Children of the New World: Stories (5 page)

“Barrett, chill,” Quimbly said.

“In my presence the mountains quake! The hills melt, the earth trembles, its people are destroyed! The day of judgment has come!” Then Barrett jumped from the couch and seized Quimbly around the neck so hard it left bruises for weeks after. It was when I saw Quimbly’s face turning blue that I took my beer bottle and broke it over Barrett’s head. We tied his legs and arms together and called 911.

That was the end of Barrett. He was sent upstate, where he ranted at the walls and played God to anyone willing to listen. When we cleaned out his apartment, we discovered the memories he’d never told us about. He’d begun a personal log, which detailed beaming thousands of his own created memories, the notebook deteriorating into pages of an indecipherable alphabet.

Still, Barrett had tried, in his own way, to warn us. Come May, less than a week after our first memory ads launched, the word spread that we’d sold out. A blogger posted a scathing piece that went viral. Memory start-ups took the bait and began selling their memories as “100% ad free.”

“Who’d have guessed they’d resent having their brain space tweaked, they never seemed to mind before,” Quimbly joked. But he, too, was shaken. Within the month, sales fell and our inboxes were full of hate mail. We were no longer the masters of the universe, just owners of a failing company.

*   *   *

QUIMBLY ENDED UP
taking a job for another company that manufactured thought ads. He told me the news as we cleared the Crow’s Nest of our belongings, and I listened vaguely as I cleaned out my desk, realizing the life we’d created together was now only a memory. Barrett was gone, Quimbly was moving on, and I had nothing but my dwindling savings and Cynthia.

“People resist thought ads, but soon enough they’ll be as commonplace as napkins,” he said. “I can get you in, but first clean yourself up.”

I looked up from the floorboards where I’d been staring, thinking about the years I’d spent in the war. “What do you mean ‘clean myself up’?”

“How many memories are you beaming a day?”

“Not that many,” I lied. Like Barrett, I was designing my own memories and downloading them when I couldn’t sleep. I still logged the memories I tested, but not my late-night binges or the hundreds of high-end Shimazaki memories I’d spent my bank account on. “Maybe a few a day,” I said.

“Uh-huh. Look, I’m not telling you what to do with your life, but you’re starting to act like Barrett. Go visit him. Refresh your memory of what happens when you lose track.”

“I’m fine,” I said.

“No, you’re not,” Quimbly said. “You probably don’t even remember the time we went skiing.”

“Of course I do: Breckenridge, three days of fresh powder.”

Quimbly shook his head. “That was one of mine,” he said. “Listen, I know you won’t stop beaming because I tell you to, but if you’re going to keep beaming, at least use this one next.” Quimbly pulled a memory stick from his pocket. “It’s a going-away present.”

“Thanks,” I said, and though I knew he and Cynthia were right, and that the best thing for me would be never to touch another memory again, I couldn’t help myself from reaching out and taking the gift.

When I got back to the apartment, I left the boxes from the office in the hallway and sat down on the couch. I placed the tip of Quimbly’s memory stick against my forehead and pressed the button. I was halfway into the beam when Cynthia walked in.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she said.

“What?” I opened my eyes.

“You just went bankrupt because of those things and you’re—” Then she stopped. “No, you know what—go ahead and enjoy yourself, beam all night if you want. I’m out of here.” She raised her two fingers in a peace sign, then turned her back on me and left the room.

“Hey!” I said. “Just wait a minute, I’m almost done.” I finished Quimbly’s gift and got up to find her, but she wasn’t anywhere. Not in the bedroom, the kitchen, or the bathroom. The only trace of her was a note taped to the mirror.
I’m done. Goodbye, Adam. Thanks for the memories. Sorry you liked yours better.

For the next two weeks I binged on memories to keep from letting the pain sink in. I went to the Himalayas and gambled in Vegas, I slept with porn stars and got wasted with celebrities, I drove in stretch limos through Hollywood and sat on the beaches of the world watching sunrise after tropical sunrise, beaming one after another memory, until one morning I found myself in the early light, dehydrated, shaking and sweaty, without a clue of who I was.

Did I have parents? Were they both still alive?

In one memory I recalled attending their funeral. In another I pictured them tanned and happy in L.A. And in yet another I remembered our childhood home in Tibet. I scrolled through my phone, my grip sweaty and slippery, until I found a number listed as
Home.

