The Forgetting-Part 4
Memory Sticks
Trevor sat on his bed, listening to his parents fight downstairs.
Those goddamn
drunks, he thought to himself, they were so full of
shit all the time. Sure, he was
just some punk kid, but at least he
had integrity. He reached over and switched on the
CD player, sliding
on his headphones. Reaching into the drawer where he kept his
little
stash he rolled a nice, tight joint, torching it up. He always felt
good
when he was high, all his memories faded away, caught up in the
movement of the music.
He’d never been able to figure out why Frank
and Linda had decided long ago to adopt
him anyway. It was his guess
that they had been a lot happier then, more desirous to
give love to
someone. But that ‘love’, it seemed to Trevor, had stopped ages
ago.
Now it was only a list of ‘do this’ or ‘don’t do that’ which they
handed
down to him, forced on him with the law of parental authority.
Trevor picked at his
fingernails, feeling his eyelids sink into their
cottony heaviness..
“Trevor!”
a harsh voice penetrated his smooth mood. He ignored it. “Tre
VOR!
get your little butt down here NOW!” Removing his headphones, he
listened to
his mother’s tiny, pleading voice trying to calm Frank
down. Good luck, he thought to
himself. At the warning sound of
footsteps on the stairs he quickly shoved his phones
back on,
pretending to be oblivious. The door swung open, and in strode
Frank,
wearing a stained tee shirt and boxer shorts, reeking
of
alcohol.
“Goddamn it, what do I have to do to get some cooperation
around
here? Trevor! Take those goddamn earphones off! Trevor!” Trevor
looked up
and took his phones off.
“Oh,
hi dad,” he said, smiling sarcastically. The
look was completely
lost on Frank, who stood swaying in the doorway. sniffing with
his
pockmarked nose.
“What’s
that smell,” he said looking at Trevor,
his eyes focusing and
unfocusing. “Is that… what.. is that..” he said, trying
to
complete his sentence.
“That’s
incense, dad,” Trevor said, pointing to
his incense burner on
top of the radio, nestled in a group of candles. Frank looked at
him
quietly for a minute, and then turned away.
“Goddamn
kids, ” he
swore to himself, then turned back.
Frank
looked at his kid,
sitting on his bed wearing his black leather
jacket and short dark hair… This
wasn’t his kid. His kid had died
long ago, and now this… this freak had replaced
him.
“Look
at these fuckin’ skulls all around your room, boy..”
He
grumbled, his gaze taking in the manner in which Trevor had styled
his room. A
poster of Slayhead taped to the ceiling, dark images of
Zombies taped to walls, the
scientific skeleton in the corner. ”
You some kind of… some kind of satanist?” Frank
spit out the
word, trying to focus.
He
can’t even remember what he
came up here for, Trevor realized.
“Yeah
dad, that’s it.”
“Don’t
get smart with me, boy… you’re friends stopped by.. Mcarmick
,
Cormick… Connick. I told you, stay away from them. If I catch you
fucking
around behind my back again…”
Trevor
snorted. Once, he’d been arrested for
graffiti. Sheriff Tolland had
pulled him in late at night, and sat up talking with his
dad. Frank
always dredged up this one memory, and kept repeating it over and
over.
“Right,
dad, I don’t graffiti anymore. Now I’m into killing
people.”
Trevor spoke sarcastically. Frank looked at him with disgust
and
impotency. He had given up, his bottle was all he really needed to
drown out
his troubled memories.
I
know I’m paranoid, Trevor thought to himself,
but I prefer it to the
bottle any day. Frank pointed at him, grasping the faded
doorjamb for
support.
“I’m
watchin’ you boy, you better watch
yourself…”
Trevor
felt a small chill run down his spine. It was just his
drunk dad, but
still… he felt like it meant something. When Frank
eventually
turned and stumbled down the stairs, Trevor pulled out his
little
notebook and began writing furiously.
Whenever
he had time,
or whenever he remembered, Trevor wrote down his
thoughts. For him, these little
observations were important. They
kept his daily world filled and active. There was
always something to
notice, something to take care against, to look out for.
Especially
as he had little or nothing to do during the day, when he
skipped
school. His friends Cormic and Mcguire were off working, and Frank
had
revoked tv and Sega rights after an incident involving the
neighbors’ greenhouse and
Trevor’s air rifle. It wasn’t like tight
ass neighbor Jess grew anything in the
ruin, unless you counted the
wrecks of old rusted roto-tillers he was cultivating. So
days had
been spent stoned and wandering, listening to his walkman and holing
up in
the abandoned trainstation, writing what he called Trev’s Rules
in his journal. The
first entry had been carved into the layers of
pages with a heavy handed pen,
revealing somewhat the depth of his
drug paranoia, the phrase, “The Mind Is
Everywhere.”
