes on."  Libby smiles to hold back the tears.

         "To aid in your search, we've had an artist take a photo of Bennie as he looked just before his disappearance and, using computer enhancement, render it to approximate what Bennie might look like today."  Reg produces the altered picture and presents it to camera to his right.  This picture is a dead ringer for Butch as he looks today.

         "I'd like to thank my guest today, Libby Fanok, wife of 70's rock star Bennie Koff, whose disappearance seven years ago remains an unsolved mystery today."  Reg hands the photo to Libby.

         Evoking a memory, it strikes her motionless.  She stares blankly at the picture.

         Butch sighs listlessly over the uneaten food.  His mind wanders between it, the TV and his problems.  Something on TV draws his attention.  The studio band works through its deplorable rendition of the now familiar song as the show's final credits roll.

         Butch presses the remote control on/off button.  But the TV plays on, only louder.  He slams control box on bed railing.  Still, the TV plays on.  A guitar riff shoots through the TV speaker, penetrating deeply into his gray matter.  Butch's head shoots back against the pillow.  He grabs his watery right eye as if it offended him and he very soon might wrench it out of its socket.

         "Make it stop, please, make it stop," he shouts out, "God, what's happening to me?"

         Nurse Riddle and an attendant come running into his room.  They push him deeper into the bed.  The attendant holds Butch down while she hurriedly gives him a shot.

         Butch acts like a man in midst of delirium tremens, fighting them and trying to climb out of the bed simultaneously.  Again the images machine gun across his field of vision: a rapid fire montage of someone else's nightmare.

         Mercifully, before too long the shot takes effect.  He dozes off into fretful sleep.

                A few weeks later, singing birds and budding flowers announce spring's arrival.  Butch gathers his belongings, preparing to leave.

                Doctor Jay makes last minute notes to his chart.  "This medication should lessen both the frequency and intensity of the voices and hallucinations," Dr. Jay states as he hands Butch a vial of pills.

         "Then there's no hope that ..." Butch is completely dysphoric, "... I'll ever be well again?"

         "Not necessarily.  Amnesia like yours, if that's what it is, is extremely rare."  Dr. Jay's tone belies the serious nature of Butch's condition.  "There is no effective cure or known treatment that will restore lost memories.  We can only treat symptoms and hope for the best of all outcomes.  But, as you seem to be functioning --"  He says half-joking, "Perhaps if you were to re-live the trauma that brought this condition on it would prove cathartic causing your past to come back in a flash."

         "In other words, what you're saying is that I'm a man with no past and even less of a future."

         Dr. Jay shrugs his shoulders, half nods.  "I'm sorry I can't be more precise."

         "My life in a nutshell.  No beginning.  No end.  Just a vast, lost wasteland of nothingness in between.  No past to remember.  No future to look forward to.  And the present leaves me no place to hide."

         Doctor Jay shakes his head disconcertedly.  "There's nothing more I can do."  They shake hands.  "Best of luck, Butch."

         "Thanks Doctor Jay."

         Doctor Jay walks out of the room leaving Butch alone with his growing uncertainties regarding his recent and distant past and his immediate future.

                Libby drives into the gas station where Butch was working when she was here before.  She glances around.

                The attendant on duty approaches.  "Yes, ma'am.  What can I get you?"

         "Where's the other guy?"

         "What other guy?"

         "The other guy that works here?"

         "There ain't no one else.  Just me," the attendant assures her.

         Libby fishes in her briefcase, retrieves a manila file folder.  She removes the computer enhanced 8 by 10 photo.  "I was here last month.  There was a dark-haired, middle-aged man."  Libby shows him the photo.

         He studies the photo real hard.  "I'll be damned if'n that don't look just like Butch."

         Libby recalls the name badge.  "Butch.  Yes, that's his name."

         "Butch Winkler, yes ma'am.  But he don't work here no more."

         "What happened?"

         "I'm not rightly sure myself.  He jus' stopped coming to work about a month ago.  Just up and left.  I ain't seen or heard from him since."

         "Do you know where I might find him."

         "No ma'am, I surely don't."  The attendant shakes his head no to underscore his certainty.

         "It's very important.  A life may be at stake."

         "I'm really sorry, but I can't help you."

         A look of panic settles deep in her eyes.

         Butch sits behind the wheel of an old and battered 1966 Mustang convertible.  While it looks like a piece of vintage shit, the car's throaty rumble speaks for its perfect working condition.  Though still worried, a calmness has settled over his face.