A woman picked up on the third ring.

“Hello?” she said, her voice distant and unfamiliar.

“Mom?” I asked. “Can I come home?”

*   *   *

MY LIFE SINCE
leaving the memory business has mostly been recovery and learning to forgive Quimbly. I work to get my memories straight. I’ll recall my parents’ death, envision myself as an angry teenager, smoking cigarettes in the Rockies after their funeral. Then I’ll hear the floor squeak above me, hear my mother in the kitchen, listen to my father cough before he lets the door slam, and I’ll remember that I never lived in Colorado but grew up here in Brooklyn. I live in my parents’ basement again, like when I was a teenager, and I never smoked cigarettes, merely spent my daylight hours in this subterranean darkness programming computers.

I got a job at a coffee shop in the neighborhood, where I help curate the art on the walls and brew lattes for the kids who’ve settled this outpost of New York City. And I work on my letter to Cynthia. I sit, pen in hand, trying to remember what love felt like.
I miss you,
I write.
I’m better now. I want to make real memories together.

Quimbly saved me, there’s no doubt about that. Had I never fallen in love with Cynthia, she never could’ve left me; had she never left me, I never would’ve stopped beaming. Typical, though, that even Quimbly’s acts of kindness were sadistic. It was when I’d finished my letter that I finally understood what his going-away present had been. After sealing my pages into the envelope, I picked up my pen to write Cynthia’s address, and had no clue where she lived. Every memory I had of her involved my apartment, the bistro, or walking the streets in winter. Hadn’t I ever seen her apartment, I wondered. And then, before I could stop myself, I realized I’d found the edge. Light poured through the cracks where stories of her family should’ve been. It came streaming in from the hallway of my old apartment, which had never been clean, but was a dark, curtained cave filled with take-out containers and an unmade bed. The bistro where we ate never had a name; the Chinese takeout never had fortune cookies. And yet, all the other details had been masterfully placed by Quimbly, every memory bunched together to form a life that had never happened. I sat there in the coffee shop, the light fluttering behind my eyelids, feeling my heart sail off the edge of the world.

Love scars memories, even if it was never real. When I walk the streets I think: we walked here together, she used to touch my arm like this, and the pain of white emptiness sets in. You can’t get rid of memories; you can only try to ignore them. I’ve been weeding through my old memories, finding the edge of the world in one memory after another. I was never in France or Tokyo, have never seen the California redwoods or swum in the Caribbean, and I’ve never made love with Cynthia. All the same, I keep working on my letters to her. I tell her I can still remember her skin against mine as we slept, the light in her eyes when I’d open my apartment door for her, and the sound of her voice, telling me, over and over, just how much she loved me.

HEARTLAND

MY SON IS
doing fantastic until the elimination round. Then he gets to the quiz questions and I watch him fall apart. His little face goes tight, the way it does near a barking dog, and he starts haphazardly punching the buzzer—not even listening to the questions. For a moment I want to bury my face in my hands, almost do, but then I realize it’d be me and not one of the other usual schmucks on TV crying. So I sit up straight and keep my eyes on Sam, trying to look supportive as I watch him lose ten thousand bucks.

There are papers to sign and hands to shake when the show is over, and then we’re driving home. Sam’s strapped into his booster seat with the
Scaredy Cat:
Home Version
game in his lap. By now it’s dark. Only 6
P.M.
, but Indiana’s late October light is long gone. I hold both hands on the steering wheel and stare out at the headlights of the opposite lanes and the blackness of the clay fields around us.

Sam was a beautiful baby, which is what helped us land him the diaper ads, but ever since he turned seven he’s become a normal kid.
Scaredy Cat
was his one big shot. The winner of the show always lands a TV ad, sometimes even an appearance on KidMTV. That’s how Mindy Sands got so big. But that’s never going to happen to Sam. He doesn’t even know how to play an instrument.

Sam’s been quiet the whole ride. He can feel when I’m upset. Finally he speaks, his voice small from the backseat. “Daddy, are you angry?”

“No,” I say.

“I thought I knew the answers.”

“Yeah, I know,” and before I can stop myself I add, “but you’ve got to listen to the questions.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I mean, you weren’t even listening to the questions. You were just hitting the buttons.”

