The morphine drip made me feel warm and numb. I've been in the hospital for 48 hours and slowly, hazily, small bits and pieces of the last 71 days are beginning to emerge. The man in the dark suit visits me twice a day. He has yet to identify himself and at this point I am content not to ask. He brings me newspapers and gum. I tell him I can't chew gum (I'm afraid I'll choke because I'm so high) but that doesn't seem to matter. "Why are you bringing me newspapers?" I asked during his first visit. "Maybe something will jog your memory. Bring a piece of you back." "Why is this important to you?" "It's important to a lot of people."
Initially, the only memories that surfaced as a result of pouring over newspapers in a half-drugged state were random, disconnected points. For example, I like the Detroit Tigers and hate the Yankees. I remember reading and loving Thomas Wolfe (not the one with the natty suits). Snippets of driving cross country appear like blotches on a canvas. But then I remembered this. A hand reaching over my shoulder and placing a handkerchief over my mouth before everything turned black.
My sketches of the man in the dark suit. Claimed Wrigley Spearmint was the finest gum.
A 1950's ad for Wrigley's Doublemint gum. The man in the black suit cautioned me not to confuse Doublemint with Spearmint. "I've seen it happen. It can get ugly fast," he said.