Remember

by Karthikeyan, Girish

I start agreeing with a nod. "You mean looking at the brighter side of anything makes it look better."

  "It goes beyond that. As people, we can make the choice to be happy."

  "I don't think that is even remotely true." I look through my research material about the survey (scan really.)

  "What are the disparities between the two of us, regarding economic status?"

  This turns my attention back to her. "I don't see a big difference."

  "That is correct. That dictates we will have similar happiness levels. Do you think that is true?"

  The total rational argument relies on confident answers, barks of yes or no. "I'm not completely sure."

  "I’m going to let you think about it."

  Won! "All set, then."

  That took some time. We always get into arguments. She must not like me much. I just can't let her get away with wrong info.

  My desk helps me write up the study, send it, and make an ad. If they think they are happy, is up for thought. I start typing. The title is 'Happiness and co-relation with neuroplasticity.' That seems good.

  'It is well known that positive reinforcement helps with learning i.e. neuroplasticity.' This type of reinforcement causes the neural pathway to stay connected longer and helps the pathway to remain intact through more learning and adaptive changes. 'Learning is two parts obtaining and retaining information. The focus of this study is primarily retention. Does happiness help with learning or just positive reinforcement? How can…'

  Entanglement

  Thurs 6/8/17 12:23 Noon

  We sit around one end of the long conference table for a now daily ritual of eating together. Today we coincided unlike the typical carousel.

  "How is your day going, Conor?" Gary asks. He munches on the end of a breaded fishstick, allowing the crumbs to scatter over the chips (that formerly British invention.) "Good. The consult went great." The steaming vapors of vegetarian rice and beans float up ahead of me.

  "I'm just writing the results." Gary just eats with a mess. The small indentation for ketchup ends up as a chip maceration.

  "You did well, I might add." Claire forks the next layer of her caprese salad, a centimeter wide slice of mozzarella.

  "Thanks for the feedback." My dourness expresses my inability to find anything good (that won’t regurgitate like meat) from the familiar stuff (anything American that I can pronounce) on the menu.

  "Dr. Mekova-huh- Irena we hear you're starting your own study," Gary says uncomfortably. Gary’s trip ups around Mekova get better every day.

  "That is correct. I’m starting a side project," Dr. Mekova informs. She found that eating with her hands saves time last week. From then on, she can’t be found around this table without her right hand in something.

  "I'm intrigued. What more can you tell us?" Claire moves on to the next saucer sized plate in her assembly line of three, carbonara pasta.

  "It's about controlled evolution. Is there a reason that evolution takes the millions of years it does?" Mekova has a small portion of yeasty flatbread next to a curiously odd orange cauliflower and green pea chutney.

  "That sounds consuming. I just don’t get how that changes much of anything."

  “The application amounts to terraforming. The ideal solution after modifying a new non-terrestrial world for human habitation rests with establishing natives evolved for the environment. Maybe some use on Earth also.” Mekova rams the rest of her food into her mouth, taking to strategic chewing.

  The faces of Gary and Claire react as if Mekova revealed she had cancer. The contention still exists after the Neo-genetics era. Claire nears tears, angry tears. Gary can’t look away from Mekova and freezes in every other way. I feel quite pleased with controlled evolution. Mekova's eyes sparkle while she stalls with deliberate chewing. I think Mekova is almost enjoying the reactions of anger and fear.

  Claire stares, wishing the tears away. She returns to her bacon free carbonara and tries to forget the study.

  Mekova clears her throat before back peddling. “Guys, I'm sorry about saying that. That isn’t at all my intention, it never was. This isn’t my doing.” She still expresses nothing close to regret.

  I don’t want to believe that Mekova enjoys this. “Irena why don’t you explain what you mean by that?”

  Gary switches to staring at me.

  “The goal of the study is non-terrestrial. Some hints indicated it wasn’t the only use. I was just about to explain that.”

  We all knew this was just an excuse, but sometimes it’s better to let go. Claire continues eating, distracted by the epicurean buffet right at her palette. Gary swallows a few times. He sits there and stares at Mekova’s soiled hand.

  My tech runs through a brief history of Antarctica, the attempts at niching animals into the uninhabited void at the continent’s heart. The years following lead to untold ecological turmoil like slaughter of native animals, genetic inbreeding, devastated biomes, and human outcompetion. The human response matched our previous history of Earth destruction. We sealed of the continent, evacuated the people, plasma and metal shielded it, and razed everything. The landscape vaporized along with the water into a gaseous mixture that resettled evenly across the entire area. The barricades receded with a big scar across the globe now filled with water. That moment changed everything for us humans. We have the power to destroy and create. The rest is up to us.

  We sit quiet for a while. Each of us drifts away at some point. I’m the last to get back to work. The history of some two centuries rattles around in my head. The reality seems minor. There must be something more. The tech flashes back with the same article. I eventually agree to read it. The new chloroplast-mitochondria creatures stirred up some long forgotten super bacteria that decimated the population down to 500 million. The bacteriophage cure took decades to develop and destroy that pathogen.

  I get back to my desk and work. The new information explains a lot, but the reality haunts me.

