MNEMOSYNE, Chapter 6
MNEMOSYNE
Chapter 6
I just got home from work and I’m looking down at the pink yoga mat on the floor, the one I should’ve kept using these past several days. It worked at first, but I was inevitably waylaid, repeatedly, by the other thing I want to do. Just like now, it’s been the only thing that I want to do.
Going there.
I shouldn’t keep doing it. There has to be some other way to ease my obsession. But what? The mantras don't work. Simply accepting that building’s existence doesn’t work. Looking for evidence of it doesn’t work. Tiffany's suggested techniques and that pink yoga mat don't work. I tried the healthy thing, the Fit for Life thing, I really did, it even helped for the first few days. But my thoughts about that building are too loud for me to meditate. I had to try something new.
So I went to it, I’ve been going to it, and it helps. Helps me forget…
I should’ve met with the homeless man instead. He might have some tangible idea about what’s going on. And at least he cares. Yes, I would have met with him, and I would now—but I have no idea where to find him or where he intended to meet me. Then again, meeting with him might cause problems of its own, he may be insane, and there’s the issue of no one being willing to even discuss—
No, it’s not that they won’t discuss him, I’ve never tried to discuss him directly with anyone. It’s that they won’t discuss that inmate situation. I thought it’d be a good idea, bringing up the prison inmates refusing to leave prison, thought it’d be a good segue. He’d mentioned it, said he’d been a convict, and it had been all anyone talked about only a couple weeks earlier, at the party. So it seemed like a perfectly seamless segue into asking people about him.
It wasn’t. I spent half my day attempting hints and segues, but nothing worked. No one would discuss the prison situation, let alone the homeless man I was looking for, so I just bottled up my thoughts on his appearance. The same as with the monolith. I bottled it all up, more and more, even everyone’s unusual aversion to their own topic of intrigue—until I snapped.
It was just some small issue, I don’t even remember what it was. But I do remember a hot pressure in my shoulders and a tension relieved by a shout escaping my throat. At whom, over what, I don’t remember, but I remember immediately apologizing. And I remember going to my office, sitting in the dark, like I did the night Jasper showed me the order for the trees. But, that night, I didn’t stay in my office long enough for Tiffany to arrive. I went to the monolith instead.
And it was worth it, the release and the relief were worth it, even if I found no answers. And I went again, throughout the week. And I want to go there again, right now…
It feels like it’s been so long...
I want to drive through all of that nature serving as a wall around the tower. I want to ignore the car’s incessant alerts and warnings about being off the road. I want to turn off the autopilot and drive over a long stretch of dirt, through a sparse forest, over grassy hills, then stop some distance away and walk. I want to go all of the way, but I won’t, I’ll stay in the distance. The jagged branches of the bonsai trees will partially block my view, but it’ll be safer that way. I want to look up and see the bridge from that spot, I want to check that no one up there will be able to see me. I also won’t risk tripping any alarms—but I’ll want to risk it. I’ll want to get closer, I know it. I’ll want to get close to the vibrantly, almost unnaturally, green grass nearest the monolith.
I want to walk even closer than that, but I also want to keep playing it safe. I’ve walked closer, just one time. I reached a certain point, maybe fifty yards from the building, and I think my steps triggered something. I froze in place, terrified at first, fascinated soon after, as I watched the slow rise of a softly glowing path, the grass parting like water for it to float to the top. When I was sure it had stopped, I returned quickly to my car. And I haven’t done that again.
But I want to.
Maybe I could try it again tonight? Maybe I could even try walking all the way? No, not yet, not tonight. The path appearing like that, automatically, should be inviting. It is inviting. I want to walk down that almost reassuring path. But, for some reason, I get this overwhelming feeling that I’ll fall through it, that I’ll put one fut forward then plunge into a subterranean pit. Trapped in the earth. Buried alive.
Of course, that makes no sense, but that lack of sense, in a way, makes sense...
I sound like that homeless man...
Going to the monolith seems to be bringing out strange thoughts like that. And, when I’m closest to it, it makes me forget things, just like the homeless man said as we stood in the rain. No, that’s not quite it and not quite what he said. He said that the closer he gets to it, the harder it is to remember things. And he’s right, especially about it, itself. The monolith itself. As I stand there in that grass, as I hide from the bridge, as I watch the monolith looming before me, glowing like a beacon, beckoning me like a lighthouse on some faraway shore—I always struggle to remember where I am. Or to remember why I’m there. Or to remember what I’m even looking at.
