MNEMOSYNE, Chapter 5
MNEMOSYNE
Chapter 5
The sound of thunder breaks me out of my repetitive reading of the same document. I don’t know how long it’s been or how many times I’ve looked over the same things. Property records, tax records, historical records. We’ve both looked over everything relevant, at least according to the little old clerk up front, and we’ve found nothing new. This piece of paper is the closest I’ve found, a document detailing the creation of the nature preserve—three years ago. I put it down. I can’t do this anymore. I know now that something or someone is hiding the truth.
I hear Tiffany say my name, and I don’t know how long she’s been at my side. I feel her hand on my back, consoling me, and I see her face looking down at the only document we’ve found. She says the truth, that it’s all we’re going to find.
“There’s something going on,” I say, but I didn’t mean to sound like I’m accusing her. “It’s go to be that clerk.”
“No, Alex, it’s not the clerk. That thing by the bridge is just some landmark for the nature preserve. It’s not even important enough to say more than that about it. That’s why the info is sparse.”
That thing, she says. I’ve had to remind her a few times of what “that thing” even is, of why we’re even here. But I need to stay patient with her, she’s trying to help.
“It’s unusual, Tiffany,” I say. “Why is there so little information? Nothing about when it was built, who built it, nothing about what it even is.”
“From what we have found, it seems like a typical government monument. Don’t they make them all the time?”
“It has to be more than that. And what about the trees?”
“It’s a coincidence, Alex. You probably saw them and thought they’d be a good fit. They look great.”
“It’s not just a coincidence that I don’t remember seeing that thing, and, on the same day, we receive some trees that I don’t remember either.”
“Alex,” she says, squeezing my arm delicately as she nearly whispers, “you didn’t even remember ordering them.”
“If I’m actually the one who ordered them.”
“There’s the paperwork, Alex. Jasper wouldn’t just make that up. He couldn’t.”
“It’s not about Jasper,” I say, removing my arm from her hand. “It’s about things I haven’t even found yet. Something is hidden from plain sight. And, for starters, that old man is hiding something.”
“Alex, I don’t think that’s a good—“
I’m already walking away, but I reassure her that I’ll be nice. I walk through the doors of the file room. I hear something slam behind me, but I’m too focused on the file clerk behind the front desk to worry about slamming doors.
I don’t like this guy. He was smug when we walked in here, rude to Tiffany about her forgetfulness, and, now, he has that same look on his face. She’d had a minor memory lapse, she quickly remembered that she’d gotten clearance from her friend, and then he disrespected her like that. Looks like he’s going to keep it up, now, with me. What is he up to with those little eyes hiding behind those little glasses?
“Excuse me, sir,” I say, “but—”
He saw me, I know he saw me, but he’s picking up the phone. Preempting me. I wait, my arms folded, until he puts the phone down. He simply looks blankly at me.
“Excuse me sir,” I say. “But there’s something wrong and I think you know what I mean.”
“What’s that?” he asks, his face going from smug to scrunched up then back to smug. “Oh, I see. I get like that in there sometimes myself. Stir crazy. Staring at all those papers in that stuffy room can do that to you. Been there, done that. It gets to you, right? All that old-fashioned paper? And I bet you young people are even more sensitive to it, am I right? Back in my day, that sort of stuff was normal, that was the norm, you know? We used paper because it was more reliable. If you ask me, still is. But, well, it’s a sign of the times, isn’t it? There’s definitely something wrong with the times.”
“My only concern is the so-called Nature Tower.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” he says, looking down at things that can’t possibly be his work.
“You’re responsible for the records, aren’t you?”
“They’re official records. Not my records. Official records.”
“What does that mean?”
“I watch the door and put things in their proper place. I don’t make records. Officials make the records.”
“Which officials?” I ask.
“How am I supposed to know?”
“When did the records arrive? Where did they come from?”
He looks at me like I’m an idiot, then drawls: “We don’t keep a record of the records.”
He must be hiding something. Why is his face all scrunched up again? He’s been here this whole time and he knows nothing about the strangest building I’ve ever seen? That’s impossible. Then, suddenly, his face looks at ease, as if he’s figured something out, something past me, behind me—
“Alex,” Tiffany says. “I think we should go.”
