Into The Fire.
What are your memories worth? Would you trade them all for immortality?
Millie held out her hand and showed her husband the ring.
“That’s nice,” he said.
“You know what it is?”
“The stone? It’s a Tiger’s eye?”
“It’s a Cat’s Eye.” She corrected him and withdrew her hand. Her disappointment was profound, and compounded by her husband’s inability to read her moods anymore. Either he was indifferent now, or had lost the knack.
“You want to go out to eat, or stay in?” He asked.
“I don’t think we’ve resolved anything yet, Ned.”
“Oh no. I know that, Millie. I just thought we could continue the discussion over dinner.”
Prior to undergoing the treatment, they had been told that their appetites would increase dramatically at first, ‘and then taper off to a more normal level.’ But since she had aborted the treatment at the last moment, only Ned was experiencing the ‘short-term side effects.’
“I’m not that hungry, Ned. Why don’t you heat up some leftovers?” The look on his face was so predictable. He hated leftovers and rarely ate them, but he couldn’t remember that, leaving him feeling conflicted. “What’s the matter?” she said. “You don’t like spaghetti all of a sudden?” It was a harmless verbal jab that used to irritate him, but now, it left him confused.
And it wasn’t constructive either. His candor was still intact, but his well-honed diplomacy was missing, a void that Ned wasn’t even aware of, but other traits were baked into his genetic sequence, it would appear.
“I don’t think you’re being very realistic about the whole thing,” he said.
“I’m not? Really?”
“Well, are you?”
“Yes, Ned. As a matter of fact, I am. I’m the realist in this relationship and always have been.”
“Well, if you’re the realist, why are you having so much trouble with reality?”
“Because. Because… reality is troubling,” she replied. “I’m not sure I want to live another lifetime, let alone two or three.”
“It may be troubling, but it has it’s perks,” he quipped, staring at the contents of the refrigerator. The spaghetti looked edible, but something about it repelled him. “There must be something to eat in here,” he muttered under his breath.
His flippant response side-stepped the question. The one-time treatment did not offer true immortality, but it was close enough, they would stop aging immediately and the effect could last for hundreds of years. Ned had already gone through it, but she needed him to help her work through her fears, to accept the commitment it involved with a little more maturity. And that’s when it hit her. That was the one thing he couldn’t bring to the table: Maturity.
And yet, it was he who defused the tension. He closed the refrigerator, put his arm around her shoulders and led her to the kitchen table. He held her chair for her like a gentleman should, seated himself across from her and took both of her hands in his. His demeanor reminded her of the polite but confident young man she had stopped and asked directions from, a half-a-century ago.
“You have to take the treatment Millie. This isn’t fair to me. We discussed it, we decided, we saved, we made plans, we’ve already paid for it.” His voice broke when he continued. “How could you back out? And why? Why would you?”
“Unfair to you?” she said, stunned. Sure, they’d argued about it, but he decided. They both saved the money, but he had written the check, and making plans was not his strong suite.
She extracted her fingers from his grasp and placed her hands on top of his. “Can you tell me more about this ring, Ned?”
He sighed, but relented, as if he was humoring his befuddled wife. “We bought it off a merchant in Mumbai.”
“Sri Lanka,” she prompted.
“That’s right, Sri Lanka, but the proprietor himself was Indian. And he said, let me see, he said, ‘He would give us such an astonishing deal on the ring, that we would never forget him. And we never shall.”
She frowned. “How could you remember that, Ned? They told us we would lose our memories.”
He shrugged, scratched his head absently, and said, “They said we might—we might, lose some or most of our memories. Not all.”
That was such a blatant lie. More infuriating was the fact that he had lifted the words about the ring right out of her diary, almost verbatim. Apparently, he was hard-wired for mendacity.
“I still love spaghetti,” he said, “sausage, bacon, grits, brunettes, I’m right-handed, I love sports, I only need…”
“Stop it,” she said, and got to her feet, pushing her chair from behind her and pressing a palm to her forehead in exasperation. “Those are not memories, Ned. Those are all bodily predispositions. Tastes. Proclivities. They told us that so many times, how could you not understand it? Even now?” She lit the burner on the stove. “What’s your sister’s name?”
“I-I don’t know.”
“That’s because you don’t have one.”
“One what?”
“A sister! You don’t have a sister, you idiot.”
“Oh. Then…”
He looked disappointed—at losing a sister he never had. But a lifetime of memories? That didn’t faze him. He had signed that away without a second thought and wanted her to do the same.