Now, at home, far away from the monolith, my memories are unfortunately clear. I’ve had so much stress, so much resentment, building up inside me, but I’ve kept it to myself. How much longer can I do it? How much longer can I keep it all to myself, talking to no one about the building or my nightly trips?
I’ve tried to focus on the positive, tred to avoid the clash between my obsession and everyone else’s aversion. Like with Jasper, who cares for nothing but his work. I’ve tried to be encouraged by all of the things he runs past me, all of his goals and tasks. I’ve tried to replicate the rapport we used to have. But my focus has become strained from having to hide my real interest, and the positives seem to have become negatives. Sure, Jasper is busy, he still runs things past me—but I can’t run my most important goal past him. I think I’m even beginning to resent him.
Then there’s Regina, the opposite of Jasper, becoming increasingly difficult to find. Not that I would ever even want to talk to her about the building or my trips, not after that exchange we had that one day. But she’s too busy, regardless. It seems like she takes on more responsibilities each day. She’s interviewing for new positions, she’s launched our new Yoga Center promotion, and she’s recently told me about her plan to broaden our outreach into the community. There’s also something else coming up soon, an event of some sort, but I’ll leave that to her. It’s not my kind of thing.
More and more, I’m starting to wonder what is my kind of thing...
Fit for Life… Or the monolith?
But haven’t these past few trips helped my productivity? My focus? It might not be the worst thing to go to it tonight, if it could help me focus at work. It’s been a couple of days since the last time I went, so it’s not like I’m overdoing it. And it does help, it really does, in some strange way that I can’t really explain.
I should go, it’ll help. I just need to change into black clothes. To help me be discreet. I go to the closet door and tell it to open, but a ringing over the house speakers interrupts the door’s compliance. I wait, staring at the closet door as if it’ll open during the pauses of the ringing—until I realize that the call could be from Tiffany.
I’d forgotten about Tiffany. I tell the house to answer.
“Alex!” Tiffany says. “How’s your weekend going? Ready for tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” I ask, my relief at the sound of her voice replaced immediately by muddled confusion.
“Oh, just a little press conference you may have heard about.”
“To be honest, Tiffany, I’ve been so distracted, and a little under the weather, and...”
“Don’t you dare, Alex,” she says playfully. “You’re not nervous around cameras, are you? Don’t worry, I won’t let them bite you.”
“Cameras?”
“Can I do your makeup?”
“Tiffany, what are you talking about?”
“You must really not feel well,” she says, pausing for a moment before continuing. “But I can’t help being excited, can I, Alex? I can’t believe Regina managed to get the school to come. You giving her the leeway to handle it was a great idea.”
“Yep, Regina is great,” I say—but I have no idea what she’s talking about. Not a great idea or any other kind. I’m just going with the flow as if I’m avoiding rousing her suspicion. But why would she be suspicious of me? Why would I even feel that way?
“You’d better be there tomorrow, Alex,” she says, half-joking with me.
I can’t think of how to joke back. I try to adopt a playful tone as I tell her that, of course I’ll be there. But, in my mind, I’m not sure if that’s even the truth, not sure of where I’m even supposed to go… to the Facility? I definitely don’t know what event—
She breaks my long pause by asking me if everything is all right.
“It’s been a long week,” I say. “I might’ve caught a little something, I’m just feeling a little off. But I’m fine. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”
“Do you want me to bring you anything?” she asks.
“I think it’s probably nothing. I’m fine.”
“You know,” she says, drawing out the second word. “I’m going to the Facility. To get ready for the kids tomorrow. Have you ever taken my advice and meditated?”
“Actually, yes. I did. I meditated at home.”
“That’s great, Alex! But what about at the Facility?”
She’s not going to drop it, is she? How do I tell her that I don’t want to go to the Facility, that all I want to do is go to the monolith, that I want to step on that ephemeral path that rises from below the vivacious grass.
But I can’t say all of that.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m always there. Always at work. It’s good to be home. Meditating here was good, for a while.”
“Past-tense. I knew it,” she says. “Your home is fine, but think about the meditation garden. It’s professionally designed to offer peace and tranquility, and you’ll be surrounded by your business. You’ll be safe and in the middle of your achievement. You’ll be at one with your center. You could come with me, tonight, and you’d be helping me not feel all alone while I prepare the Yoga Center for tomorrow. What do you think?”