“I assume you’ve put everything back in order?” asks the little old man. The nerve of this guy.
“I still have a few things to put away,” she says, then looks at me. “I’ll take care of it.”
“He knows something, Tiffany,” I say. “That can’t be everything.”
“If it’s not in there,” he says, interrupting us, “then it doesn’t exist.”
“Alex, we found all we’re going to find. I think it’s time to put this behind you. It’s nothing.”
Nothing, she says. Nothing. That’s preposterous. She sounds preposterous. But I can’t be mad at her, it’s not her fault, it’s his. But he’s an impenetrable wall of stupidity.
Stupidity.
Then how can it be his fault? He has nothing to do with this. He’s too stupid to keep a secret like this. And Tiffany, she wouldn’t keep a secret like this. And this ugly records building, how could it hold a secret like this? And it hits me: there’s no point to any of this. Today’s been a waste.
I’m getting out of this oppressive little building with its low ceilings and its stupid little guardian and its endless pieces of wasteful, shredded trees.
Trees. Again with the trees.
I’m getting out of here.
“I’ll meet you outside,” I say and walk away. The two of them seem to say something to me, both, at the same time. I don’t care. I need to get outside. Out into the fresh—
How is the night air so sticky? Wait, how is it night? Has it been that long? I can’t believe we’ve been in there all day. I walk out from the covering at the bottom of the stairs and look up at the sky.
Thunder cracks, reverberating against the tall buildings of downtown. Rain hits my eyes. I’d forgotten about the storm. I let the water cover me as if I’m welcoming it to wash away my panic and frustration. How could there be so little information? How could this happen? How does no one care? Tiffany doesn’t care, she just wants to help me. Jasper doesn’t care, he just wants to work. Regina doesn’t care, but I don’t know what she wants. The little old man doesn’t care—about anything. Even the records he guards don’t care. It’s like I’m the only man in the world who gives a damn.
I look around me, at the city, and everything is hazy from the rain, the buildings having become hazy, white blurs, like poor facsimiles of the wide, white tower by the bridge. The monolith. I look down at the street lights, the car lights, all chaotically reflected in the slowly flooding gutters. The variegated colors and the gray concrete remind me that I’m not by that field, and it’s a strange relief. I feel added relief as a hand grips my wrist. I acquiesce to the touch, to the calm Tiffany is able to bring me.
But the hand’s grip is hard, its texture rough. It’s not Tiffany.
I turn and see a bearded man with wide eyes and an overeager smile. The deep wrinkles in his face make his big smile look strained. He’s so close. Why is he so close? What is he doing?
“Good evening!” he shouts over the sounds of rain and traffic.
For a second I feel as if it makes sense that he’s here. I begin to remember some sort of conversation the night of the Yoga Center’s opening. I remember those eyes, that strange smile, and I feel something like a pang of guilt, then a sense of relief. Then I realize we’re both standing in the rain, getting drenched, he, getting his rough, dirty exterior washed, me, getting cleansed of something deeper. I back away, back under the awning above the stairs.
“What do you want?” I ask. His smile lengthens, his eyes squint, and he steps back. He imitated my movement just now. Is he mocking me?
“The same as you did that night,” he says, his voice cheery. “To remember.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I thought you’d forget,” he says. “The inebriation that night. I can’t say that I blame you, as I myself resort to that same escape at times. Escape. That’s a good way to put it isn’t it? Escape...”
Escape? Why does that remind me of something? There was that one topic that night, at the party, not my topic, but everyone else’s, something about prison inmates, some sort of issue with their release.
“What do you mean, escape?” I ask impulsively. “From where? You don’t mean—“
“A not entirely faulty deduction, sir,” he says, pantomiming an overly formal politeness. He turns his head sideways, then nearly doubles over, his body shaking. I feel a need to rush up to him, as if I should catch him before he falls, but he lifts up his head, his mouth in an open grin, and I realize that he’s simply laughing.
