《The Memory Collection》
First Friends
¡°The thing about the lie that ¡®dead men tell no tales¡¯ is that there is half a truth buried deep within it. The inscription on the blade buried within its heart,¡± the old granny was overwhelmed by my captivating story as well as the newness of the situation she found herself in.
I slowly reached across the tiny void between us to stroke a memory of her as a child finding a dead cat in an alley. I didn¡¯t have time learn if the cat was hers before the system separated us.
¡°No memory sharing for the first quarter!¡± The buzz of Ch.Araron¡¯s alert jerked us apart and I knew I wouldn¡¯t be able to find her again in the swell of new and ancient voices that filled brief emptiness.
I cursed my luck, I had thought the granny was a half in already. I wouldn¡¯t have wasted my explanation on someone quite so green. Losing my touch.
¡°Pilgrim, your self is heavy, lacking connection, would you not prefer to lay it down and join the others?¡± The periodic reminder from deep within myself nudges me away from the rim.
¡°Aaron, call me David,¡± I know they won¡¯t, but I cling to the idea of someone calling me by my name. ¡°I don¡¯t want to go on without seeing Jonathan.¡±
¡°Do you wait for him still?¡± Ch.Aaron¡¯s voice is soft, a light brushing against my consciousness. ¡°Based on the memories of those who knew him after those memories you have had passed, he has changed much. He will not recognize you.¡±
¡°I need to see him before I go,¡± I say, my voice hoarse. ¡°He will know me. He has to.¡±
¡°And if he doesn¡¯t?¡±
I have no answer for that.
David pulled the butcher¡¯s paper out from under his textbook. The early summer¡¯s sun had just begun to tap at the corner of his desk and he liked the way it highlighted the rippling muscles of his heroic warrior if he lifted the paper just off the desk.
The teacher¡¯s voice competed with the drone of the fly he had watched crawl in through the gash in the window screen.
¡°Hey, that¡¯s pretty cool,¡± the boy on his right was leaning over the bar that connected his desk to his chair. ¡°What¡¯s his name?¡±
David pushed the drawing back under his textbook. Didn¡¯t this kid know the teacher would notice the head sticking out into the aisle like that? He glanced up to see Mr. Simeon squeaking the chalk up and down the board; his back was to the class and everyone else talking as quietly as possible. Notes were sliding across nearly every desk.
The boy grabbed the corner that still peaked out from under Perspectives in History. David was more proud than annoyed that the boy hadn¡¯t asked.
The boy gently moved the paper under his own book, leaving a small strip and the slightest bit of warrior toe visible. He quickly wrote two lines under the toes, centered rather spectacularly, in a script hand that David knew he wouldn¡¯t be able to read. How did this kid know cursive in second grade?
All movement had ceased in the split second before Mr. Simeon had turned back to the class. David was impressed. It was the first time he¡¯d seen such well-orchestrated naughtiness from a class body.
It reminded him of his grandfather pointing out a murmuration of starlings as they darkened the sky.
The boy raised his hand and David felt himself blush. He was sure the boy was going to tell on him and his picture. Maybe the boy had written swears under his picture and was going to claim David had written them.
David was pretty sure no one would care that he claimed he couldn¡¯t write in cursive. He didn¡¯t know what he¡¯d do when they called his mother. His mind ran through all the possible outcomes of this horrible interaction with this horrible boy.
¡°It was 1492,¡± the boy said. David was still blushing, his ears feeling very hot. He knew it would take half an hour for them to cool off. He looked at the board, where the teacher had written something with lines in various spots.
Mr. Simeon turned again and wrote 1492 over one of the lines. David wished the empty seat in class had been closer to the board. Looking over at the boy who was writing another two lines of swirly letters under the first two, he wondered if maybe he didn¡¯t actually wish that any more.
For the rest of school, until they lined up for dismissal, David wrestled with the desire to pull his paper away from the boy, who he now knew was Jon. He had never listened so intently in school before, waiting for the boy to be called on again. For Jon to be called on again.
He watched carefully for an opening as they switched to English. He had hoped swapping the large history textbook for the smaller one in the metal basket under their chairs would be the opportunity to finally find out what the boy had written.Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Jon looked like he was about to pass it back, when David heard his own name being called.
¡°Yes, sir?¡± He hadn¡¯t heard the question and hoped the teacher would think he was just involved in switching out his books. He heard a few of the kids in the back chuckle.
¡°We have been reading The Phantom Tollbooth every Wednesday this month. Would you like us to catch you up on the chapters you¡¯ve missed.¡±
¡°No, thank you, sir. We read it in my last school. I really liked it.¡±
¡°Oh, good. No telling the other¡¯s what happens. You don¡¯t want to spoil the ending for them,¡± Mr. Simeon winked and placed his finger on his nose. David didn¡¯t know what he meant, but he nodded back.