Whenever he was caught talking too far ahead of himself at the
keg
parties in the woods or at someone’s colonial mansion, he would
darkly mumble
in a serious tone his mantra, The mind is everywhere,
and the crowd which had gathered
about him of drunk listeners and
dope giddy girls, previously having been entranced by
his animated
gestures and story telling, would disperse, their interest
having
waned in the face of this, his inevitable truth. Or so his socially
injured
and sexually frustrated mind and body would conjure up as
real.
The
journal was filled with other worthies, mainly a list of that
which he should at all
times be aware of, different precautions.
Constant notices to himself he always
attempted to keep utmost in his
mind. Basic ones included never sit with your back to
a door. Always
carry a string or wire. Only buy from a known and as trusted a
source
as possible. Be leery of any organizations like the church, or other
cult
like groups, even if they do offer free food and salvation.
Always, always keep your
eyes peeled for the man, because the man
will always try and bust you because you are
a rebel, you are
fighting them and their controlling police-state system. Wear
leather
jackets and leather pants in case you ride a motorcycle and crash,
the
leather will protect as you slide along the road. Close windows
during a rainstorm.
When peeing in a public bathroom, choose the
urinal closest to the door for when They
come busting in, They will
expect you to be at a more middle one because no one ever
takes the
real close urinal, plus you being that close will make them nervous
and
allow you time to react. Lock your door but never the window. It
was these and other
rules which Trevor carved into his journal as his
17 year old existence had decreed,
had taught him to be, truths to
live by. It was what he was doing, or trying to do
before Frank once
again slammed open his bedroom door and forcibly turned the
stereo
off, painfully yanking the headphones out of Trevor’s ears as he
yelled at
him.
“Here,
make your self useful, bum, pay for your keep!” The drunk
man
tossed a video cassette onto Trevors lap,
“Run
this down to
Larangetty’s for me. Here’s the two bucks for the late
fee. I want this done now!
The goddamn stores closes soon! Move your
butt!!” The door banged shut, and Trevor
heard his father stomp
back down to the den where the sound of a football game drowned
out
the sound of Linda running the dishwasher in the kitchen. Trevor
slowly got up
and tucked his journal into his back pocket, grabbed
the videocassette and his leather
jacket and went outside. What was
it he could really do, anyway.
On the street in front of Larangetty’s video store, Trevor gave a
nervous glance up
and down the sidewalk. At this time, almost dinner,
there was no one out and about,
the stores all pretty well closed up.
Trevor glanced in at the videostore. There was
only Alvin Larangetty
typing the days returned videos into his computer. That was
good. He
didn’t want to be seen dropping off Franks video. That was because it
was
one of Franks porno’s, a film titled Bush Pilot, and it never
failed to make Trevor
nervous when he had to drop off a porno. First
of all, if someone saw him, they would
think Trevor more disreputable
than he actually was, not that he cared of course but
still, in a
town this small, it rankled. Also, Trevor thought, as he
glanced
through the haze of the marijuana still strong in his sight and
mind,
affecting his perceptions and paranoia, if Sheriff Tolland ever
caught him
with pornography, it would be bad. Especially as Trevor
was underage, and then
Larangetty would probably get in trouble, not
that it was necessarily his fault, but
still that would make
Larangetty mad at Trevor. Larangetty might maybe not rent Trevor
any
more video games, let alone the Slayhead concert films. So, he always
took a
little care, and taking a little care prevented catastrophe,
according to one of his
maxims, as recorded in his journal. Measure
twice and cut once.
The
door chimes jingled as the door closed behind Trevor. Large
Alvin Larangetty looked up
and leaned over his counter, looking for
all appearances like a fat carnival barker
calling out the freaks,
calling out -Lobsterboy, Two necked Nancy, the Human twister,
and
Scrawny kid Trevor!!! see them now! step right up!-
“Well,
Well,
returning another one of pops poppers!” The brawny older
man guffawed. Trevor simply
slid the video across to him. “Sneak
a peek?”
”
I don’t have to do
that!” Trevor retorted hotly, yet glanced
nervously around. The video store owners
face softened a bit.
“No,
I’m quite sure you don’t Trevor, quite sure
you don’t. Keep the late
fee yourself.”
”
What do you mean by that?”
