Original Short Story: He Woke Up Fred

I guess I should be more clear. He woke up as Fred. He went to sleep as Max. There was not a direct time this changed, but it had changed. He remembered Max; he liked Max; but he was Fred.

            He showered, made his bed, changed into his work clothes (his own personal yellow vest included), and made breakfast – all as Fred. Moving forward, he got in his small, ‘96 Civic and began to drive. Still Fred.

          “It’s Tuesday. That’s why I’m Fred,” Fred thought. He was always Fred on Tuesdays. His little car that used to be maroon did not bob, nor weave, nor speed. He drove behind the car in front of him, conforming to their speed and to their habits. If he became the leader of the pack on the freeway, he would quietly drop into the right lane, hoping someone else would take the lead. If they would not…Fred didn’t know what he would do. Probably use an emergency stop and hope no one stopped with him.

            The commute wasn’t long. He arrived in fifteen or twenty minutes and got out of his car quickly, quietly. He reported to his supervisor, who gave him a sign that said “Stop” on one side and “Slow” on the other. He went to the truck with the walkies, grabbed one and turned it to channel 11. Then he walked over to the start of the section of road they were working on today, and waited for further command. It took a few minutes for the other guy with a sign to get into place, so Fred just stood. He looked around, glanced at the drivers of each car, looking away quickly if they caught his eye.

            “Alright Fred, you let them through on that side and I’ll stop them here.” came through the walkie. “Fred!” Let ‘em through!”

“Oh, right.” Fred muttered as he turned the “slow” sign to the large black pick-up truck with the angry looking headlights and the angrier looking driver. He had forgotten he was Fred today. Today was Tuesday; he was Fred. “Don’t forget. They don’t like it when I forget.”

            The day went on like that. He forgot his name only once or twice more, which was pretty good for his third day on the job. Most people, apparently, take a while to get the hang of it. That’s what his supervisor told him. He liked his supervisor. Focused, stern, but good all around.

            A good seven hours later and twenty feet down the road, where they now were, Fred’s supervisor bid him goodnight with a wink. At this, Fred remembered that Tuesday night meant he was no longer Fred. Now, he was John. Major John Sholto, formerly of the British Indian Army. For this whole week, whenever he was not at the construction job that the office gave him, he was John. At least, that’s when he wasn’t Max or Mr. Wickham. Mr. Wickham was a funny name. John went home in his tiny maroon car driving with abandon, heedless of what others were doing.

Unfortunately, he did not find what he expected at home. Instead of the usual, plain, cracked-white door, there was a cracked-white door with a note on it: an eviction notice. He had a week before he had to be out, which was “a period of good-will for someone I [the landlord] genuinely hope will land on their feet.” Either way, they needed the space and Fred never remembered to pay the rent. Neither did John or Max or Mr. Wickham. I guess they all just expected someone else to do it.

Instead of going into the apartment that was no longer his, John took a walk. He was the kind to walk his own path, instead of sit at home and sulk. Certainly, someone like Fred would sulk, but not Major Sholto. He was a man of action, sometimes it was questionable action, but always action.

First, he wandered a bit, taking each turn of the empty city streets as a new breath of fresh air. “Left, left, left right left,” would be one interesting and strange way to move about the city in John’s mind. So of course he did. As he walked, he remembered an old adventure, and he went to where he disposed of the body of Morstan, his old army friend. At least, John thought that’s where it was…he couldn’t quite remember. He heard footsteps in the distance. Two sets, by the sound of them. “Holmes!” he breathed, and bolted.

Holmes and Watson were coming, those who he had read about, those men who could easily unravel where Sholto gained his treasure and what had happened to Morstan - run! John ran, and ran, and ran. He no longer considered left or right (though he may have been more evasive if he had), but instead, he ran as hard and fast as he could to make it to the water. The water was what he needed. It was where Fred used to go boating. Fred could help him escape there with the ships on the docks. Five blocks left. Keep running.

Fred ran. “Actually,” Fred thought, “they could never trace Morstan to me. I’m only Fred! It doesn’t matter if they do find me.” At this, he began to walk again. His nerves were still shot, and he soon found a cubby in a wall to rest in. In five minutes rest, he was ready again, and began to meander once more. Fred found interests in strange things. “Storm drains, where do they go? Do all these cars belong to just one person each? Or is it possible that there are more like two people to a car, and that this street has a really high population? Hopefully this isn’t a high-crime part of town.”

After considering these things for a time, he spied the water. The bay. Goodness, he loved the bay. Walking onto the docks, and through the aisles of boats, he began to feel something of a center. He didn’t have that feeling often, but he knew it when it came. He felt…like Fred was somehow more important than Max, or Mr. Wickham, or John. Of course, he understood that he shouldn’t be conceited or anything, but they weren’t there at the moment, and it felt good to reflect upon their relationships. He was feeling adventurous, and (even!) crazy enough to climb up onto one of the boats. The nearest one, a small but pleasant yacht, had lights on, and he thought he’d take a peek. He hopped over the side with remembered agility, and began to pace up and down the prow, looking for something on the disappearing horizon. Who could resist leaning over the front railing? Not Fred!

He leaned, looking for something over the dark and distant ocean and as he did, he heard “Fred! What are you doing here, man? You haven’t come by the last few days.” Right, he was Fred. The nice man with the beard was talking to him. “I- I’m just checking on the boat,” Fred said, turning around to the cabin of the boat.” It looks really nice.” “You know it is!” the man said. “You helped me wax it last week to get it this shiny. Want to come in for a minute, have a drink?” “Oh,” said Fred, “I had better not.” “Nonsense! Come along, we won’t take long. And you look like you could use some relaxing.”