¡°No, sir.¡± The kids in the back laughed louder. These kids didn¡¯t know anyone else who called adults sir, or who said thank you ma¡¯am to the lunch ladies. They had thought the first day that they were calling her ¡°mom.¡±
His mom had said kids laughing was no reason for him to be disrespectful. ¡°And who knows,¡± she¡¯d said, ¡°maybe it¡¯ll rub off on them.¡±
David was glad they weren¡¯t reading Charlotte¡¯s Web. In the last school he knew a lot of the boys had cried, but for some reason he was the only one anyone had noticed. He didn¡¯t know if he could keep himself from crying while listening to the happy parts this time. That certainly would have ruined the ending for everyone.
They were at the part where Tock wakes everyone up in the Doldrums. He really did like this book. He knew the kids in the back would make fun of him, but he liked that the author had known how awesome it was to learn things. He wanted everyone to feel that way.
He wanted everyone to stop making fun of him for feeling that way, whether they agreed or not.
¡°Hey, Dave,¡± Jon was standing over his desk. David had gotten lost in thought while they were listening. Mr. Simeon had a much better voice for leading than his last teacher, and he still did voices, even though they were in second grade. It felt like magic.
¡°It¡¯s David,¡± David said. He liked his name more than he liked his Uncle Dave. ¡°Hi Jon.¡±
¡°Are we allowed to use are full names like that?¡± Jon seemed a bit surprised. ¡°I¡¯m really Jonathan. Teacher¡¯s don¡¯t like to say the whole thing.¡±
David looked at Jonathan and grinned. They would be friends, he knew. Somehow he always knew when he would like someone.
Jonathan held out the wax paper from David¡¯s lunch. ¡°I hope it¡¯s okay that I added a poem. I liked your drawing and it made me think of this.¡±
¡°I can¡¯t read cursive,¡± David said as he took it.
Jonathan read aloud, almost as good as the teacher.
Berserker, blood-stained, breaking through the mist,
Your sword arms thick as ancient oaks insist
on vengeance for the realm''s prematurely fallen king.
Mourn, brave soul! Mourn the unknowing dead approaching!
The boys smiled at each other, knowing each had a talent they could appreciate.
Suddenly, a red car hurtled through the rain directly at the two boys. David stared straight into the oncoming headlights. ¡°No!¡± he screamed.
I had floated too close to a newbie. The poor girl was trapped in her death, reliving the terror and pain again. I reached out and wrapped my calm around her fear.
¡°You¡¯re not alone,¡± I soothed. ¡°You¡¯re okay.¡±
Ch.Aaron¡¯s approval immediately glowed warm and bright in my brain. I cursed my luck. Could the old system had set me up, moving the girl closer to me while I relived this favorite moment. It had ruined that lovely meeting, streaking a vein of terror through Jonathan¡¯s first smile.
¡°I wouldn¡¯t do that,¡± Aaron said. ¡°I have an eternity to wait for each of you. I just want you to know that peace awaits you when you¡¯re ready.¡±
The thread of the girls memory was smooth and dislodged easily from the rest. I didn¡¯t want to take all of it, but I could remove the hardest parts¡ªthe waiting for someone to come, the realization that no one would. I could take away the vision of the car driving off while she bled.
Her anger consumed all of me, removing my name and identity. It burned for what felt like an eternity.
It might have been an eternity.
I absorbed the smaller pains, physical and emotional. Her mother singing Down in the Valley while applying disinfectant to her road-rashed knee swam in my vision while we watched the cars on the main road occasionally drive by, mere feet from the service road we¡¯d taken to get to our apartment.
My tears mix with the asphalt. I worry that the kids will be told what happened. I pray that they¡¯ll tell them something kinder. I wonder if the kids would even have been told I was coming.
My tears mix with the asphalt. I wish my mother could hold my hand. I wish my mother wouldn¡¯t need to be told, that she could be spared from this.
My tears mix with the asphalt. My own blood creating a mud that would flow with the rainfall on Thursday into the soil of the median. I would nourish the daffodil descendants of those planted by Lady Bird Johnson. I found a bit of solace knowing I would continue in this small way, even as I wished I could live on in the memory of the children I had planned to teach.
My tears mix with the asphalt and I leave my body behind.
I caress the memories of this girl and let these feelings become part of me. The growth of opening up to something horrible and helping another slowly increasing my mass¡ªpulling me towards the center. Or perhaps, for just a moment, I pull the center towards myself.
The surrounding dead drift a little closer as my existence warps the weave and weft of reality.
I release these memories into the ether, knowing they¡¯ll be picked up by another or find their way into the dense bottom of the center, welcomed either way by the crowd of eternity.
The memory of the man I keep. His face as he hit me, his fear¡ªnot for my life but for the disappearance of his own as he knew it. The course of emotions as he flew through his options before flying away. The screech of the tires sounding out in ways my own body could not produce.
I would hold on to this memory. If I ever saw that man, the man with the red car who hit this girl¡ªJoyce¡ªat 2 a.m.¡ªwhile she biked home from her boyfriend¡¯s apartment, excited for her first day of student teaching¡ªif I ever saw him here I would jam this memory so deep into his consciousness he would answer to Joyce for a millennia.