Trevor replied sharply. Great,
another unaware adult playing mindgames with him,
trying to fuck him
over. Larangetty settled back, arching his hands in
protest.
”
I mean keep the money yourself, no, wait. Don’t get me wrong
Trevor,
I know you’re a smart kid. It’s true, most adults forget what it is
to be
young, but not me. History teaches, and I’ve traveled a bit to
know. Events in those
days had a long lasting effect on me, I try to
remember. You should travel if you ever
get the chance, it’ll open
your eyes. Other cultures remember their long histories.
Here in
America,” and the man swept in a gesture of his hand all the
hundreds of
titles of films in his video store, “This is where
we have our history. Don’t let it
become yours.” The words were
heavy to Trevor in his dope strained brain, and he
agreed with them
fully, as he agreed with most words about life when
stoned.
Larangetty had always treated him pretty well, and he was suddenly
paranoid
he had been too harsh, too out of sync with the man.
“Deal,
then.” he
muttered. But then he thought about what he’d just
been told.
“Say
then, Mr. Larangetty, if what you say about films and movies
being,
like, some sort of lame history for America, than why do you own a
video
store?” Larangetty grinned, just like the Who song he
always listened to, ‘the kids
are all right.’ He always enjoyed
enlightening youth if he could.
“Because,
it’s all part of America’s history. Why, reflected in these
movies is
America. Our history ensconced and warped through film, through
the
media’s scanner darkly.”
“Scanner
Darkly?” asked Trevor, thinking, man,
Larrangetty is whacked,
completely out there. He’s like, some sort of Doctor guiding
me to
some planet. We’re both on a spaceship and he knows what other worlds
are
like.
”
Ahh, it’s a book by Philip K. Dick, somewhat science fiction.
A
scanner darkly is a mirror that is fogged, somewhat warped. It can
be
complicated. You should read it. Bet you’ll like it, its all about
drugs. And
of course, a little bit more.” It sounded good to
Trevor, and he pulled out his
notebook to write it down. He liked
books, at least good books, about drugs. He’d
already read Fear and
Loathing in Las Vegas and Brave new World. He finished writing
and
thought, hey, yeah, the library, he’d go there, and walked out the
door.
Larangetty watched Trevor go, too stoned to tell he was leaving
without saying
goodbye. Poor kid, he thought. Then smiled as he
recalled fragments of his own, long
ago search through drugs, and
than later, through other things, many other things.
Still grinning
Alvin Larangetty ran the video’s code bar through his
computer.
Another one returned safely to the fold.
Trevor walked on his
new found mission to the library. On the way he
rolled another joint and smoked it as
the night darkened. THe sun had
pretty much sunk out over the sound, in the distance
behind the
scattered trees. He thought about Larangetty’s grooving that
American
movies are our history. Very deep, Trevor said to himself. Hollywood
is
behind it all. They’ve got the most money. How much did that last
movie cost? Tundra
World? Cost like two billion dollars, most of it
for the main actors makeup, probably!
Trevor snorted as he walked
past the cemetery. What he wouldn’t do with two billion!
He’d buy his
own house and move out from fuckin Franky and Li’l Linda’s.
Yeah,
he’d move to the Caribbean where dope was legal, and he’d sit out on
the
white beach high, swimming in blue water with a girl, and reading
a good book like the
ones Larangetty suggested, while listening to
SLAYHEAD. An idiotic grin came over his
face as he walked, thinking
these thoughts.
An
old, strangely
dressed woman suddenly walked out of the cemetery’s
gate at the corner of his eye.
She had a sadly worn expression upon
her face, pointed at the ground. She was
confused, moving about as
she was in a fumbling way. Oh man, Trevor thought increasing
his
walking speed, hope that old lady doesn’t talk to me, I can’t stand
old
people, especially when I’m like this, can’t deal. If she talks
to me I’m gonna
just keep mute, eyes ahead, Trevor, eyes ahead. The
old woman did see Trevor, and a
hopeful light came to the ancient,
time ravaged eyes. “Excuse me, ” the decrepit form
called
weakly after him, ” What ti..” But Trevor was already too
far away. At the
first look in the womans eyes that she would speak,
he broke into a jog. His numbed
mind imagined the lady with the
thick, dirt stained dress would crumble if breath
escaped her, and he
had fled, lest he too breathe out the life giving air, lose his
shape
like the Hindenberg. Then he would crumble, and Trevor knew he was
still too
young to crumble. The lights of the library jogged with his
breath as Trevor ran up to
the big double doors, to automatic opening
arms of safety. He stopped to get his wind
back and compose himself,
running a hand through his black hair. Ok, Trevor get a
grip, that
wasn’t age coming to sap your bones, just an old dame seeing
her
friends in the ol’ marble orchard. You’re stoned, you’re on drugs.
