The Lost Days Read Free Page B

since I sorted it all two days ago. I took pity on Raven, who if you ask me does not have the mental capacity for sorting junk mail, and went through it for her. After a long while sifting through ads, coupons, flyers, leaflets, and circulars, I was starting to notice that all of it looked suspiciously alike, and then I found something that explained it all: a glossy promotional postcard from Marshall Prepress & Printing, the local direct mail advertising company, who wished to offer the El Dungeon a special rate on its own glossy promotional postcard.
    The only other item of interest was a flyer from the Blackrock Telecommunications Dept. encouraging everyone to be prepared for St. Clare’s Day. A holiday of which I have no memory. Great. No telling what other holidays and basic knowledge of the world were lost in the amnesia.
    Man, Raven owes me big. I think my soul died a little bit from reading that garbage.
    Later, Much Later
    Am sitting in the police station waiting for the police chief to see me. Am not happy. Here’s what happened.
    Had finished sorting the junk mail, dumped it all into a box, and walked it down to the post office. Stood in line for twenty minutes while some guy in front of me tried in vain to get his mail from the postmistress. He finally left, swearing to get his lawyer involved. I gave the postmistress the box of mail and told her we were tired of doing other people’s recycling for them and would she please take our address off the junk-mail list.
     
    
P OSTMISTRESS :
   
Address.
     
    [I gave it to her. She typed at her computer and stared at the screen, then at me.]
     
    
PM:
   
Your name.
    
M E :
   
Earwig.
    
PM:
   
[Glaring.] Your REAL name.
    
M E :
   
Uh, Raven.
    
PM:
   
Last name?
    
M E :
   
Uh, Dungeon.
    
PM:
   
Well, Miss Raven Dungeon, you are not listed as a resident at that address.
    
M E :
   
It’s a business.
    
PM:
   
And you’re not listed as the business owner.
    
M E :
   
So who is?
    
PM:
   
One moment.
     

    She retreated into her back room. I was just leaning over the counter to get a look at her computer screen when the front door opened and a police officer came in.
     
    
P OLICE O FFICER :
   
Everything OK?
    
PM:
   
[Rushing back into the room. Acting all huffylike.] Oh, Officer Summers, thank goodness you’re here! This little…URCHIN…is, well, I don’t know what she’s trying to do, besides harass a tired postmistress half to death!
    
M E :
   
[Silently heading for the door.]
    
PM:
   
[Pointing at box of junk mail. Screeching.] You can’t leave that here!
    
PO:
   
[Standing in front of door. Blocking me from leaving.] What’s your story, kid? Haven’t seen you around. Name?
    
M E :
   
Earwig…Raven…Dungeon…
    
PO:
   
Your real name.
    
M E :
   
I don’t know.
    
PO:
   
[Laughing. Having time of his life.] Oh boy! Chief is gonna love this! Let’s move. Grab your box.
     

    —Gotta go, the chief is ready to see me, more later.
    Later
    Spent about an hour at the police station saying “I don’t know” over and over. Turning my pockets inside out to show them I had no ID. Telling them the story of my life as I knew it (i.e., the last four days). Good times, good times. “Put that slingshot away or I’ll impound it.” “Wipe that frown off your face or I’ll GIVE you something to frown about.” Farking bumwarks!
    Was finally released when they got tired of hearing “I don’t know” for the millionth time. Got off relatively easy, I think, with a $52 ticket for Impeding Postal Business. At first I thought it was really weird, not to mention really bad policework, that they did not check some kind of missing persons database for my picture. But then I thought about what the chief had said when he let me go: “Have your uncle