Interfictions 2 (9 page)

They were in each other's arms when the conversation went from lover talk to something else. Something dark. Something ugly.

A suspicion.

"You were checking up on me?"

"I had to know."

"How much I loved you?"

"It was because I loved you so much. I loved you with all of my heart."

"Why didn't you leave it alone?"

"I'm not comfortable with your jealousy."

"You're not happy unless there is an argument."

"You kept it from me."

"That was my right. I am my own person."

"By doing that, you betrayed us."

"But I had to know. You left me no choice."

"You broke the trust."

"It was only that one time. I wouldn't ever again."

"I don't know if I could ever love you the same way now."

"You are a coward."

"You are disgusting."

"You are weak."

"I hate you."

"I can't stand that look in your eyes. Hard."

"I will never forgive you."

"I wish I had never met you!"

Dunbar got out of bed and put his pants on. He got out of bed and cursed her out.

He got out of bed and left the room. He got out of bed and slammed the door.

There was no relation between the door slamming and the crack that had been building for months in the window of their room, but after the fact, it seemed like it because just as Dunbar slammed the door, the window gave up on itself and began to splinter.

By the time Dunbar was stomping down the clear tube to the bar in the hotel, the crack had gotten larger.

By the time Dunbar had gotten his drink and sat by the scenic window, fuming, swearing that he would make her sorry, the window had shattered. All of the contents of the room, including a naked, crying Gertie, had been sucked out into space.

By the time the emergency bells went off and the guests were escorted to safety, Dunbar realized that he would never be able to take his terrible curse back.

Dunbar left the moon screaming.

This time there was no one to comfort him.

Dunbar had his lesson plan in front of him. He had made copies available to his students at both the university bookstore and online. But he knew for sure they were not listening.

How many times had he taught this lecture? How many times had he said these words? Showed these slides?

He could imagine how strong the information was in his brain. The memory of talking about the mechanisms of memory was a permanent memory trace. It was like riding a bike. He could say the lecture in his sleep. He could pick it up from any section of the slide show. The students may have changed, the styles of their hair changed, the technology that they preferred changed.

But the lesson plan was always the same.

"I'm ready,” he said to the young men. The one at his door and the one he used to be that lived in his head.

Dunbar walked down the scenic hallway to the room where the ceremony was taking place. There were other scientists there, as well. All older, like him. They all wore tuxedos or ball gowns. They all wore their academy pins. And when the evening was over, they would all be wearing medals around their necks.

Dunbar sat at his table, making chitchat with the other table mates. He was polite and interested. He ordered another Scotch and didn't eat much lamb. He listened to the other winners' speeches and clapped when appropriate.

That was the benefit of long-term memory, knowing how to fake behavior in social settings.

He drank his Scotch and realized that the scene outside the window was the same as it had been the last time that he had been here, when the alarms had gone off. His bow tie seemed tight; he felt as though his body were swelling. He loosened his tie, wanting to get some more air.

They called his name and his handler helped him to the stage, not because he was so old, but because he was a little drunk.

The lights were bright as he stood on the podium, now wearing the medal, a bit heavier than he'd expected, around his neck. He looked out at the audience. They had finished clapping, and now they were all trying to be quiet with their dinnerware. Dessert had just been served.

He could smell toast.

"I can't tell you what an honor it is to be here,” Dunbar began. “I am a man of memory, and I have a strong memory of the moon. Here, on the moon, lies the very reason why I went into neuroscience, to study memory. To study the mechanisms of it. To see how we remember and how we forget."

His tongue suddenly seemed thick. Very thick. He felt as though he was slurring, and he had only begun his speech. He had never needed to use index cards before, he didn't even have them. But he realized that he could not remember the next thing that he was going to say.

He blinked. His vision a bit blurry. Was he crying?

He blinked.

He took a deep breath.

Toast.

He smelled burnt toast.

And realized that he did not know where he was.

A warm rush in his face. He knew what was happening.

"Thank God,” he said as he fell to the ground. “It's finally over."