“No, sir,” he continues, calming himself. “I am not an escaped convict. Although I was a convict and I did leave. Eagerly, I might add. Unlike some others. But it was no escape, I had served my duly allotted time. For what, I’m unsure, for how long, I’m unsure… see, that’s the problem, sir. Just as you have, just as everyone has these days, I have memory challenges, memory lapses, memory... misplacements? Memory...“
He seems lost in some thought, and I’m lost wondering why I’m entertaining the ramblings of a demented homeless man. What does he mean he left eagerly unlike some others? What does he mean about my memory? About everyone’s memory?
That first part, that’s all anyone talked about the night of the opening, wasn’t it? About inmates refusing to leave prison? The rest of what he’s saying reminds me of a different conversation, however. One I had outside, one Jasper interrupted at the end of the night...
One I had with this man in front of me right now.
“We met the other night, right? I ask, repeating myself loudly to get him to focus. “What did we talk about?”
“Why, a lot of things,” he replies, still looking a bit lost.
“What was the crux of it?”
“We decidedly agreed to search. Per my suggestion,” he says, focused again, his right hand pointing behind me. I turn around. The ugly bricks and the pointless columns stand tall above me. Somehow, I’d forgotten about the records building.
“We agreed to meet here?" I ask. "Why?”
“Well, we agreed to meet here and search for an explanation, for records of something,” he says, eyes almost unfocused, then back to normal. “You know, I’ve been waiting here for several days for you to arrive. When you didn’t, I tried to enter it myself. They didn’t let me in, believe it or not. But I have a plan. I’ve sobered up. I intend to get new clothes. I’m going to clean myself up, then maybe they’ll let me in. Unless, that is, you found out? Did you find out? That would save me the trouble. Not because I want a drink, well, not entirely, but because I want to know. I want to remember. We both need to remember. That’s our bond, the tie between us, our getting lost in remembrances of things… how we’re both in search of lost...”
He’s trailed off again and his eyes are looking at something or somewhere that’s not here. I don’t know what to say this man. Coming here was his suggestion? I thought it was Tiffany’s. Then again, our conversation that night isn’t the clearest memory. Who is he? Just some bum? Maybe he’s just some drunken bum. He’s been rambling about his failing memory, and now he’s muttering something to whatever he sees beyond us right now. He wants me to remember something and help him remember something, he wants me to take part in some search...
Wait, doesn’t doesn’t that sound like...
“I remember!” He shouts, his eyes fixed intensely on me. “We were outside, talking, and I had an epiphany, like I did just now, but different, and I told you that the records building could show you something about that tower by the bridge. You were so enthusiastic, but your associate interrupted us.”
“I vaguely remember that,” I say, but I shouldn’t encourage him, especially not about the monolith.
“Want to know a secret?” he asks as he leans towards me. “I just remembered something more… I went to it, to that thing by the bridge.”
“What?” I ask. “Why did you go there?”
“That is one strange building,” he says confidently, ignoring my questions. “Yessir, you were right about that. And about how no one wants to talk about it. Not that anyone usually wants to talk to me about anything, but, well, there must be something to it, like you said, that night at the party, at your big event. I apologize about not coming in, by the way, even though you invited me in. That night. And before that,” he looks off again, but not as long this time. “At least we got to talk. It’s had such interesting results, hasn’t it? We get to follow a trail together. I’ve tried my best to do my part, so far. Well, I think it was my best. Hard to say.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “What did you do?”
“I waited for you here, obviously. Oh, and I saw that tower. You know, my memory is messy, but it got even worse the closer I got to that thing. Got harder and harder to remember things—especially the tower itself. I hate to admit it, but that thought made me run. I ran straight here, right then, and I’ve been waiting for you ever since. I was hoping you could tell me what’s going on. Or we could solve the mystery of that thing together, like we discussed,” he says, his tone expectant, as if he wants my approval. Then he nods his head, grins, and nearly whispers, “You feel like I do, don’t you? Like you know it from somewhere but it doesn’t want you to know it from somewhere?”
I do, but I don't tell him anything except that I just saw the tower for the first time the other morning.
