I Am (Not) the Walrus by Ed Briant Page A

imagined every conceivable scenario involving Michelle, Memento Park, and myself. Some of them I’ve imagined so many time it’s like watching endless reruns on TV.
    I play through some of them as I’m down on the bedroom floor doing my push-ups.
    The leading contender is the one where I show up and Michelle doesn’t. End of story.
    By this time, another old favorite is the one where she shows up, but she’s brought along her friend from the other day. Not the end of the story; just the start of one that’s not terribly interesting.
    I’ve only once envisioned the scenario where Michelle shows up, and she’s holding hands with Jasper Hamilton-Sinclair. But once was more than enough.
    I’ve even been imagining the scenario in my sleep, like the dream I had on Friday night when I showed up, and Michelle showed up, but it turned out I wasn’t wearing any trousers.
    I head down to the kitchen, put the kettle on for tea, and find myself lying on the floor while I wait for it to boil.
    Not to pray, even though that might be an avenue worth exploring, but doing extra push-ups in a last-minute attempt to turn myself into somebody more impressive before I head off to the park.
    Then, as I’m struggling to push myself up off the floor for about the fifteenth time, I imagine a brand-new scenario.
    In this one, it’s me who doesn’t show up.
    It’s simple. It’s brilliant. And I have no idea why didn’t I think of it before.
    I roll over and sit with my legs crossed as a Zen-like calmness washes over me.
    This infuses my entire being until I get to my feet to finish making tea, and bang my head on the kitchen table.
    I watch some old cartoons on TV.
    I write an essay about sharks; quite a good one actually. I get within a couple of chapters of the end of Fahrenheit 451.
    I practice few songs. I strum through “Lady Madonna,” but when I reach the line where it says Sunday morning creeps like a nun, I have another realization.
    My Saturday morning is more like a nun trying to roll a boulder up a hill.
    This not-turning-up business is harder than it looks. You can’t just make the decision not to show up on the spur of the moment. It has to be planned well in advance. I should have planned a fun alternative, like a day trip to the beach, or London, or New Zealand.
    The upshot is that an hour later I somehow find myself waiting under the statue. What makes it worse is that it’s only three o’clock and we planned to meet at four. I look up and scan the flat grey sky for the falcon.
    I really couldn’t have done a worse job of planning this. It might be a little foolhardy to rely on a somewhat-unfriendly girl to show up.
    But to rely on wildlife to show up?
    That’s totally daft.
    One more thing hits me along with this realization.
    It’s a raindrop, and it smacks me in the middle of my forehead.
    A second one hits me in the eye.
    I do another quick survey of the sky, this time in search of blue. There is none. It’s the color of Shawn’s destroyer from one end to the other.
    This is no quick squall. Once the rain gets into its stride, it’s going to keep raining for hours and, naturally I’m dressed for a sunny afternoon. I need to find somewhere dry for the next hour, and I know just the place.
    Five minutes later I wander into Harry Haller’s.

12
    Saturday
    It’s been six months since my last visit to Harry Haller’s. I never did bring in Shawn’s bass to have him value it, but nothing much has changed about the place. For all I know, it could be the same collection of instruments dangling from the ceiling. Even Harry looks the same, the only difference being that last time he was fixing a saxophone, and this time he’s fixing what I think is a balalaika.
    â€œCan I help you?” He looks down the neck of the balalaika and gives me his almost-smile. Probably doesn’t recognize me, which is not