My first job was at fifteen, working as a gal Friday to the Nobel Prizewinning neurobiologist Dr. Eric Kandel, with whom my dad worked. I had a slightly punk attitude, artistic temperament, and free spirit but was stuck photocopying data and feeding the aplysias. Science, memory, and DNA were always topics of conversation at the dinner table growing up. Last year, recovering from a psychological trauma, I moved back in with my parents in Montreal. One day my father, now vice dean at the University of Montreal, was giving a lecture to the undergraduate Intro to Neuroscience class. Since I had never seen him lecture, I went. Listening to him talk about the mechanisms of memory while clicking through the slides highlighting experiments explaining how the brain learns and forgets and stores long- and short-term memory, I was riveted. I was particularly fascinated with patient HM, whose hippocampus had been severed, with the dramatic result of his having an endless loop of old memories but never remembering anything new. I began to think about the mechanisms of memory in light of my own situation. Could a specific traumatic memory be removed? What would the moral and philosophical implications of that be? I wanted to forget, but I knew people, like my friend's parents, who suffered from Alzheimer's or dementia, who were desperate to remember. On our way back to the car, I remarked that the license plates in Quebec sported the provincial motto:
Je me souviens
: I remember. I wanted to write a story from the point of view of someone who has access to all the secrets of how memory works. By mixing fiction, philosophy, and portions of the Intro to Neuroscience lecture my father gave that day, I hoped to get to the heart of the very human desire to forget emotional trauma.

Interestingly, Dr. Kandel is now actually working on a pill that would enhance memory, and the day after I submitted this story to
Interfictions 2
, patient HM died.

Cecil Castellucci

[Back to Table of Contents]

Alaya Dawn Johnson

Don't matter what we sing

Every window we open, they jam another door

They gladhand, pander, lie for the king

It's our song, but their score—Jake Pray, “What We Sing"

(first documented performance:

February 15, 2003 at the pre-invasion

anti-Iraq War marches in New York City)

Gmail—Inbox—[email protected]—chat

me
: violet, i'm so sorry. if you need someone to come over...

Sent at 3:16 PM on Sunday

Violet
: he never liked you, you know

Sent at 4:43 PM on Sunday

Violet's new status message—

Two bleeding hearts drank ginger beer / and mocked and stung their gingered fears / to know the future, and still die here. Rahimahullah, Jake.

NEW YORK CITY MEDICAL EXAMINER

NAME: Jacob Nasser

AUTOPSY-NO: 43-6679

SEX: Male

DATE OF AUTOPSY: 3/21/2007

RACE: White (Arab)

TIME OF AUTOPSY: 3:36 p.m.

DOB: 2/1/81

DATE OF REPORT: 4/1/2007

DATE OF DEATH: 3/17/07-3/18/07

FINAL PATHOLOGICAL DIAGNOSES

I. 25 MICRON TEAR IN CORONARY ARTERY, POSSIBLE INDICATION OF SPONTANEOUS CORONARY ARTERY DISSECTION

II. MINIMAL DRUG INTOXICATION

A. Probable non-contributory drugs present:

1. Acetaminophen (2 mg/L)

2. Cannabis (30.0 ng/mL)

OPINION

Jacob Nasser was a 26-year-old male of Arab descent who died of undetermined causes. The presence of a 25-micron tear in his coronary artery might indicate SCAD (Spontaneous Coronary Artery Dissection), however it was deemed too small to lead to a definitive finding. The presence of cannabis was small and non-contributing.

The manner of death is determined to be: COULD NOT BE DETERMINED.

M. Andy Pilitokis

M.D., LL.B, M.Sc.

Chief Medical Examiner

Andrea Varens, MD

Associate Medical Examiner

Jake Pray (Jacob Nasser) prelim autopsy notes
[Recovered]

Last saved with AutoRecover

4:33 AM Thursday, March 22, 2007

Andrea Varens

3/21/07

The subject was first discovered dead in his holding cell the morning of March 18 in the “Tombs” Manhattan Detention Center. The subject was discovered with a rope in his hand, and so police at first surmised it had contributed in some manner to his death, but there are no consistent contusions on the neck or, indeed, anywhere else on the body.