“I don’t believe you,” he says. “But I understand your reticence. There’s no telling who’s listening. Though, you were braver the other night. Drunker. Yes, quite drunk, but you made sense, in a funny way. You were especially funny right before your friend scooped you up and got you into your car. That was when you called it the nomo,” he pauses, his face contorted by his widened grin and furrowed brow. “The nomo or the—something like that. There it goes, my memory. It’s always doing that. Falling flat like an old hat that’s old hat. A dead horse beaten with a bat. A white stone without any blood to splat. A man whose memory is not quite...”
He’s trailing off again. Nomo? He must mean mono. As in, monolith. Did I call it by that name when I talked to him that night? I thought that was the next day, when Tiffany called it that. No, that's not right. She said it was not monolithic in response to me calling it that… but what does it matter, either way? Am I really going to keep entertaining this bum’s delusions? Look at him now, staring off into space, talking to himself. There’s no way to know what he’s making up or what he’s not. He even claimed just now that I invited him to the party, not just that night, but earlier.
Then again… how did he happen to show up that day?
“What a beautiful wife,” he says, his eyes focused again, not on me, but behind me. I turn around, following his eyes.
“You’re soaking wet!” Tiffany shouts at me, starting to laugh.
I watch her as she descends the stairs, and I try to smile, try to laugh it off—but I feel a warm breath and a raspy whisper in my left ear, saying, “Careful. Your wife doesn’t approve of all of this.”
I want to swat the lunatic as if he’s a gnat buzzing in my ear, but I manage to keep my arm down as I whirl towards him. But, somehow, he’s standing exactly where he was before, a few feet away, rain drenching his tattered clothes. He’s bent over again, head down, body shaking from his strange, silent laughter.
“Oh! I was mistaken, miss, never mind me,” he says, straightening himself and waving his hand. “Yours are like grass, not icicles.”
“What’s like grass?” she asks him, looking like she noticed the absurdity of her question as soon as she asked it. “Who is this gentleman?” she asks me.
“I’m not sure,” I reply.
“No one is sure of that, miss,” he says. “That’s for sure.”
“He seems to live by this building,” I whisper to her, trying to downplay all of this. “Just some bum.”
Somehow he hears me.
“I don’t like that term,” he says, winking at me while affecting a serious face for Tiffany. “No, not a bum... Nope. Don’t like it. Has an odd ring to it. And I’m dirty enough without a bunch of dirty words. Don’t you think so, miss?”
“I wouldn’t call you dirty, either, not with the rain cleaning you off like that,” she says, then turns towards me, saying subtly, “Don’t just let him stand there like that.”
“No, ma’am. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love the rain!” he shouts, backing away with his hands and face turned up to the sky. “It washes memories off of the sidewalk of life!”
Tiffany giggles at the man, but I think he was doing more than joking, as if he was sending me some secret message. And there’s that grin again. Now he’s bowing as he backs away, like an actor departing from a stage performance, and I feel panicked. Is he leaving?
Should I stop him? Should I go get him? I feel like I should stay here, with Tiffany. But why? To keep her safe? No, he’s leaving and Tiffany is fine. Is it to keep myself safe? From what?
Damn this. He’s turning away. Walking quickly now, disappearing into the haze of the rainfall. Why is he leaving? What does he know? What if he forgets?
I disregard Tiffany calling for me and run up to the man, grabbing him by his arm, turning him toward me. Now I’m the one looking at him. I’m the one seeing who he is. And I remember something. I see something. No, the lack of something. His eyes show an enormous lack. But I have no idea what that means.
“Memories are funny,” he says. “Washed away by the rain. Or other things. You know what I mean, though. You’re a memory master, if I remember correctly,” he laughs silently, convulses, then calms himself, looks me up and down. “Well, maybe not! But you are a master of things in general, aren’t you? Yessir, I can tell that much. You’re the boss of that place, right? That gym? I could tell that night, I knew almost immediately that you were the one who had invited me. And now! Not your wife, she says, but your employee. An employee helping you look at those records? Yessir, you’re a master of things. But not a master of that crystal building. We can’t figure out that building, can we?”
“There’s nothing to figure out,” I say.
“Then why did you search the records, sir? You did search them? With your employee back there?”
