Left, Right. Right, Left.

I’m trying to keep it all straight in my head.

James drives an El Camino, and it’s green with a white racing stripe. Alvin is the bartender at Simon’s, and he’s taken it upon himself to learn my drink. I live at 4279 Ralston Terrace, Apartment 312. It’s technically on the fourth floor. My mother has been dead for seven years. She died on my thirteenth birthday. I am twenty-two years old. Somehow that last part doesn’t add up.

Last I checked I was definitely in the United States, yet it appears everyone is driving on the left side of the road. Their steering wheels are still on the left side of the car. I stare down at my feet. Which one goes first? I feel like either will do, yet I really want to be sure. Left, right? Right, left? I’m going to try left, right and assume I’ll eventually take so many steps I won’t remember where I began. It’s not the best solution, but it’s a solution. What was the problem again?

I pull on the door handle at Simon’s. A large sign next to the handle says “PUSH.” How does one push again? I pull on the door handle at Simon’s. A large sign next to the handle says “PUSH”. I’m stuck. I stand, staring at the handle and its accompanying sign for a few seconds before the door swings inward. A patron exits the establishment. Weren’t they just pulling? Isn’t that what I was doing? Or was that a push? Was I right, and is the door broken or is the sign mistaken? I decide to slip in before the door notices I haven’t provided the proper input.

“Welcome back, chief” James says from behind the bar. There is a picture of a white El Camino with a green racing stripe on the wall. Isn’t the bartender Alvin? I think so, but this is definitely James. Or is it Alvin? I certainly can’t use his name, because I’m not exactly sure what his name is. It’s either Alvin or it’s James. Still, there’s a large margin of error.

“Makers and coke, right chief?” Alvin or James says, scooping ice into a highball glass. Makers and coke? What the hell is Makers? I’m pretty sure that’s not my drink. This must be James, because Alvin took the time to learn my drink. I can’t remember what my drink is, but Alvin learned it, and it’s not Makers and coke.

“Boy, I swear you drink more of those than any man your age should in his entire lifetime!” a bar patron says as they eye me from their swiveling barstool. Is that Alvin? Is that James? Maybe that is my drink. I apparently drink a lot of them. I approach the bar to pay for my drink. I go with right, left this time, but it takes my brain a second to catch up.

“Sorry for the hassle, chief, but I need to see your ID. For the security cameras, you know. The PD has been really riding us about it, threatening to take away our licenses and what not.” The PD? Doesn’t the FD handle those kinds of things? Which is the one that handles crime? I reach into my front pocket for my wallet. It’s not there.

My heart races. Or does it slow down? Which is the one that means you’re panicking? I pat myself down and feel a bulge in my back pocket. My wallet is there. Don’t I usually keep it in my front pocket? Don’t people usually keep their wallets in their front pockets? Is this my wallet? This wallet is brown. My wallet is green.
I open the wallet in my possession. A picture of me is inserted in the front plastic sleeve. I guess this is my wallet. I withdraw my ID and stop cold. My address is listed as “312 Ralston Terrace, Apartment 4279.” I live at 4279 Ralston Terrace, Apartment 312. It’s technically on the fourth floor. Apartment 4279 would be technically on the fifth floor. Do I live on the technical fifth floor?

“It’s nice of you to do that little song and dance for the police, Ethan,” the bar patron says to the bartender. Ethan? Who the hell is Ethan?