I think of telling her that she’ll be near me, that she makes me feel safe, that that’s the only appeal of her idea. That, and some vague sense that I need to be there, at night, for some reason. That’s the sort of thing she could help with, if I’d talk to her about it. Random thoughts like that. Seeing her could help a lot. It could center me, like she always says about meditation.
But I don’t say any of that out loud. Instead, I say that she has a point and ask her if she can pick me up. I also don’t say that if I take my car I might end up at the monolith. I don’t say that she’d better hurry before I change my mind. I don’t say that I keep feeling like my desire to go with her is about something else. I keep a lot to myself, because it’s the only way to see her. It really is.
I stand outside and wait, but not for long, her car startling me with its quiet approach. Or was it the car’s peculiar shade of dark blue? Or maybe it’s because I was just staring off into space again, lost in thoughts of—
No matter. Focus on the here and now. On her car. A simple coupe. Painted purple, actually, not blue. Focus on that.
The door slides open and a delightful smell wafts towards me. I get in.
“It’s good to see you, Alex,” she says immediately. “I was a bit nervous about being all alone, but now you’ll be nearby. I just have to get things set up for the kids tomorrow, I didn’t have time earlier today. And you can try to develop a new meditation routine. We’re mutual life-savers tonight, right?”
“You know it,” I say with a smile. A rarely genuine smile.
I like the music her car is playing, electronic, low-key, relaxing. The car has the scent of vanilla, and its interior lights glow the same deep purple as the car’s exterior. I look over at her soft blonde hair, her slight hint of a smile, her eyes straight ahead, her hands on the wheel, the proper precaution even though the car is on autopilot. Her light top, loose and flowing, looks violet in the lighting. I turn my head forward, briefly watch the road sliding past us, then close my eyes.
“You’re always so relaxing,” I say.
“Believe it or not,” she says. “I used to be very high-strung.”
I think of telling her that I was talking about her effect on me, not about her being relaxed, but maybe focusing on her is a good idea.
“Really?” I ask.
“Yup. The lady you see today took some work. I had to realign myself. I had to develop a passion for being at peace with the moment.”
“It’s great,” I say. I lean my head back, eyes still closed. She is peaceful, isn’t she? And helpful. I think of where we’re headed, the Facility, and how much she’s helped with it and the Yoga Center. She’s tried to help me too, and, being near her now, I feel at ease. I should spend more time with her, shouldn’t I? We should do this more often, riding in the car together, going to the Facility together. Maybe I could learn to be at peace with the moment like she did.
The car jerks slightly to the left, slows, straightens out, speeds up again. I open my eyes and see we’re still heading down the bridge, its railing parallel to the car—so what just happened? I look at Tiffany and her hands are gripping the steering wheel tightly.
“Sorry,” she says, her voice slightly nervous. “I got distracted. I never get distracted like that when I’m driving.”
“It’s fine,” I say, reassuring her, although I’m not sure if or why she needs it. “It was nothing, only a little jolt.”
“I’m sorry, Alex,” she says, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye. “You were so calm, your eyes were closed, you were at peace. I was glad you were able to relax.”
“It’s no big deal, I’m fine,” I say, ignoring the implied ‘finally’ in her last sentence. “What’s wrong?”
“It was just—” She cuts herself off with an attempted smile. She seems like she doesn’t want to say something. Then she looks through the windshield, to the right.
“It was that strange building up ahead,” she says. “It caught me off guard.”
I follow her eyes as they peak out of their corners. I look ahead, realizing that I hadn’t even seen the way were headed. To the right, over the railing of the bridge, past an expanse of grass, I see a wide tower made out of glowing quartz.
“The monolith,” I say.
I didn’t mean to say that out loud.
“The what?” she asks.
I didn’t mean to say that, but I feel like she should know what I meant. I’ve never called it that directly, not with her, not with anyone, but... didn’t we discuss a monolithic task?
“It is pretty big,” she says, before I can say anything, as if she’s answering her own question. “It reminds me of something.”
“Tiffany, you’re kidding, right?” I ask, almost laughing as the monolith passes us and Tiffany leans down to look through the window to my right.
What is she doing? Hasn’t she seen it before? Yes, she’s told me that, I’m sure of it. Why is she acting like she’s never seen it before? And what about all the times we’ve discussed it? All of her reassurances, our search through the records? What about her friend? If she didn't even know what it was when she saw it just now, how could she have remembered to ask—
"Tiffany, you did ask your friend for more help, right?"