“We did, but I have no idea why,” I say, infuriated, not at him, but in general, at everything, at the whole situation. “There’s something with that clerk, or the government, or something. It’s like no one remembers it, not even its own records remember it.”
“But you and I remember it, don’t we?” he asks, with one of his eyes winking at me. “As if from another time and place.”
“No,” I say—with more certainty than I really feel. “I don’t remember it at all from some other time or place.”
“You do,” he says, the winking and playfulness gone, his tone resolved and definitive.
“It only appeared a week ago. How could I remember it from before then?”
“Good point,” he says, affecting a contemplative pose, oblivious to the rain, his hand coming up to grip his wet chin. He’s mocking me again. “Maybe we remember a different one?”
“You’re just making things up,” I shout. I hear my volume rising, but I don’t care. “All of this is made up. Who knows what you’re even up to. Do you even know? Is this just some sort of game to you, you crazy old bastard?”
“I’m not old,” he says.
“Stop grinning at me like that!”
“You’re right. This is serious. What we need is contemplation. If you’d be so kind as to let loose my arm, we could go our separate ways. Separate, meditate, reconvene at a later date.”
“Meditate?” I ask.
“You like that idea? It’s not mine. I got it from a real sophisticate who antedates our current fate. She’d always advocate to meditate when I entered a certain state. It’s unfortunate that my memory’s too inadequate to get her face quite accurate. It makes me feel so desolate, how everything is but approximate...”
Yet again, his strange rhyming trails off and his eyes lose focus and he’s whispering something unintelligible to himself. It has to be mental illness, but… A woman who suggested meditation? Does he mean Tiffany? No, he wouldn’t know about Tiffany telling me to meditate, she just saw him for the first time. He means something else said by someone else. And it almost feels like I know who he means, I have a feeling of nostalgia.
I’m looking at him as he stares off, and I feel like I’m staring the same way, but at him. I look at his blank eyes. I see that enormous lack I was thinking of. I see, in one of his eyes, a sort of dark spot, like a tiny void, some sort of lonely darkness, something not completely visible, not completely here and now, not completely him and now, but still there. That feeling is growing, that sort of foreboding nostalgia, except now it’s about something else, and the dark spot in his eye has become a reflection of—no, not my reflection, it’s more like a silhouette. Suddenly, I have an urge to speak to the shadow in his eye, to ask it some question I can’t quite formulate.
But nothing comes out. I have so much to say, but nothing to say, both, at the same time. Aphasia. A common symptom of brain damage following a cerebrovascular event, traumatic brain injury, neurological intervention... Treatments include alternate communication methods, speech therapy, medication, assistive technology…
I feel like I’m saying something out loud, not whatever that was in my mind just now, but something else. I feel it in my throat, but I don’t hear it. I should try to figure out what’s going on, but the bum has joined me in returning to the present moment. He’s shouting something.
“So you appreciate my new suggestion, too!” he says, his body shaking, his eyes huge. I have no idea what suggestion he means. I want to ask him, but he has no time for it.
“We’ll see what we can find,” he says, his words rushing out. “Then meet again later. In privacy. Your suggestion sounds good, too. I like the way you think. Time and memories, memories and time, that's what we need. Not wives, employees, or record clerks!”
He looks at me expectantly, his eyes widening even more. For some reason, I nod. I have no idea what he’s talking about. My new suggestion? Meet again later? He thinks I said something, and I felt myself saying something, but I was too… lost. What did I say? And why did I nod just now? To get him to stop rambling? To make him go away? Then why am I still holding his arm?
"Then it's settled,” he says. “We'll meet there."
I can't even sort out what's happening, can't even form a clarifying question, can't even maintain my grip on his arm as he pulls it out of my hand. He rapidly shambles away, fades into the rain, then disappears around a corner.
The rain stops and I notice just how drenched I am. I need to find Tiffany. Back there, in the distance, at the base of the steps. I need to go back to her, but I don’t want to talk to her about that man or what just happened.
So I don’t. I go up to her, I play it off, I go through the motions of normalcy. Luckily, she doesn’t press me about anything. I thank her for that and for everything else. I also thank her, silently, to myself, for her bringing me back to reality. I felt like I was losing it.
