Stadium Exit

He made his way through the crowd. He couldn't remember how he had gotten here or even where here was. From the looks of it he was at a sporting event, but he has no interest in sport so he looks for the nearest exit.
Awareness of his surroundings came to him in an instant. It was as if he opened his eyes and he was here, moving through this crowd. He had no context - no past, no motive, no thoughts of the future. He was simply here in this throng of people, trying to find an exit.
And then he sees the sign. The crowd is thick and though he is moving with the flow, the exit is on the opposite end of the walkway. Through the push and nudge, it is no simple task to move laterally, but bit by bit he edges over through upset glances and rude, whispered expletives.
Finally there, the exit points down a short hallway. It is empty. He is grateful for the space around him. He smoothes the wrinkles in his shirt and makes his way to the double-doors. Making his way there, the thought occurs to him that it might be locked but they open with ease.
Now, outside, he looks back and surveys the stadium. From deep within, he hears the tidal roar of the crowd, followed immediately by groans, hisses, and boos. For a moment, everything quiets down.
Free from the push and press of the crowd he tries to understand. Where am I? How did I get here? Where do I go now?
And then the question that really throws him, who am I?
He looks down at his button down shirt - conservative vertical stripes. He is wearing stone-washed jeans. A thought occurs to him and he reaches into his back pocket and finds a wallet. He opens it and on a fold-out flap he finds a driver's license. The name on the card is Howard, but the face is not his own. He also finds forty seven dollars. There are no pictures of women, or of children. There are no credit cards. The parking lot is full of cars but empty of people. He pats his front pocket and finds a set of keys but no remote for an alarm. Three keys. The double edged auto key is a duplicate. He can't even tell what make of car it belongs to. In the opposite pocket he finds nothing but spare change.
In the back of his mind, a tiny seed is germinating, growing, breaking free of its shell and searching for nutrients in the surrounding grey-matter soil. It's a lethal plant whose fruits will ripen into frustration and rage but for now it is merely a seedling. And so it takes its time, as plant life always will.