"Of course, Alex."
"What did you ask her for help with, specifically?"
"I asked her about the records and about that man you were talking to... and..."
I feel the car slowing slightly, and she looks over her right shoulder. Now she’s looking in the rear view mirror. The car accelerates and she glances at me with a sheepish smile.
“That’s why we went to the records building, isn't it?"
"Yes, Tiffany. That's why."
She looks into the mirror one more time, and her face becomes clearer, less confused. I look down and to the right. Objects in mirror are closer than they appear, it says. The monolith is shrinking into a little crystal and then gone and Tiffany apologizes. She remembers now, she says. Doesn’t know how she forgot. Had just talked to her friend about the records. And about the incident afterward, with that man.
"At least you remembered to ask your friend," I say, trying not to sound as frustrated as I am. "Did she have anything to say about the bum?"
"Don't call him that, Alex," she says, glancing at me disapprovingly. "She said she'd look into it."
"Did she say anything about the prison situation? I was thinking, maybe he has something to do with that. Maybe it's all connected somehow..."
"The prison situation?"
"Well, he said he's an ex-con, and there's been that whole thing with prisoners and some issue with their release..."
"I have no idea, Alex. I don't think she did either, she didn’t mention it."
This again. How is this happening, with Tiffany, of all people? First the monolith, now the prison situation. But how did her friend, her friend in the government, not think of it?
"What does your friend do?" I ask.
"She's a cop. A detective. So she's really busy. I don’t think she has the time, you know?”
I think of pressing the obvious issue, that, obviously, a cop would know about the prison situation, but I’m more concerned with the homeless man himself.
“So she said she’d look into it,” I say, my skepticism obvious. “That’s it?”
“Well, Alex, he wasn’t threatening you or anything imminently dangerous, right?”
Imminently. Legal jargon. Maybe I should lie? Or just exaggerate? Get Tiffany to care more, get her cop friend to care more, get someone to finally care about any of this—but that’s just the frustration talking. If I lie, the cop will find out, and then the two of them will listen even less to anything I have to say. Besides, I wouldn’t want to lie to Tiffany.
I wouldn’t lie to Tiffany.
"No, not really," I say, unable to mask the hesitation in my voice. "He just seemed to be waiting for me that day because of some interaction we had when I was... when I was drunk."
“That’s what I thought, and that’s what I told her. She assured me that if it gets any worse, if the man won’t leave you alone, if he threatens you, then she can help. But, until then, her hands are tied."
Tiffany pulls into the Fit for Life Facility, parks the car, and turn almost entirely towards me. She places her hands in her lap, her face concerned but smiling as she asks, "Alex, what is this really all about?"
"What do you mean?" I ask, still hesitant and skeptical and unable to mask it.
"What do you really want out of all of this?"
"I want answers, Tiffany."
“Answers—to a lot of questions, right? That’s how it was for me, before I found peace. Before I lived in the moment. But there’s really only one question that matters: what do you really want? Now. Today. For yourself.”
It seems so simple, but I don’t have an answer to that question, regardless of its simplicity. Like she said, my life has become a litany of questions without answers. It’s like that’s all I know anymore.
As if reading my mind, she says, “Instead of obsessing over all of those questions, you have to focus on the here and now. On what you have—right now. What empowers you the most in this very moment. What is that one thing, Alex?” She looks forward, her eyes taking in the round structures ahead of us. “That’s the only question you need to ask. And the answer is right in front of you.”
And it all clicks into place. Right in front of me, she said. The answer is right in front of me.
It’s in there, in the Fit for Life Facility. In the Yoga Center, specifically.
Somehow, I know that he’s in there.
“You’re right, Tiffany,” I say, trying to sound optimistic rather than foreboding
“Of course I am!” she says playfully. “I bet some meditation in that garden we built sounds pretty good right now, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” I say—but I don’t mean it the way she meant it, I mean that I need to get in there, that I think he’s waiting for me.
We get out of the car, and I almost walk off without her. I stop myself, force myself to wait. Then the sight of her makes it easier. She exudes a controlled cheer as she steps out of the car. Her calm exuberance never fails to impress. That’s why I hired her. I saw that energy combined with that focus and I knew immediately, before the interview, that I would hire her.
