About the Author (pictured below) Andres Kahar is a Toronto-based writer-journalist. Over the years, he has divided his time between Canada and the Baltics. His journalism, spanning themes of crop science and post-Soviet politics, has been published on both sides of the Atlantic. He is currently working on a novel that brings both aforementioned themes together to astounding effect. Once or twice or thrice he’s been called a hooligan.

Ever had an episode of total identity loss?

Okay then, imagine this:

You’re walking down the street, then — WHOOSH-WHAAP! — you’re hit by a hard wave of leg-bending dizziness. And inexplicable arousal. For several seconds, or even a full moment, you lose complete sense of where you are, what you’re doing … even who you are.

That’s precisely the predicament The Hero of this appalling tale found himself in one early evening.

The dizziness was fading when he found himself in a Javarocks coffee lounge. He was surrounded by urbanites and soft jazz; the latter to make the former feel urban and sophisticated.

Who was he?

That existential query was only partly answered after The Hero searched through his knapsack. He found a handwritten “note to self” advising him to go with the pseudonym “Donald MacLean.”

So, Donald sat there among the yuppies and tight multicultural jeans.

Tight multicultural jeans?

Where’d those words come from? What an incongruous yet sexy observation, Donald observed of himself. Acutely observant. No question: Donald must be an artist, perhaps a writer.

Artistic genes might help explain the sense of pain — of loss — that accompanied his amnesia. But what did he lose? He’d almost forgotten: his identity, of course.

Thus, Donald set off on his quest — to find his stolen identity. And his art.

Donald thought: if he could return to that Javarocks coffee lounge with some quality art, he’d surely get off with some of those tight-jeaned multicultural types.

Yuppie snapper’s nuts for the suffering artist.

But how’d he know that about Yuppie snapper? No doubt: Donald spoke with the bohemian crudity and self-assurance of an accomplished womanizer. Or did he?

So many questions. So much questing to do.

Handily, Donald found his second clue in the front pocket of his jeans: a ticket to some sort of concert or party happening that evening at a place called “The 42nd Presidential Tavern.”

Some band called “The Malleable Automatons” was playing. Presumably, Donald was going to attend the concert or party.

Fortunately, Donald bumped into a helpful oracle in the restroom.

The Oracle: You are clearly destined to attend this gathering at The 42nd Presidential Tavern. There you will ascertain your true identity.

The Oracle spoke with authority. He even wore a grizzled beard and black beret.

Donald: So, what should I do once I get to The 42nd Presidential Tavern?

The Oracle: The only other thing Lady Contingency will permit me to say is this — beware The Siren.

The Oracle emphasized those last two words, almost as if he intended them to be italicized.

What was ‘The Siren’? The Oracle didn’t make it sound altogether good. Yet, he was drawn by the melody of The Oracle’s italics.

Being the horny fellow he was Donald pressed onward.

By the time he got to The Tavern, the band — those inimitable Malleable Automatons — was on stage, stomping in chain-gang rhythm to some heavy beat, whilst holding up animal masks to conceal their true identities.

What self-respecting musical artists would conceal their true identities with masks — animal ones no less?!

Neo-Nazis, Donald concluded.

Over recent minutes, he’d come to trust his observations and first instincts, and he knew for a possible fact he was right about this secretive band.

The Malleable Automatons were Neo-Nazis.

They were a damned good band, despite their ill-chosen ideological proclivity.

During The Malleable Automatons’ intermission, some familiar-looking young woman got on stage to share her artistic pain with the Malleable Robots’ fans (doubtless Neo-Nazis, the lot of them).

Donald assumed the tangled lyrics she sang were about some emotional matter — something that mused her through high school, university and well beyond, all the way to The 42nd Presidential Tavern on that amnesiac evening.

Then, as she gorgeously sang her clichés to a close, she looked over at Donald — with italicized eyes!

So, who was this familiar-looking woman?

No doubt: The Siren!

The Siren walked off stage and sat down in the seat next to Donald.

Using his acute powers of observation, Donald noticed The Siren was on a date with some slo-mo fellow in a ballcap and sideburns. Squinting further, Donald noticed that The Siren actually had two dates with her: in addition, there was a shy-looking young woman, attractive in a pleasantly plain way, wholesome and milk-fed.

Neither seemed fully aware of the two-time factor. But they cast the odd suspicious glance toward the restrooms, suggesting they sensed something was rotten in The Tavern that evening. The wholesome milk-fed woman seemed more on the ball; the ballcap-sideburns fellow seemed ganja-impaired, perhaps irretrievably.

Those facts didn’t stop something from happening: The Siren began flirting with Donald, obviously and shamelessly.

At first, Donald was revolted by the gaucheness of The Siren’s naked and insensitive greed for attention. (How would Wholesome Milk and Ballcap-Sideburns feel? That didn’t seem to factor into The Siren’s agenda.)

At the same time, Donald wanted to have sexual relations with The Siren.

It was, for Donald, a hotly debated issue.

The Siren sat there among her quarry, flirting and talking about herself, herself, herself … and more about herself.

Donald considered leaving, but then he wondered: What if The Siren is the key to Donald finding his identity and lost art?

The Siren was also wearing tight jeans. And the notion of tight-jeaned multicultural snapper had grabbed tight hold of Donald, drawing him in, moistly and irretrievably.

