Iregained consciousness on a rocking ship. I was cold, I was wet and I didn't remember my name.
A boatful of students from the French House out for a fishing excursion had peered into the waters of Lake Mendota. They saw me floating there and pulled me out.
I awoke to a crowd of French majors asking me what happened.
\Sorry, I don't speak French.""
""Quoi?"" they replied.
""Je ne parle pas fran??ais,"" I repeated.
They looked at me confused. Maybe I did speak French. Strange.
They gave me food and clothes as we traversed the trembling water. I could remember the names of every Badger defensive lineman and the name of each frat house that lined the shore, but still could not remember my own.
When we reached land, I thanked the French majors and looked around, disoriented. Instinctively, I stepped into the Union and into Der Rathskeller, thinking beer might hold the key to unlocking this mystery.
But as the bartender served me, uniformed agents swarmed me from around the corner. They looked like travel agents, but they meant business. The jukebox blared European techno music as I ran past the agents, out of the Union and into the parking lot.
In the lot, a red-headed German major stood stuffing bags into a Mini Cooper.
""I need a ride to State Street,"" I said urgently.
""That's a block away,"" she responded.
Searching my pockets, I found a wad of money.
""I'll give you three hundred dollars to drive me to State Street!"" I shouted.
She shrugged and got in the car. Moments later, we were there. I told her to wait in the car, as I entered a bar that looked familiar.
""Hey, it's you,"" the bouncer greeted me.
""You know who I am?"" I asked.
""Sure,"" he said. ""I confiscated your ID two years ago. Here, look.""
He showed me an ID card. It was me. Apparently, my name was Allen Madison and I was from Wyoming.
A bearded man sitting alone and drinking whiskey at the bar looked up at me.
""Amos, what are you doing here?"" he asked.
I played along.
""Want to head home?"" he followed up.
""Sure,"" I said apprehensively.
He led me to a messy Gilman Street apartment, piled high in beer bottles and rented movies. The bearded man-apparently my roommate-went into one room, while a telephone rang in the other room.
I entered to answer.
""Amos,"" a man's voice said.
""Who is this?"" I demanded. ""What am I doing here?""
""This is your father,"" he said. ""You are an operative of the Posner family. You are an expensive, malfunctioning project and we're pulling you out.""
""Project?""
""You were sent to Madison to train and carry out special missions for us. But in five years, you've become useless. Last spring, you even drew national media attention for a botched mission. All you do now is drink heavily and try to get lucky. You've failed at that part, too.""
Suddenly, it all came back. The freshman classes; the road test, when I drove down six flights of stairs; the time I unsuccessfully abducted that sophomore girl to the marshland. Everything made sense. The headaches. The pidgin French.
I had been in college.
""All we've gotten for our tuition money is a trail of collateral damage from Manhattan to Sheboygan,"" my father said. ""Graduation is in two weeks. It's your dishonorable discharge. We're calling you back to base.""
""Wow, kind of like 'The Bourne Identity,'"" I said.
""No, Amos. Matt Damon has a job.""
Amos' final column will run next Thursday. He can be reached at AmosAP@gmail.com.