I watch her move toward me, her loose, wide-legged jumpsuit accentuating her relaxed poise, its material ivory in the moonlight, rather than the violet of the car, giving it an exaggerated softness. Everything about her exudes her love of relaxed movement directed at serious work and calm assistance. And that’s her thing, isn’t it? Assistance. Helping others, helping those kids tomorrow morning, helping the Facility in the long-term—helping me.
Maybe that’s what I’m missing, that focus on others.
Isn’t that what I made this business for, to help people with their fitness goals and create a community for healthy living? I’m reminded of what she said, how I’ll be surrounded by my business, safe in the middle of my achievement, at one with my center. I can almost believe it. It’s fascinating, how looking at her confidence now nearly evokes the confidence I once felt so strongly—but there’s still the monolith, as if it’s my new center. And there’s that man, the only one who seems to care, in the building we’re walking towards right now. Not even Tiffany can distract me from the possibility of finding him tonight. Not even the bonsai trees moving past us, with all of their implications, can distract me, either.
I notice that Tiffany’s been advising me on my mantra, and I try to focus on her as we enter the meditation garden. She’s giving me all sorts of tips, on breathing, on letting the mantra focus me, on not forcing anything, on just existing in the moment, and I try to agree, I try to mean it—but only because the bum is nowhere in sight. I have to wait somehow.
She finishes encouraging me and I thank her for it. She walks to the back of the building, to her office, and she tells the garden to put on soft lighting and the sound of waterfalls. I sit, legs crossed on the grass, trying not to notice that it isn’t as green as—
The mantra Tiffany just gave me. Focus on that.
Fit for Life is my center… right?
I let my mind relax. I hear Tiffany’s voice, in my mind, telling me that Fit for Life is my center. Fit for Life is my center. Fit for Life is my center.
My eyes snap open as if I sensed movement just now, but it’s nothing. I don’t fight it. I allow my eyes their momentary distraction, then I gently shut my eyelids. Fit for Life is my center. I visualize the ground beneath me, not as it is now, but the way it was before I built anything here, back when Fit for Life was my center. It is my center. I see rocks and dirt, and they begin to move, to rearrange themselves. Then, inexplicably, I begin to levitate above the ground. Below me, I see a skeleton of a building. The blank spaces between the girders and beams begin to fill up with wires, plumbing, become covered in white walls and white floors. The exterior forms, begins to take on a familiar, bulbous shape. Green grass and green trees surround the building, while the horizon changes from bright blue to soft orange...
Fit for Life is my center.
One by one, people are walking into my vision of the Facility. A crowd forms rapidly, and I want to join them. I see a woman with blonde hair, dressed in a black suit, standing in front of the crowd. I belong down there with her, so I float down next to her and, together, we look at the crowd. Their faces are a blur, but, somehow, I can tell that they’re a congratulatory crowd. The woman looks from the crowd to me and she’s smiling and her eyes are the color of rain clouds.
Fit for Life is my center.
Now the sun is setting behind us and the crowd is quickly enveloped in darkness. I hear a sound. Fit for Life is my center. The sound is high-pitched, like a fledgling crying out meekly for its mother. Fit for Life is my center. The sound grows louder, its pitch heightens. It becomes one long continuous screech. Fit for Life is—
I look around for the woman, but she isn’t here. I look behind me to see if she’s gone to discover the source of the screeching sound, but all I can see now is a milky-white wall. I try, but I can’t see around it. It begins to glow and I look up, trying to see past it somehow. It takes up most of the sky, it’s angular sides white knife-edges stabbing into the black. I hear movement behind me. I turn back around, and the crowd has returned. Not a congratulatory crowd, but hundreds of vague silhouettes, each punctuated by two white holes and outlined in a white glow, a stark contrast with the darkness of night.
One singular shadow emerges from the crowd, takes on a more distinct shape. It moves toward me. Greater detail begins to materialize. It has squinted eyes, a scraggly beard, and a distorted mouth stretching and sneering, showing sharp, white teeth, like little shards of quartz. The mouth opens wide and the whole shadow shakes in a silent laugh.
Then I open my eyes.
On the ground of the meditation garden, only a few feet away, is an old man in a suit and tie. He’s mimicking my sitting position. There’s a distorted grin on his clean-shaven face. He’s laughing silently, as he did days ago, in the rain, as he had just now, in my—
“You’re finally here,” says the homeless man.
