Flash Fiction: Confusion by Mark Tulin

Confusion set in a few years ago, but recently its gotten worse. Before my mind went blank, I could remember the general direction of where the car was parked. 

Confusion 

Confusion, by Mark Tulin
12/3/2018
 
Oh, no I say to myself, once I leave the mall to the parking lot. “Where the heck is my car?”

Confusion set in a few years ago, but recently its gotten worse. Before my mind went blank, I could remember the general direction of where the car was parked. But now, I seem to wander around the foggy sea of cars hoping that one of them is mine.

I feel a lot of anxiety, wondering if I have a car in the first place. Sometimes I forget the car’s color and make. Did I have a Mazda or was it a Toyota? The past and present get all jumbled up in my mind. Don’t ask me what day it is or the name of our president because I’ll just shrug my shoulders.

Why did I go to the mall in the first place? There was nothing I wanted to buy. I’m not carrying any bags. It’s like I was dropped in this mall by a bunch of space aliens.

I wish there were someone to help me, a security officer who could drive me around the parking lot until I found my car. Then I could get warm and not shake and shiver so much. I look down at my shoes. I’m not wearing socks again.

Oh, there it is. Hmm, it’s a white Mazda Hatchback. Did I have a hatchback? I look inside. Yep, that’s mine. There’s that little Porky Pig figurine on the dashboard that my wife bought. The seat covers have holes on the driver’s side. Yep, that’s it. I try to open the car door, but it doesn’t open.

I reach into my pocket for the keys.

Holy smokes! I must have lost the keys. Or did I leave them at home?

A kind man with a Quiet Meadows windbreaker taps me on the shoulder. He takes my arm in his and leads me to a big white van with a group of seniors inside. He opens the door like a gentleman, puts a stool down and helps me up onto the van. He seems to know my name. He seems to know where I live. “Who are you?” I ask.