“I don’t need to relax.” Fred spat out as calmly as he could. “I’m just trying to go!”

The man had caring eyes. He said, pleadingly, “Are you sure? I think you’d really, really like what I’m making for dinner. It’s nice, and you could help me finish it, if you wanted to.”

“I don’t want to help you finish it!!” Fred yelled this time. He started to feel cornered. The bearded man was not as nice as he thought. Inching to his left, he was hoping to make it to the side of the ship without the man intercepting him. “Be careful Fred – here, can I help you down?” he made a step towards Fred, and just barely touched Fred’s jacket with his fingers. “No! No! No! No!” yelled as loud as he could, sounding like a child, and jerked back as hard as he could.

As he fell to the floor, he had a vague feeling of this not being the first time he had fallen. Still screaming, his head slammed into the floor, and his voice went out of him along with his breath. He must’ve been out for a few minutes, because when he opened his eyes, Caesar was on the boat and was calling chariots to come and take him back to the dungeons. Max was not going to let that happen. He jumped up to his feet, fell quickly back to his seat again, and then laboriously got up while Caesar told him to sit still, lest he be wounded further.

Heeding no master, Maximus, the general of the legion for the true Caesar, the Caesar before this imposter in front of him, Maximus who would fear the wrath of no man, ran and jumped off of the boat’s side. Barely grasping the dock, with his body in the water up to his torso, he pulled himself up and cursed the gods for his lack of weaponry. He would have to find something – no gladiator can be in the ring without anything to defend himself. Not even a helmet! What happened to the arenas where he would be given a fighting chance! He had escaped worse, he told himself. Do not give into despair. If he died, he would soon see his wife and child in the Elysium.

He rallied, found his strength, and looked for something to fight with. The only thing he currently found was a bit of rope, about the length of his body, unused on the side of the dock. He took it, and knew that it would be weak defense in case of a serious weapon. Nonetheless, he took it, and ran. There were men who came with bright, fiery light and were chasing him, while Caesar was on top of the cabin of his boat calling for Fred. “A sword, a spear, something!” Maximus called out to him. “Can you not give me a fair fight?” Caesar didn’t answer, but instead called to the fiery men to chase on. Maximus ran further on the docks, and soon found something better – much better. There was a fishing harpoon on one of the other boats. He wasted no time, and jumped straight into the water, knowing there was a ladder for this particular vessel.

He was able to climb aboard, and as he did the men with the fire were closer than ever – on the dock next to the ship. He grabbed at the harpoon and shouted, “If any of you come on this ship, I will skewer you without mercy! I do not want to harm you, but I cannot allow you to take me!” They shouted back, “We don’t want to hurt you, we only want to take you to the hospital! You will be cared for and given medicine so that you can live normally again!” “I don’t want to live your ‘normal’ anymore! I don’t want to be another man in your circus – living for nothing but the moments when you don’t use me in the battles. I want to be free in the fields of my home!”

“Can we talk more about that? Could I come up there?” the emergency responder yelled. “If you come up here, I will use this weapon and one of us will end up worse than we started!” Max was not afraid. Fred was terrified and would do whatever the man from the ambulance said. Mr. Wickham had been forgotten since the date that went so poorly last week. Major John Sholto shouted, “Keep him out!” One of those men walked onto the deck of the boat.

Fred was already sitting in the prow, where port and starboard sides come together. At seeing the man walk on, he cowered back and put out his harpoon in the most frightening manner possible while simultaneously sitting scrunched in a corner. The man stayed where he was, just visible, but looking on at Fred with sympathy. Fred was scared of sympathy. “If you come any closer, I’ll hurt you!” Fred wasn’t very good at threats, but he tried to mean it. He stood, and no one has ever felt so much like they were falling while simultaneously rising. The back of his thighs touched the low railings, and he knew that he didn’t have the courage to stab the man in front of him. Worse, the man in front of him seemed to know that and was inching forward, looking as impotent as possible in hopes of keeping Fred there. There was only one thing Fred could do, so he did it. “If you come closer, I’ll throw myself onto this harpoon and be lost to the water.”

He remembered the movie he had seen on Thursday night: Gladiator, in which Caesar both slays and is slain by General Maximus. He remembered the novel he had been reading since Sunday, given him by a friend. The Sign of Four was full of drama for the adventurist. He had learned so much, why was he in this situation? Why was he threatening to take his own life? Why did he run from the nice bearded man? Confused, angry with himself, determined never to do it again, Fred looked at the man from the ambulance and scowled. The man asked for the harpoon. Instead, Fred ran at him with it, furious at the world for being so invariably difficult. The man dodged out of the way, and shoved Fred on the shoulder as he did so. For the second time tonight, Fred hit his head on the deck of a ship. Hard. This time, he didn’t wake up for the rest of the night.

On Wednesday morning, he was Mr. Wickham again, as he always was when he was in the hospital ballroom. He was flirting with nurses, asking every girl he saw if they would watch Pride and Prejudice with him - that great new version with the piano playing in the background all the time. When all of them had replied, “I’m too busy today,” or “I wish I could,” or “Maybe later,” or “I’m married” or even the unbelievable, “I don’t like romance movies,” he settled down to a book he found in the small library they had available down the hall. It was some foreign, enormous volume that he could sit and enjoy for his full week’s stay in the white-halled palace: Anna Karenina.