A preliminary physical examination reveals what looks to be a normal, healthy twenty-six-year-old man with no signs of ill-health or infirmity (beyond the obvious).

Drug interactions? Probably SCAD, poor fucker.

I saw him. I went to the hallway to get a coke from the machine and I saw him. Leaning against the wall looking out the window. Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. I've been staring at his sorry face for the last two days, I oughta know. Maybe he has a long-lost twin brother?

Mom was right, I should have gone into

The New York Post

Anti-War Songster “Scored” Dope, Autopsy Says

April 2, 2007

Bad news for the anti-Bush peaceniks who've turned Jake Pray into a martyr: turns out he was stoned on dope (the equivalent of “one joint of strong chronic,” according to a well-placed source) when police took him into custody. And he died of a “spontaneous” heart attack. Not police abuse.

Of course, you didn't hear any of that damning data at the packed memorial service in the ultra-liberal Riverside Church this Sunday. In fact, Pray's memorial service sounded more like an anti-war rally.

Violet Omura, a Columbia grad student who spoke at the memorial, had nothing but contempt for the city's Medical Examiner. “It's ridiculous,” she said. “It's like if you shot me in the head and the autopsy said I had died due to ‘spontaneous brain leakage.'”

Pray's fellow protesters were convinced police abuse was responsible. “[The police] really picked on him at the rally,” said Billy Davis, a close friend who had been present at the protest. “Guess they saw his skin and hair, you know, and drew their conclusions,” Davis said, referring to Pray's Palestinian heritage. “They called him a terrorist. Said ragheads like him were responsible for bringing down the Twin Towers.” Davis also accused the officers of using Tasers on the unruly protestors. Conspiracy theories abounded at the memorial of how the nonlethal crowd-control devices could have contributed to his death.

In a statement issued today, the Police Commissioner denied all accusations of wrongdoing by the officers on the scene and restated the findings of yesterday's autopsy report. “Should any new evidence surface regarding this case, rest assured that we will pursue it with all due diligence."

Rock & Rap Confidential

"What We Still Sing"

Issue 4, Volume 78; May 2007

Jake Pray may never have had a hit song, but to the latest crop of anti-war protestors, “What We Sing” has the same iconic resonance that “Bring the Boys Home” or “Masters of War” had for their parents. And over three hundred youngbloods turned out for the memorial of this iconoclastic musician, held this past March in Riverside Church.

Jake Pray was born as Jacob Nasser to Palestinian immigrants; the family settled in suburban New Jersey when he was just three years old. His father, a professor of Linguistics and Cultural Anthropology at a university in the Gaza strip, was forced to emigrate after he received death threats for his political positions.

Not surprisingly, Pray became a lightning rod for activists across the world when his life ended in Manhattan's “Tombs” detention facility. He was arrested after an incident with police during the anti-war protests this March. The autopsy report declared its findings inconclusive. The police commissioner, in a written statement, called Pray's death a “tragic incident.” The arresting officer had taunted the twenty-six-year-old man with racial slurs like “raghead.” He had shot 50,000 excruciating volts of electricity into his body and then detained him in unspeakable conditions for endless hours. A
tragic incident
? The mind would boggle, if this weren't so painfully predictable.

The larger meaning of Jake's life was best captured by Violet Omura, a twenty-five-year-old graduate student in the Physics department at Columbia.

Perhaps the experiences of his parents in the occupied territories influenced his decision to turn to political activism and the thankless efforts of those who argue from right, not expedience. But I think, perhaps, that he mostly just wanted to tell, he just wanted to sing, he just wanted others to know they had a voice. Our parents were optimists. They gave us “Imagine,” and “Blowin' in the Wind.” We're not pessimists. God knows Jake wasn't a pessimist. But he wasn't so sure that singing could change anything. Some people complain that “What We Sing” is bleak. I disagree. It's furious, it's strident, and it's real. Jake wanted to change the world, but he couldn't hide from the fact that it might never change.