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The Bored Identity

Jon Wesick

    He woke in pain, blinding pain as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to his skull. When he touched the bruises, his fingertips came away wet with blood. Careful to keep his head still, he breathed deeply until the pain subsided to a dull ache.
    When his vision cleared, he found himself sitting in a beige, office cubicle. A telephone, laptop, and picture of a woman he didn’t know sat on the desk. A child’s drawing and one of those corporate-apologist calendars that glorified achievement and teamwork hung from the partition. Nothing looked familiar. Even worse, he couldn’t remember his name.
    He reached for his wallet but his back pocket was as empty as his memory. The only clue to his identity was a six-digit number scribbled on masking tape stuck to a drawer. He used it as the laptop’s password and learned he had skills, wicked almost supernatural skills. As if by instinct, he browsed file after file of Earned Value Management data and grasped the status of dozens of engineering projects. Plots of planned value and actual value filled the monitor with colorful curves. Whoever he was, he’d had special training. Before he could ponder the source of his talents, the sound of his fingers on the keyboard drew the unwanted attention of a woman in matching pinstripe skirt and jacket.
    “I need those reports in an hour.”
    Her demand sent him on a pulse-pounding chase through the tangled topography of cost and schedule performance indices. When he finished, drained and out of breath, questions came back to haunt him. Who was he? How did he get here? And did anything he was doing even matter?

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