  'Each group is tested again after a month. The final scores compared to the initial scores show the best method for instruction.' That looks good. I get a message.

  Gary:

  Are you excited about the conference?

  Conor:

  Yes, this'll be the first time I've been to Prairie View.

  Gary:

  It's not that different.

  Conor:

  Good to know.

  Gary:

  Have you found out what to get for Dr. Mekova? It's almost time for the promotion consideration.

  Conor:

  Just give me a sec.

  An hour passed after those inflammatory words. Dr. Mekova doesn't disclose much. She wants to make sure all our questions are answered, not sure why yet. She likes work and science. She tried to become a sponsoring doctor, and then went back to research. I can tell Gary about liking science. He knows as much as I know.

  Conor:

  I don't know how much I can tell you. You know just about as much as I do.

  Gary:

  Tell me what you do know.

  Conor:

  She wants to have more interaction with patients. It didn't work out for some reason.

  Gary:

  Anything else?

  Conor:

  She wants to make sure people she works with don't have any lingering questions.

  Gary:

  Thank you so much, you've been a big help.

  My business with Gary is finished. Anyway, I transfer the study to a pad and head into Dr. Mekova's office.

  "Here's my study." I move next to her desk and deposit it there.

  Mekova fingers her question mark pendant, turns to me and takes the pad. "Thanks, I'll look at it later. Consider yourself approved."

  "I'll get back to work." I turn around and reach for the door.

  Mekova stops me with words. "I just have one question. What do you think about my study?"

  I wait there in front of her and look for any signs that she was crying or anything else. Her s
trategy must be working. She looks and acts like herself. "It sounds reasonable."

  "Having nothing to say is unlike you. You should always have something to say." Her endless ability to seek out areas for improvement resurfaces.

  "I'll work on that. I’ve been wondering what that necklace of yours means?"

  “This?” She holds the pendant up with the necklace.

  “Yes.”

  She grabs the pendant and just yanks sharply. To my surprise, it releases easily. She hands me the symbol still a little warm. “It signifies science, the constant asking of questions.”

  "Good luck with your study." I return the pendant.

  "Thank you for your support."

  (—)

  I find a place under new studies for neuroscience, so anyone who thinks about this will see my study. The ad reads: 'Learning Improved: Looking for participants to enter a semi-invasive study. How to make teaching more effective? Participants attend a free course on basic neuroscience. If anyone is interested, please contact me, Dr. Conor Abby at the Stephens Institute of Neuroscience Research and Treatment'.

  I post the ad and wait.

  (—)

  I get ready to leave, after finishing the survey, and decide to see if Claire left already. She promised to post the survey. I enter the office to sounds from behind the counter. Assuming this indicative of Claire, I wait for her to appear.

  "It looks like you're still here."

  "Actually I was about to leave." She stacks a few paper thin pads together and holds the rolled up bundle.

  "Where are you off to?" I don’t notice my finger swiping the edge of the counter until a piece of grit grinds through my finger.

  "I'm just going to meet up with some friends. You are welcome to tag along." She raises an eyebrow a degree in repressed surprise.

  “I'm not one to turn down an invite." My answer relaxes her tense shoulders with the expected answer.

  "Let’s go then."

  "Right behind you."

  Claire grabs her grey jacket from the counter slinging it over her shoulder. We retire from the office to the elevators, as normal. Her shoes make a softer clacking sound than the reverberating sharp sounds of usual heels. The red gleam means those boots that interested me. Obsession with shoes confuses me, but these are an exception. This time the elevator stops at B3 — like any other floor, at first glance. As we venture deeper, the walls become matte, wide, square tiles of muted and darker grey tones. We enter an almost cavern off the hallway, populated by an assortment of tables and chairs. A sample of the local people fills in a rest. We go to the bar, Claire right at home.

  "These are two of my college buddies. This is Ian Hale and Corrine Azarola." Claire introduces the two people behind the bar.

  "Hi, I'm Ian. Nice to meet you…" He says from thin, smiling lips. His extensive tech corrected eyes — pupils twinkling from different angles — stand vigil over a narrow nose.

  "I'm Conor." I fill in the blank after seeing it.

  "Good to meet you Conor.” Corrine surrounded by neck length hair beams back at me.

  "This is someone I work with. He just decided to tag along." Claire explains.

  "Interesting place, how did you guys land it?"

  Claire slides her foot around to the front of her stool jabbing me with her toe. Accidental.

  "It isn't the difficult. Customers are always looking for new sims.” Ian moves to show me the back counter filled with near empty bottles. “We are pretty good, if I say so myself."

  "How did you guys run into Claire?" Claire really kicks my foot with her heel. Shut up. I guess she already answered that question.

  "As Claire says, we just happened to meet in inexplicable conditions." Corrine presses Claire’s hand briefly.

  Claire’s ears turn red from the quote of her. "How is business going?"

  "Good. Custom recipes," Ian replies.

  "Intrigued." Claire requests.

  "Mix and match choices," Corrine responds.

  "Tomorrow's rush," Claire adds.

  The three of them have a shorthand, I can’t fully decipher it from just that. They just look at each other for a sec. This feels as good a time as any. "If you're open for business, I would like to try some of your drink sims."