         As he passes a highway sign his mind flashes back on the same sign at another time.  Bennie's face suddenly appears in the rear view mirror.  Just as swiftly it disappears.  The image jangles his nerves.  Butch guides his car onto the off ramp.

         Inside a highway public restroom, Butch splashes cold water on his flushed face.  He stands before the mirror gazing hopelessly at his own reflection.  All of a sudden, his mirror image changes.  Through a slow evolution, his reflection transforms to look exactly like the picture of Bennie Koff on TV.  As if this isn't enough to rattle Butch's tenuous grasp on reality, the reflection again begins speaking.

         "It's time, Bennie."

         Butch is dumbfounded, confused.  "What?"

         "I said it's time.  Time for you to move on."

         Not believing his eyes, or is it his ears, he spins around quickly.  But no one else is there.  He shakes his head violently trying to dislodge the troublesome, omnipresent voice.

         "Hey, Bennie, over here.  I'm talking to you, man."

         Butch responds to the misnomer by gradually returning to the mirror where he finds his -- or rather Bennie's -- reflection staring back.

         "Surprised?"

         "Who are you?"

         "What'sa matter, Bennie ..." the mirror image laughs, "don't you recognize me.  You.  Us."

         "My name's not Bennie.  It's Butch.  Butch Winkler."

         "You're sorely mistaken."  The mirror image turns its head slightly.  "You are, or rather were, Bennie Koff, rock guitarist extraordinaire."

         He's dead.  He died in a car accident.  I saw it on TV."

         "You can't believe everything you see on TV.  What's the matter?  Don't believe your own eyes and ears?

         Bennie looks despondently at the mirror's image.  "I don't know what to believe anymore.  I can't explain it, exactly ..."

         "Then how do you explain me?"

         "I don't try explaining shit I don't understand."

         Smiling, the mirror image responds, "That sounds reasonable."

         Butch mumbles to himself, "What's reasonable?"  Now he isn't sure whether he's crazy or not as he gazes at the reflection.

              "Don't think I can't hear you just because you whisper.  Are you forgetting I'm inside your head?"

              "How could I?  Tell me now, why're you here?  What do you want?"

         "You asking what my reason for existing is, or why I'm here right now?"

         "Here and now."

         "I'm here to save our soul."

         Butch looks incredulous at the reflection.  You're crazy."

         "Me!?  I'm crazy, huh?"  The mirror image appears very amused indeed.  "You're the one standing in the highway men's room conversing with a reflection you disavow," the mirror image stated with a twisted smile.  "What's that make you?"

         Butch smiles, chagrined, despite himself.  "Crazy too, I suppose."

         The reflection is pleased, but shakes his head no.  "No, you're not crazy.  Leastways, no crazier than most."

         Butch's eyes are filled with seven years of loneliness and pain.  It's nice to have someone to talk to even if it is an illusory reflection of a dead rock star.

         "What's this all about then?"

         "Responsibility.  You don't face up to your responsibilities.  You left much unfinished business.  It's time to settle your worldly affairs and let the living go on with their lives."  The mirror image pauses a moment to reflect.  "It's also time for Bennie to complete the transition to the world beyond the living."

         Butch looks sideways at Bennie's reflection.  "I swear I never heard of the guy till last week on TV."  He shakes his fist at reflection.  "Don't you think I know who I am?"

         "That's just it, Bennie.  You don't."

                "This is just plain nuts.  I know who and what I am."

         "Who are you?  Butch or Bennie?  You say you know.  But deep down inside, there's more than a shadow of doubt.  But I know you know who you really are."

         Butch is livid with disbelief.  "This is too much."

         "Can you think of a more reasonable explanation for my presence?"

         "I already told you I don't know what's reasonable anymore."

         "What other explanation is there?"

         "How should I know?  Butch sneers at the mirror reflection.  "You tell me.  You claim to have all the answers."

         "Once I thought I had all the answers.  Man, I knew it all.  You couldn't tell ol' Bennie Koff anything he didn't already know better than anyone.  Everything to me was mind over matter.  If I didn't mind, then how could it matter?"

         Butch takes one final swipe thru his hair with a comb.  He's heard more than he cares to.  "I may not know how to explain you, but I can shut you up easily enough."  Without another word, Butch turns his back, spins on his heels and starts to leave.

                The mirror's image appears in the glass window of the men's room door ahead of Butch.  "I'm not something you can simply turn your back on and walk away from.  I won't go away that easy."

         Without an avenue of escape, Butch is drawn reluctantly back to the mirror.  Exasperated, Butch gives in and implores the reflection to explain it all.  "What's this all mean then, you tell me?"

         "You're dead, pal, only your body doesn't know it yet."