“Well, what difference does it make, Millie? We’ll have a completely new lease on life. We’ll make fresh, brand-new memories, and then some. Who cares about the old ones? I mean, if you would simply follow through with the treatment this time. And you must.”
He was always so pushy. She opened the fridge and got some eggs out and set them on the counter. “You want some eggs?”
He hated eggs. Always had. She hadn’t seen him eat an egg in fifty years. He hadn’t discovered that yet.
“Yeah, okay,” he said. A couple of eggs sounds guh—”
CLANG.
The iron skillet rang like a bell off of his thick, thoughtless skull. The idea of spending immortality with the likes of Ned is what set off the hysteria that aborted the procedure in the first place. But Ned…
CLANG.
Never…
CLANG.
Quite…
CLANG.
Understood.
CLANG.
Hm. Immortality didn’t seem like such a bad idea anymore.
Millie held out her hand and showed her husband the ring.
“That’s nice,” he said.
“You know what it is?”
“The stone? It’s a Tiger’s eye?”
“It’s a Cat’s Eye.” She corrected him and withdrew her hand. Her disappointment was profound, and compounded by her husband’s inability to read her moods anymore. Either he was indifferent now, or had lost the knack.
“You want to go out to eat, or stay in?” He asked.
“I don’t think we’ve resolved anything yet, Ned.”
“Oh no. I know that, Millie. I just thought we could continue the discussion over dinner.”
Prior to undergoing the treatment, they had been told that their appetites would increase dramatically at first, ‘and then taper off to a more normal level.’ But since she had aborted the treatment at the last moment, only Ned was experiencing the ‘short-term side effects.’
“I’m not that hungry, Ned. Why don’t you heat up some leftovers?” The look on his face was so predictable. He hated leftovers and rarely ate them, but he couldn’t remember that, leaving him feeling conflicted. “What’s the matter?” she said. “You don’t like spaghetti all of a sudden?” It was a harmless verbal jab that used to irritate him, but now, it left him confused.
And it wasn’t constructive either. His candor was still intact, but his well-honed diplomacy was missing, a void that Ned wasn’t even aware of, but other traits were baked into his genetic sequence, it would appear.
“I don’t think you’re being very realistic about the whole thing,” he said.
“I’m not? Really?”
“Well, are you?”
“Yes, Ned. As a matter of fact, I am. I’m the realist in this relationship and always have been.”
“Well, if you’re the realist, why are you having so much trouble with reality?”
“Because. Because… reality is troubling,” she replied. “I’m not sure I want to live another lifetime, let alone two or three.”
“It may be troubling, but it has it’s perks,” he quipped, staring at the contents of the refrigerator. The spaghetti looked edible, but something about it repelled him. “There must be something to eat in here,” he muttered under his breath.
His flippant response side-stepped the question. The one-time treatment did not offer true immortality, but it was close enough, they would stop aging immediately and the effect could last for hundreds of years. Ned had already gone through it, but she needed him to help her work through her fears, to accept the commitment it involved with a little more maturity. And that’s when it hit her. That was the one thing he couldn’t bring to the table: Maturity.
And yet, it was he who defused the tension. He closed the refrigerator, put his arm around her shoulders and led her to the kitchen table. He held her chair for her like a gentleman should, seated himself across from her and took both of her hands in his. His demeanor reminded her of the polite but confident young man she had stopped and asked directions from, a half-a-century ago.
“You have to take the treatment Millie. This isn’t fair to me. We discussed it, we decided, we saved, we made plans, we’ve already paid for it.” His voice broke when he continued. “How could you back out? And why? Why would you?”
“Unfair to you?” she said, stunned. Sure, they’d argued about it, but he decided. They both saved the money, but he had written the check, and making plans was not his strong suite.
She extracted her fingers from his grasp and placed her hands on top of his. “Can you tell me more about this ring, Ned?”
He sighed, but relented, as if he was humoring his befuddled wife. “We bought it off a merchant in Mumbai.”
“Sri Lanka,” she prompted.
“That’s right, Sri Lanka, but the proprietor himself was Indian. And he said, let me see, he said, ‘He would give us such an astonishing deal on the ring, that we would never forget him. And we never shall.”
She frowned. “How could you remember that, Ned? They told us we would lose our memories.”
He shrugged, scratched his head absently, and said, “They said we might—we might, lose some or most of our memories. Not all.”
That was such a blatant lie. More infuriating was the fact that he had lifted the words about the ring right out of her diary, almost verbatim. Apparently, he was hard-wired for mendacity.
