drinking coffee and eating. He’s paying. I’m close to tapped out. At least I spent Brad Pitt’s money well. Before Vidocq got to Donut Universe, I’d examined the motocross jacket for damage. The Kevlar did a pretty good job. None of the knife slashes made it through the armor down to me. All the damage was to the leather, and I could fix that with gaffer tape.
“I’ve heard of power amulets like guns, but not like the one you describe,” says Vidocq. “But I think I know someone who will. I’ll introduce you soon.”
The Frenchman puts a paper bag on the table. I take a bite of my Bavarian cream.
“What’s that?”
“Look for yourself,” he says, and pushes the bag at me. I open it and look inside. It’s full of shirts.
“They are yours. You look like a fucking child in those video store things. You should wear your own clothes. They will help you remember who you are.”
I roll down the top of the bag and put it on the seat beside me. I suppose I do look stupid in these shirts. In my head I’m still nineteen. Time is stuck there and it’s like a punch in the balls every time I look in the mirror. At least no one will bother me for ID when I buy beer now.
But I don’t want to look at what’s in the bag right away. Part of me wants to burn everything Alice and I left behind eleven years ago. Another part wants to leave it all right where it is, frozen in time, like bugs trapped in amber. It never occurred to me to wear any of my old clothes again.
“There was something weird and familiar about that amulet and I’ve been trying to remember what since I left the club.”
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