Like a Rolling Stone

He's digging a hole, but how did he get there?

Chapter One: Like a Rolling Stone

If anyone had wondered where a certain Fenwick Westin, age twenty-three, could possibly have been found on the afternoon of Thursday, July 7, 1977, they would have had definite trouble locating him. Fenwick, little did anyone know, was bent at the waist in a four-and-a-half-feet-deep hole in the middle of an overgrown field, armed with a shovel and making the hole deeper and wider with every pile of dirt that he tossed over his shoulders.

The hot summer sun beat down on his back, only protected from its rays with a red cotton T-shirt, and caused increasing amounts of sweat to course down his forehead and face. Fenwick, suddenly realizing that he was exhausted, let his shovel fall to the soil below his feet and wearily wiped his forearm across his face, disgusted when it came back sopping wet with perspiration.

And that was when a thought occurred to him: How long have I been digging?

Fenwick Westin racked his brains, but he honestly could not remember, try as he might. On top of that, he discovered even more alarmingly that he didn’t even know why he was digging the hole in the first place.

What was it"sunstroke? Exhaustion taking its toll? Amnesia? Why was he so intent on shoveling in the first place? And… how had he gotten there?

Fenwick grew especially panicked, as anyone would in that situation. Why on earth was he shoveling such a deep hole?

This is bad, he thought. Turning his brunette head up to look at the sky and squinting to cope with its brightness, he guessed that it had to be high noon. And the depth of the hole meant that he had to have been digging for many hours… But how long? Since morning, or did he start the night before?

Fenwick had no idea of how to cope with his present situation. Rationally speaking, there was a miniscule chance of the whole thing even happening in the first place! But you’re here now, he told himself resolutely, so you’d better get yourself back on track.

He decided to get out of the hole first, but doing so only confused him more. Even with his shovel in hand, it wasn’t too hard to climb out, since it was only four feet deep. But the fact that he had been digging a gaping hole, since morning at least, and couldn’t even remember why he was doing it in the first place? Baffling. Simply baffling.

Fenwick once again thought hard about his morning and came up empty. Resigned, he looked around, hoping that the location would give him some clues. And, with a magnificently grateful exhalation, his hopes were confirmed, at least partially.

He was in a field of tall grasses interspersed with wildflowers. It stretched on to the horizon with no sign of stopping, save a single span of cracked asphalt that cut through it about twenty yards away to Fenwick’s left. That sight wouldn’t be half as inspiring, of course, if it weren’t for his beaten-up jalopy of a car sitting on one side of the road.

Now wild with glee at seeing something familiar, he slung the shovel across his shoulders and raced to his car, almost yanking the door off in his jubilant opening of it. If he had his car, all was not lost. He didn’t have complete amnesia, anyway.

However, once he settled into the shabby and wonderfully familiar driver’s seat, he realized that he still didn’t know where he was. After a brief deliberation, he determined to turn the car around and go in the reverse direction from how his car was parked. Hopefully, that would work out.

So Fenwick drove on for ages, losing track of time (not that he’d had a real idea in the first place) and going past backwoods town after backwoods town, until, at last, his car ran out of gas and came to a halt. What was he supposed to do now? Good grief.

Fenwick rested his head against the steering wheel for several moments, feeling utterly hopeless. The only idea he'd had had turned out to be a dead end! Frustrated, he slammed his fist against the dashboard and cursed loudly.

Then, after a second or two of contemplation, he decided that sulking in his car would get him nowhere, particularly when he realized how thirsty he was. So, summoning all his mental fortitude, Fenwick made himself get out of his car and look around.

There was a decrepit-looking farmhouse in the distance, marooned in a sea of corn stalks. Maybe the people who lived there could be of some help, or at least give him a drink and let him use their telephone.

Fenwick Westin heaved a sigh and began walking down the road towards the farmhouse.

Reviews

[Talismanic]

Hehe, it's bizarre. Like the idea so far, sounds fun:)

[Carrie]

Thanks! Glad you enjoy it thus far. =D