We’re walking back to the parking lot and she assures me that the building and the records and her friend will all work out—but I don’t need that right now, don’t even keep listening to her, there’s too much on my mind. She finishes whatever she’s saying, and I assure her that everything will be fine. That I’m fine. I just need to go home, I tell her, need to get some rest, it’s been a long day.
I’m about to tell the car to take me home when I notice her dangling my tie playfully outside of the side window. I try to seem amused as I take the tie, and I try to agree with her suggestion to try meditating. I assure her that I’m going straight home. Of course I’ll try meditation, I say, I was just thinking that.
Then she’s gone and I tell the car to take me to where I really want to go: the bridge over the so-called nature preserve.
Just as the car stops, the storm returns, stronger than ever. I get out and stand near the edge of the bridge, the same way I did that first night, with my hands gripping the railing and my mind groping for answers. Lightning rips through the sky, and I see the angular crystal in the blinks of light. The thunder pounds my eardrums. The building disappears along with the streaks of lightning—but it doesn’t stay that way, it won’t stay gone. The lightning comes again and again.
What brought this thing here? Why does it torment me this way? How do I discover what it really is? And who is that man? What does he have to do with any of this? And where does he intend to meet me? For what? What did I say to him? What was I thinking? What was I trying to say to whatever it was I saw in his eye?
I don’t have time for this, I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be thinking about any of this. I have work tomorrow. My business needs me.
But I can’t just ignore that man or that experience just now, can I? I’ve tried to ignore this building, and I know how that turns out. It twists me and stultifies me. No, ignoring it is no good, not the man, not the building, not any of this. There’s no way to ignore it, the nomo, as he called it. That is what he called it, right? But that’s not its name. He must have meant mono. The monolith. I must have complained to him about the monolithic task, that night when I was drunk. But why did I even do that? And why do I continue it now? Why am I so obsessed with this monolith?
Because of this feeling, a feeling like the one I had when I stared at the bum’s eye, a feeling that I’ve had, off and on, for a week. A feeling that only grows stronger no matter what I do. The feeling is particularly strong right now. Is it because I’m so close to the monolith? I can’t this oppressive feeling, this dull insistence. It’s as if the building is calling me, as if it’s demanding my attention.
Or is it demanding my presence? Does it need me? Do I need it?
I can’t do this. Can’t answer all of these questions. I feel incapable of it. I just want to go back to before I noticed the damn thing. To before it showed up here, by this bridge, taunting me. But I can’t do that either, can’t just forget it like everyone else does. For me, it’s the way it is now, the way it looks right this moment—oscillating between loud darkness and flickering light in a violent thunderstorm. It taunts me either way, whether I can see it through the storm or not. Whether I search for answers or don’t. Whether everyone else remembers or doesn’t.
Maybe that man is right, that I know more than I think I know. My hunch could be right that there’s something more going on here. It can’t just be some meaningless tower, some innocuous government monument to a tiny nature preserve. It can’t have eluded my sight for so long and suddenly appeared the way it did. It can’t just happen to have the same trees as my business. But maybe I’m just incapable of figuring it out...
No, I’m not incapable. That’s not me. I take charge and solve problems. That’s me. And there’s still help to find in Tiffany. There’s still her friend, the one who helped us look at the useless records. Maybe she could look into this man for me, find out if he’s legit. Find out if he’s behind some of this. Regardless, I’ll get answers from him somehow. Or I could use his interest in me and the building to my advantage...
And, even if all of that fails, there is another option. It would be a challenge, but I could get closer to the monolith, I could get down there somehow. Then I could inspect it myself, directly. There’s got to be a route to it, or at least close to it. Close enough for me to traverse the unpaved grass on foot and walk right up to it.
But that’s a last resort. For now, I should rely on Tiffany. I should get her guidance with meditation. I should rely on her connections and her concern. Because I need to be careful. If I’m right about that building, getting too close to it could have all sorts of unforeseeable consequences.
I’m going to go home and meditate. It’s the safe thing to do. The healthy thing to do. The most cathartic thing to do.
It’s the Fit for Life thing to do.
