Compartmentalization (Part 3)

Part 3: House of Maxwell

    “Like the coffee?” I say as I stumble out as the driver steps out of the car.
    “We had to change our name about two years ago because of a copyright infringement, so no, not like the coffee. Not anymore, anyway.” The driver remarks then leads me down a winding path through all the trailers. Since there is such an expansive desert, the trailer park seems sort of sad and almost abandoned. The trailers all look dirty, rusted, and haven’t been moved in years. I counted 6 trailers altogether, with 5 normal sized ones, and a huge double-decker one near the back of the place. The only thing that makes me think that I am not just going to some trailer graveyard is the relatively new looking fence that surrounds about eighty percent of the park.  
    I continue to walk down this winding path that leads to all the trailers with the driver leading in front of me. I wonder why we don’t just head straight for the big trailer at the back of the place, but the walk allows me to stretch out a bit and check out how my body is really doing. No broken bones, and my suit seems to have gotten the brunt of all the cuts, with the exception of the dried up gash above my eye. I decide to finally take the sheared suit off, leaving only a somewhat cut up dress shirt, dithered black pants and shoes, and a almost perfect condition red tie, the only flaw being the point at the end being cut off making the tie look rather square. I use the suit to wipe up all the blood off my face. I figure if I am meeting somebody, I should at least give the impression that I tried to look nice.
    The driver leads me up all the way to the door of the big trailer before turning around and holding his hand out.
    “By the way, the name’s Dan,” the driver Dan shakes my hand with a firmness I wasn’t expecting, despite having rather big, brown hands and figure, “Here is Maxwell’s office, see you later.” Dan walks way right after the ‘you,’ and looks like maybe he is in a bit of a hurry. I find myself standing alone, in the middle of the desert in front of the door of this big trailer. The door, upon closer observation, seems to have a nice wooden finish and a 4 color stain-glass window in the shape of a diamond near the top. It is probably the nicest thing I have seen in a while. I stare at this window, not entirely clear if I really want to go in or not. I wanted to ask Dan some questions first, he seemed nice and approachable, but I began to wonder if the pleasant demeanor was just an act for me. I didn’t even get to introduce myself. Though I suppose since I don’t even know who I am, would be rather pointless.
    “YOU CAN GO TO HELL!” I hear suddenly from the nice door, and a man in a black leather outfit (which for some reason, reminds me a lot of my unidentified crashed black vehicle a while back) suddenly rushes out of the trailer and we almost both go crashing down. “Goddammit!,” he looks at me and gives me a look I don’t quite understand, then yells back into the door, ”BEN! GET OUT OF THERE! WE’RE LEAVING!” the man waits for 5 seconds then rushes in and drags out an almost pure white man, with a white t-shirt, white pants, and even white hair. “Whaaa?” I can hear the white man say sleepily as he is being dragged away, seeming completely oblivious to the black leather man that is dragging him across the sand. Despite the rush, he also avoids going off the path, and has to wind around until finally ending up to what I can only assume is his trailer and slams the door behind him.
    I am left standing there, with the trailer door open, wondering if I should just leave, when I hear another voice coming from the trailer.
    “Hello? Is that you Josh? I have been expecting you come in! Come in…” the rather business-like voice beckoned me. I decided I have came this far, and I have nothing else to really go back to, and I enter through the wooden door.

    I am taken aback about how different the room looks, feels, and smells from the rusty, old desert scene outside. The wooden door with the stain-glass window was just one piece in a room ensemble that resembled an office from a prestigious college than a typical trailer park. It wasn’t big, but it had 3 wooden chairs with red cushions, book shelves filled with big black books labeled “RECORDS,” a wooden drink cabinet with liquors with languages on them that I couldn’t place, and a giant wooden desk with a man standing behind behind it. The man also looks like a sort of college professor, with his brown corduroy pants, long sleeved dress shirt, and red vest. His shoulder length brown hair looked a little like it clashed with the vibe maybe he wanted to create, but his black gloves and gold wire rim glasses that were perched on his head made up for it.
    “Josh I presume? Or is it Joshua? You didn’t send a last name in your letter, so I wasn’t quite sure,” he quickly shook my hand (not as strongly as Dan, but decent), and sat down putting his glasses on is face and reading a piece of paper. “I was not even sure until a month ago that I was even going to go through with your plan, but I admit I was too curious to let someone of your stature slip out of my fingers,” he said, and then looked at me.
    “My stature?” I asked.
    “Yes, your letter also mentioned that you would not remember anything, including what made you famous in the first place. I am a busy man, and I honestly thought this was some sort of elaborate hoax, but seeing as business has been a bit slow lately, I decided to take a risk. It looks like it may pay off, but I must ask,” he looks into my eyes while passing me over the paper, “Can you really remember nothing?”
    I took a look at the letter he passed over and what was written was a time, a date, what I assume to be some sort of latitude and longitude coordinates, and a little note that said:

‘If you come at the specified date time and place, you will see me in a crashed black car in a suit. I will not remember anything, but if you save me, I will save you. Your friend,’

then it was signed with a signature I recognized. I asked if I could borrow a pen. The man across from me gave me a fancy pen while interloping his fingers together, and I put down my suit beside the chair. I close my eyes and try to unconsciously sign my own signature right below the one on the paper. I write it, and then when I open my eyes, I see that it is is exactly the same. I can only read the ‘Josh’ part, but what I assume must be my last name is unreadable to me, despite writing it myself.
    “Hmm, is this the way you verify whether something is from you or not?” the man said as he took back the paper. I wasn’t quite sure, it sounded reasonable, but the only reason I did that, I assume, was just out of dumb curiosity. The more I look at at it though, the more it unnerves me how completely exact the signatures are. To do something so exact without much thought gives me an uneasiness I can feel in my stomach.
    “Not really a great system, to be honest,” the man says, “Oh yes, and as I am sure you have already deduced, I am Maxwell, of the house of Maxwell, pleasure to meet you.” Maxwell says as he goes to shake my hand again. We both sit down in the fancy red cushion chairs, and he offers me a glass with what I think is just water.
    “So,” Maxwell begins, “What do you remember about the UWG?”
    “The UWG?”
    “Yes, the United World Government.”