“I was trying to listen.… I mean, I was … well, I mean…”

Then there’s just silence. I look in the rearview mirror to see Sam staring out his window, tears falling down his cheeks. “It’s okay,” I say. It’s too late, though. The darkness of the backseat is broken only by the passing bands of light from the overhead streetlights. In those momentary flashes I can see he’s still staring out the window, crying.

I let out a deep sigh. “It’s okay, Sam,” I say again. “You did the best you could.” Then I put on my signal and head for the exit, where I’ll find a place to pull over and give him a hug.

*   *   *

AT HOME CARA
hasn’t started dinner yet. She’s got Laurie in the crib, where she’s gumming the corner of my old iPhone. Cara’s at the computer, uploading photos of our furniture and Sam’s older toys on e-auction. “Hey,” she says, clicking the screen onto her feed when Sam runs into the room. “I saw you on TV, little man.”

“Sorry,” Sam says.

“Don’t be sorry, you were great. Was it gross to eat worms?”

Sam smiles. “Kinda. Sorta like spaghetti that kept wiggling.”

“Ew!” she says, scrunching her nose, and gives him a hug. Over his shoulder she mouths to me,
other room.

“Come on, Sam, let’s go make some funny home videos,” I say, so Cara can finish uploading the photos.

“All right,” Sam says.

We do a couple classic knock-down gags in his bedroom: Sam standing on his tippy toes, trying to hit the light switch and falling back onto his ass, Sam jumping on the bed and falling off the edge. Decent stuff that probably won’t make the cut. As a reward, I let him play VirtuCube.

Cara’s still on the computer when I walk into the living room.

“Dinner?” I ask.

“Laurie
just
stopped crying and I’ve been nursing for the past hour. Let’s order in pizza.”

I feel the familiar flush of irritation beneath my skin. “I was hoping you’d cook for us.”

“Yeah, and I was hoping you’d prepped Sam better for the quiz questions.”

“Thanks, you’ve got a real gift for compassion.” I walk into the kitchen to get a beer. Cara’s up from her chair, following me. I open the fridge and take a Corona.

“I thought you were quitting.”

That was our deal. She would quit coffee; I’d quit drinking. I pop the bottle with a lighter and toss the cap into the garbage under the sink, where we keep our bucket of compost. A swarm of fruit flies is buzzing in the murky darkness of sponges and Brillo pads. “Can’t you at least take out the compost?” I say.

Laurie starts crying from the other room. Cara looks at me. “It’s your turn to take her.”

“Fine, I’ll take her
and
the compost out.”

I put my beer on the counter and sweep Laurie from the crib. I turn her so she’s facing me, then go into the kitchen and crouch to get the bucket. Laurie begins to cry again.

“Give me her,” Cara says.

“I’ve got her.”

“She’s not happy with how you’re holding her. Give her to me.” Cara puts her hands around Laurie and pulls her away. I’m left with the bucket of compost and the fruit flies. I take the compost, step outside, and slam the door behind me.

What’s left of our yard is a mess from yesterday’s rain. Ever since we sold off the topsoil, the clay makes walking treacherous. It’s the same for every yard in our neighborhood. I put on muck boots and climb down the makeshift steps that Heartland Gardens put in when they carted our soil away; then I slog through the slippery clay to the corner of our yard where we’re trying to make dirt. Blackened banana peels, old coffee grounds, and moldy vegetables sit in the wired-off compost pile. At this rate we’ll have usable soil in a decade.

I hear Laurie still wailing inside. She’s been wailing since she came into the world. Laurie was born with a stray eye. Minor corrective surgery would’ve fixed it, except minor corrective surgery when you’re not covered means no minor corrective surgery. Which meant no baby commercials for Laurie.

I crouch down next to the compost and look up at the sky, which is covered by gray clouds. Seems like it rains every day now. When I was a kid, we used to have these long beautiful Indiana summers. Now we just have a drawn-out rainy fall—all year long. With the soil gone, it turns our backyards into clay pits. The clay runs off onto the streets, where it hardens between rains until the city comes and sprays the sludge into the sewers. I look at the telephone and electric wires cutting across our patch of sky, feeling like the whole world is coming down around me.