         Butch plays along, "If I'm dead, what's keeping my body alive?"

         "Libby's undying love."

         "That's impossible."

         "Is it now?  Impossible you say?"  The reflection looks at Butch from out of the corner of its eyes.  "That's a much misused word."

         "It can't happen.  When you're dead you're dead.  That's it.  Pure and simple."

         "It's neither pure nor simple."  The mirror image gets reflective.  "Have you ever seen a chicken right after its head is cut-off?  It runs around a while until the body gets the message.  In your case, your body was crushed in the collision, only your spirit was so strong it refused to die.  That's why your memory goes back only seven years."

         "I have a kind of amnesia that can cause long-term memory loss."

         Bennie's face in the mirror reflects its growing frustration.  "For all these  years, Libby has kept your spirit alive through her undying love and hopeful search."  The reflection speaks slow, deliberate.  "Tomorrow, when Libby accepts that you -- meaning Bennie -- are officially declared dead, you shall finally die.

         Butch is beside himself.  "It's a lie.  It can't be!"

         "You see, Butch, death is not the end of life, it is merely a change from a physical body to a purely spiritual existence."

         "That can't be true!"

         "Believe what you will.  What was meant to be shall be."

         Butch is speechless.  He tries to absorb it all but is unable.  Butch punches his reflection, or rather that of Bennie smashing the mirror and gashing his wrist.  Blood gushes from the jagged wound.

         Butch drives along the deserted, lonely stretch of highway.  His head is spinning from the conversation with his past, woozy from the loss of blood.  He has a ghostly pallor.  He sweats despite the chilly air.  Still, a smile steals across his face.  Something about driving at night calms his nerves.

         He turns up the radio, spins dial thru static to a "classic rock" station.  The final gong at the end of "Nights in White Satin" by the Moody Blues sounds.

         A top-forty radio DJ speaks to the faceless masses, "That was "NIGHTS IN WHITE SATIN" by the Moody Blues.  He draws a deep breath.  "This next song goes out to Bennie Koff who disappeared seven years ago today.  We miss you, Bennie, but you'll always live in our hearts."

         Bennie's song segues right into airwaves.  This time instead of turning it off Butch turns it up determined to face the music so to speak.  The road rushes by under Butch's spinning wheels as the wind whips thru his thinning hair.  Butch's eyes dart about the countryside; he's been on this road before, he's sure of it now, though he can't quite remember when.

         "I've passed this way before," he says aloud.

         As if answering his own statement, memories flood back all at once.  He flashes back to capacity crowds waving their flickering lighters held aloft, loudly screaming for another encore.  Bennie Koff strides center stage.  Clad in tight black leather pants, he symbolizes the youthful zeal and sexual tension emblematic of adolescent angst and parental rebellion.

         The band takes their places behind him.

         "Thank you," Bennie says, eyes gleaming.  "We'd like to thank you for being here tonight despite the rain and close with a tune from our first album."

         Final notes of the now familiar song fades.  Fans explode with approval.

         Backstage - immediately after concert Bennie and Libby argue without being overheard.  Bennie storms off.

                Outside the arena, it rains profusely.  A few minutes later, Bennie hops in his car.  Libby tries to catch him, but his car pulls away with tires squealing and rear end fish-tailing.  Bennie's car tears down highway.  Blinded by fury and tears of rage, he swerves across dividing line.

         Up ahead Butch spots a sign, follows it with his eyes as he passes it.  Out of the blue, a car swerves at him from the opposing lane.  He banks hard right, avoids a head-on collision.  But, in the process, he loses control of his car.  It runs off the road, slams into a large, unyielding tree.

                The car bursts into flames.

         Butch lies there all bloody and contorted.  He makes no effort to extricate himself from the burning auto.  Nearing death, yet he smiles contentedly.  For now it all makes perfect sense.  Like the echoes of a distant time reverberating in the present, he has come full-circle.  What lies ahead is unknown but no longer dreaded.

         "Now I understand.  I'm free at last."

         Back at the Classic Rock Cafe, a TV plays the evening news already in progress.  A reporter reads the copy.  "In a final twist to the disappearance of rock star Bennie Koff following a one car crash on the old highway --" they key in insert shots of accident scene, then and now, "another crash at the same exact location occurred last night, also involving one car.  The body, first identified as Butch Winkler, address unknown, is reported to actually be the body of Bennie Koff, 70's rock guitarist who disappeared seven years ago tyesterday."

         They cut back to reporter.

         "Where he had been all these years and why he ended up at the crash site seven years to the day of his disappearance will for ever remain a mystery."


THE END