“I still love spaghetti,” he said, “sausage, bacon, grits, brunettes, I’m right-handed, I love sports, I only need…”
“Stop it,” she said, and got to her feet, pushing her chair from behind her and pressing a palm to her forehead in exasperation. “Those are not memories, Ned. Those are all bodily predispositions. Tastes. Proclivities. They told us that so many times, how could you not understand it? Even now?” She lit the burner on the stove. “What’s your sister’s name?”
“I-I don’t know.”
“That’s because you don’t have one.”
“One what?”
“A sister! You don’t have a sister, you idiot.”
“Oh. Then…”
He looked disappointed—at losing a sister he never had. But a lifetime of memories? That didn’t faze him. He had signed that away without a second thought and wanted her to do the same.
“Well, what difference does it make, Millie? We’ll have a completely new lease on life. We’ll make fresh, brand-new memories, and then some. Who cares about the old ones? I mean, if you would simply follow through with the treatment this time. And you must.”
He was always so pushy. She opened the fridge and got some eggs out and set them on the counter. “You want some eggs?”
He hated eggs. Always had. She hadn’t seen him eat an egg in fifty years. He hadn’t discovered that yet.
“Yeah, okay,” he said. A couple of eggs sounds guh—”
CLANG.
The iron skillet rang like a bell off of his thick, thoughtless skull. The idea of spending immortality with the likes of Ned is what set off the hysteria that aborted the procedure in the first place. But Ned…
CLANG.
Never…
CLANG.
Quite…
CLANG.
Understood.
CLANG.
Hm. Immortality didn’t seem like such a bad idea anymore.
©2016
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THE VARIETY SHOW STARTED WITH ITS USUAL ACT: Patti Pancake playing the piano. She sounded pretty talented, but she only knew one tune: ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow.’ I called her Patti Pancake because of all the make-up she wore.
I was feeling pretty confident as organizer and manager of the show; I’d left very little to chance. All the performers had arrived as scheduled and were patiently waiting their turn. The auditorium was packed with people, and everything was going according to plan. After Patti took her bows to a smattering of lukewarm applause, Ivan Ipcress took the stage. Ivan was a magician of sorts. He called himself an ‘illusionist.’ Delusionist was more accurate. He made an assortment of small objects disappear or change into various small animals. Most of his ‘illusions’ were amateurish attempts at misdirection and slight of hand. Joe Jackson was up next. He favored me with a confident wink, and I smiled back at him as he slipped past me carrying a cardboard box. Joe was a juggler, plain and simple. He could juggle just about anything and had a broad smile and great stage presence. For a warm-up act, you couldn’t do any better. I had no idea what he was going to do. I peaked past the curtain to watch him begin his act. He sauntered onto the stage and set the box on a chair. With dramatic aplomb he extracted two glass mason jars from the box and held them up for all to see. The crowd instinctively recoiled in fear and disgust as they realized the jars were filled with swarms of black spiders. He pulled a third jar out of the box, and then a fourth, cradling them in his arms. He extracted a fifth jar with his other hand, held it up and kissed the jar, then tossed it high in the air. The crowd gasped audibly. He tossed the others in rapid succession until he was juggling all five jars. The audience was spellbound, as was I. The spiders flew around in the jars as he juggled them. The sight was at once amazing and repugnant. Joe the juggler beamed at the crowd with his signature smile, and they responded with applause, cheers and whistles. I exhaled. Not realizing I was holding my breath. ‘Everything’s going to be fine’ I thought. Then Joe began to walk forward approaching the front of the stage. The applause died and the crowd became quiet. There were steps at the front of the stage, and slowly but surely, he walked down the steps, juggling the jars of spiders. The crowd was rapt, I was squinting, my mouth half open. ‘What is he doing?’ I thought. Joe paused at the bottom of the last step, then slowly walked up the aisle between the seats: Jars aloft, their gold caps gleaming in the spotlights, the spiders flying around. Then someone stuck out their foot. Joe stumbled, appeared to lose focus and one after another, the jars smashed onto the concrete floor: All but two, which he caught with each hand. Men scrambled and dove from their seats as their wives or girlfriends screamed. As the crowd retreated, Joe reached down, picked up a handful of plastic spiders and let them fall back to the ground. He returned to the stage, raised the two glass jars above his head and shook them. Sure enough, they were full of live spiders. Joe took a bow amidst curses and screams, as I ran to fetch a dustpan and broom. |