  "Sure, let me tell you about your options. As you should know sims are better due to their lower impact on the planet and your wallet." Ian sells his pitch.

  "What will it be?" Corrine searched the empty bar for other customers.

  "The orange seems good." My quick look turned up something not bad.

  "Going." Claire says.

  "See you tomorrow. How do I do this?" My quick dismissal of Claire guilts me.

  "Here take this and apply it." Ian hands me a coin node.

  I put the node on the back of my palm over the metacarpal vein. "That's it?"

  "Yeah."

  I suddenly have a glass of clear liquid in my hand, decide to drink it, the glass nears my mouth, and hits me with a strong citrus sent, oranges. The liquid enters my mouth with the familiar burning. The pleasant taste of fresh oranges coats my tongue, just like I ate the real thing. Just the glass appearing shatters that illusion.

  "You guys are ready good." I imagine that goofy slow grin crossing my face.

  ”It's good you appreciate what you are getting," Ian says.

  I steel myself into stoicism. “I just don't get the drink just showing up in my hand."

  "We have to change some stuff to make the "real" thing different." Corrine wipes down the pristine bar.

  "Thanks for a great experience."

  I choose to head out, leaving the node behind. As I leave the lounge, my mind just clears. Looking back, the place is called Zensation. Taking off the sticker changes nothing. Some wandering leads me in the right direction. I finally get to the tenth floor with some lingering questions. Claire just goes back after asking them some questions. She comes to a bar and doesn't drink anything. Why? Anyway, time to get in.

  Unconscious Musings

  Fri 6/9/17 3:32 a.m.

  A warm oak booth surrounds me. We wait in some kind of eating place, Claire and I, holding hands across the narrow table. Someone drops off a plate of chocolate, containing one piece, shaped into a lightning bolt. We each grasp a side and break it off. The chocolate held on the precipice of our mouths, offers us a reflection of each other. We communicate words to each other by some inexplicable way. We know each other that well.

  Are you ready?

  What about you?

  Do it.

  Do it together.

  We nod in unison. The chocolate falls off the precipice into the abyss below. We intensely look at each other, any wavering destined to failure as the chocolate tests us with temptation. I feel drowsy as the sinister effect starts taking to which I look more closely at her. Everything about that face, every describable detail fills my head. There must be something else.

  I focus on her eyes. The cornea, a thin covering of a sensitive looking glass, shines back at me a mini reflection of the environs, a whole universe. The iris forever protects the pupil from extremes in light, gracefully changing to match the needs of its partner. Dark brown in its nature. They are incredibly more exquisite than that, the dance between varying colors of olive, ochre, and onyx. The iris is but a simple ring of innumerable complexity enhanced with a fade to dark at the edge.

  The chocolate is too strong for me. This isn’t the end, tis more work needed between us. I drown in the taste, the extreme sweetness of white chocolate — nothing getting in the way, except more coco butter. The richness of it gives way to nutty flavor, the sweetness receding to a more complex sensation. The gradation moves to the darker end, flavors swinging further, more coffee like. A burnt taste takes over the amorphous completely. I can’t breathe.

  I try to cough, signal anyone. I rise up and find some help. Nothing working, I desperately return to the booth. Claire approaches me. My plight apparent, she grabs my arm with a soft touch so I feel pain
and collapse.

  A room meets my opening eyes, a room open to the high jungle, continually bathed in mist, moisture condensing on the white walls, carved stone like. The small room houses a dozen or so tropical plants growing up from the ground. I sit at a table aside Claire, a table dominated by its floral inhabitance. It stands as a topiary cradling an iridescent glass covered tray. The perfect place for the resident moss, submerged in a pool of water, rippling and shimmering. Someone else sits across the table though I can never figure out whom.

  “Mr. Abby, you have a swallowing dysfunction. I recommend monthly treatment with moss to prevent continually choking. Would you like to try some?”

  The who opens up the moss habitat. I reach in the cool water — a welcome break from the hot, humid room — grasp a piece and let it disconnect from the colony. Still dripping, I position it under my tongue, wipe my face with the back of my arm, and shake it off. I fish out the moss and gently reintroduce it to the environment. Claire looks at me.

  Are you ready to attempt eating something?

  Yes.

  Here is a cracker.

  Thank you.

  The cracker goes in my mouth. The salt comes on first, the mild sweetness, and as digestion begins, grows sweeter. The crunch of the dry cracker, broken, breaking down into crumbs sounds through my ears until I chew everything out thoroughly as choking is not an option.

  I swallow it in small portions. Everything goes well. First one is good, now, on to the next allocation, swallow, try to make it go down right, and fail. I can’t breathe. I try getting help. They aren’t looking. I try everything, nothing working. Claire holds my hand with both of hers, oblivious to my situation. I feel myself fading away, and I wake up.

  (—)

  I look into the starry sky of thousands, if not millions, of members. A swatch of yellow, white, brown crosses my skylight, a hazy shroud of matter covering the brilliant core of the galaxy. I try to calm myself. Sleep is tricky with tension. I manage to let the sleep come and carry me off.