So, alas, he was a foolish goner.

The next thing Donald knew, things got extremely weird. Then things got blurry. Suddenly, Donald slid into Pornographic First Person Narrative:

I'm a thirtysomething single guy but I don’t know who I am. I really want to meet some multicultural chicks in tight jeans but I found it hard to do without knowing anyone first or even who I am […]

Looking at her from behind as we were walking down the street I had a delicious view of her curves. I felt a slight pulse at the thought of pressing against her […]

She sat cross-legged on my bed and with a sly smile talked about herself. I told her I was just about to go to the gym, but I was up for anything. She said it was two in the morning and the gym would be closed and I felt like an idiot […]

She started talking about her sexual history and then she looked right into my eyes and suggested we should skip going to the gym and that we should actually have sex […]


Afterward, Donald suspected things went rather well.

But then The Siren was telling him he was too “intense,” and that she was calling it off with Ballcap-Sideburns and Wholesome Milk as well. Ballcap-Sideburns and Wholesome Milk stepped out of the closet, looking rejected, then exited the apartment quietly.

The Siren needed time for herself, which sounded ironic all round.

Donald begged to differ, describing his conduct as more “soft-core porno friendly” than “intense.” Beyond that, he said alright, “but we’ll remain friends, right?”

The Siren got indignant. She said Donald was smothering her. She said she’d thought she was ready for casual sexual quadrangles, but she was wrong, and Donald was scaring her away by not respecting her space.

Suddenly, he zoomed out of her italicized eyes about 10% only to realize he was under a Sinister Siren Spell. So he zoomed out all the way — 100% — and saw The Siren for what she was — her true face and nature, not what the Sinister Siren Spell forced him to behold.

Donald gasped with terror: Black Magic!

Somewhere in the background, there was Cole Porter playing, and then a bit of George Gershwin.

Then he found himself — SMACK! — in the middle of what seemed eerily like a Woody Allen screenplay:

Donald and Shlomo are ambling through a crowded bookstore. Shlomo is carrying a hardback copy of The Captive Mind. He comes over to where Donald is browsing.

SHLOMO

I have a very lighthearted way of looking at life. Like bubbles. I’ve had enough of serious. Shlomo’s last relationship made Shlomo feel too serious. I wanna have fun. Shlomo wants to have fun.

DONALD

M’hm.

SHLOMO

You should know that about Shlomo if we’re gonna go out. I feel that life is split between the bubbles and the fun.

DONALD

M’hm. Is that why you’re reading Czeslaw Milosz?

SHLOMO

Oh no, you misunderstood. Not Milosz’s The Captive Mind.

DONALD

What are you reading then?

SHLOMO

The Captive Flesh. Black Lace. Erotica by women for women. Shlomo’s a liberated bisexual woman who wants to have carefree erotic experiences.

DONALD

Hold on . . . WOMAN?? Hey, you’re actually The Siren!!


The scene fogs over. The bookstore dries out. The scene turns into a husk.

INT. COURTROOM – NIGHT

Donald rises from his chair to speak to the troika of judges at the front of the courtroom.

DONALD - VOICE-OVER
(emotionless)

I think this court is alleging sexism or something untoward.

JUDGE
(flat)

Was it The Siren’s bisexuality that was such an issue for you?

DONALD

Neither. I guess I didn’t like her absolute selfishness ... I thought we were friends, but she doesn’t care about anyone’s feelings except hers. Everyone is a prop for her insatiable ego. I suspected she was the key to finding out who I am. Evidently, your honour, I was dead wrong.

JUDGE

Case dismissed!


With those courtly words, Donald is hurled back to the Javarocks counter, ordering a Doublesomethingfuckinglatte. He retrieved his tall Doublesomethingfuckinglatte, walked to the condiments counter, then heard a voice.

It was Mott, the drunk slacker who worked the cash register.

Mott: Mister Donald — bring those up to the front.

Donald opened his clenched left hand to discover he was in possession of three big, white pills.

Mott: I hope you brought enough for everybody.

Donald smiled.

Donald: Enough for the amnesiacs.

Donald popped the pills into his mouth, sipped some of his beverage, and waited for his memory — his identity, his art — to return.


Several weeks pass …


INT. CANADIAN BAGEL EATERY – DAY

Donald is sitting in a booth with The Oracle, The Malleable Automatons, Ballcap-Sideburns, Wholesome Milk, Mott -– and The Siren. They are all wearing brown shirts and armbands. They are all drinking coffee and eating bagels.

MALLEABLE AUTOMATON #1

Say, Donald -- any luck yet finding out who you are?

DONALD

No. I really haven’t got a clue.

MALLEABLE AUTOMATON #2

Bummer. So you’ve got no art and no snapper either, eh?

THE ORACLE

Your quest was the most valiant of any embarked upon in many a generation. You were a Hero to this generation. Yet, ultimately, you were unsuccessful.

MOTT

You’re high and dry, dude. Not even snapper. You got absolutely nothing -– zilch -- out of the deal.

DONALD
(upbeat, conspiratorial)

Well, I wouldn’t say I came out with absolutely nothing at all.


With those sly words, Donald winked at The Siren.

Then he started scribbling on a sheet of paper …