Its
nothing new, so look, just chill, just stay calm.
Inside, he gazed at
the book name written somewhere on this piece of
paper. No, that was an old hall pass.
Ahh, he found it, but had
trouble discovering the writing on the paper amongst other
notes he
had made. PK Dick, fiction under ‘D’, what else did he write
growing,
exploding! what the hell did he write that for? Cool
at the time, but Trevor would
just throw it on his pile called ‘dope
wanderings’. In that file, stuck in a box
under his bed, were many
other equally drugged out, trip induced sayings. Trevor kept
them
because one day, he told himself, he might need them. Anyway, here he
was in
the library with a book to find, but the huge rack of
magazines caught his eye first.
Huh, they didn’t have ‘High Times’,
he thought, looking all over for it. Hey,
what’s up with that, he
wondered, projecting in his mind a little fantasy number…
what
would Miss Phelps, the bitch librarian say if he went up to her with
his fake
cartoon accent, and said “Hey, Missuz P’elps, why
dontcha got dat one mag’ High
Times’, huh, whyncha ya got it den,
huh! It’z a magazine! You’se a’ liberary
ain’tch ya? Huh?! HUH?!”
Oh man, she would wig! Just wig! The image made Trevor snort
with a
stifled laugh, loudly. He caught himself quickly, but it was too
late. Oh,
oh Trevor groaned, you attracted her attention. What would
it be this time, telling
him to read only the books in the young
adult section! Like he wasn’t old enough,
he’d already read books
from the Adult Section. Jesuzz, tight bitch.
As
some sort of controlling, hold-back Trevor entity, the librarian was
always cold
with him, seeing his hatred against her restrictive,
information controlling world.
She now called him to her desk.
“Trevor, Trevor Lerhnem, come over here please. I wish
to have a
talk with you.” Each word came out clipped and short.
Commanding, her
tight lips pursed, Trevor knew he had no choice, they
still saw him as a kid and
sometimes the weight of that threw him
into it, such that he became one again.
”
Hey hey Ms. Phelps, what did I do this time?”
“Trevor, ” she
replied, looking at her computer screen,
“You have a book overdue one
week.”
“No,
I turned them all in, I know, I don’t have any at home. ”
He
leaned forward to see the computer screen. Ms. Phelps smoothly turned
it away
from him.
“We
know you have one overdue Trevor, Mnemonic Resurrection, by
Chakra
Dali, phd.”
“No
I don’t, Ms. Phelps, I don’t even know what
Mnemonic is, The computer
made a mistake I, I don’t got it!” He shrugged his
shoulders
like the smooth street talkers in those old forties movies. Trevor
was in
acting mode now.
I
mean, I could have the book, he thought to himself,
maybe I just
checked it out, never read it and returned it with the others.
Don’t
recall it though. But I did return all the others, I remember cause
when I
came home from the library, mom said that Jess the tight-ass
neighbor had wanted his
lawn mowed, so, yeah, he did turn in all
those books. He was sure of it. Ms.’s Phelps
sharp yelp brought him
out of his smokey circling thoughts.
“Our
records are exact, Trevor. The book was about memory. Maybe..”
and
she turned away from him to some other paper pushing subject upon
her desk and spoke
to him out the corner of her mouth as if with
sharp lips, which he imagined forming
larger jaws in a cartoon way
and reaching out with razor like word teeth to chomp his
ear, “…
you just forgot to look. I suggest you look again, and look
harder.”
Trevor threw up his hands. So much for that mission, so much for that
new
book. He stuck his hands into his pockets and stomped out. He
headed to the
convenience store to spend those two dollars. Maybe
he’d buy himself a porno mag.
Outside
on the streets Trevor noticed a seemingly confused man
wandering
about in a dark suit, clutching an old battered briefcase. Is there
some
kind of old-folk convention he wondered, sticking to shadows,
never wanting to be
noticed. It seemed to Trevor, that the man was on
his way somewhere, but not knowing
where to go exactly, or how to get
there. Or perhaps, where he had come from. He
climbed up on the old
cemetery fence post and sat for a few minutes, intermingled
in
patterns and hidden by low slung branches, breathing the cool night
air into his
abused lungs, staring at the sky and trying to forget.