Getting out of bed was an adventure. I stumbled around the apartment that turned out to be my apartment, looking for anything that might be familiar, and found a manila folder tacked onto the refrigerator door with READ ME written in bold red marker.
I plucked the thing from behind its banana-shaped imprisonment and opened it. My panic was nullified almost instantly. My nerves settled after the first paragraph of block printing and totally I was completely calm by the final line of the first page.
As always, I was seriously glad that being able to read transfers through the night rather than disappearing with most of the phantom memories that reside for very short periods inside the sieve that is my head.
I made coffee, using the directions in the folder. It's a good thing that I'm fairly descriptive about the morning's tasks in my notes, because I would likely spend a fortune on my household staples. Who wants to pay five bucks for a cup of joe every morning?
I made eggs, scrambled because I guess that's the way I like them, using the same set of directions. The eggs were good, but I wondered if I ever made anything else in the mornings. Paging through my "Brain Folder" showed that I did not. Variety doesn't matter much when you're eating everything for the first time, so I didn't dwell on it.
The "Brain Folder", as the sheaf of instructions and reminders is labeled, is a vast cornucopia of information. I have to admit that I'm very impressed with myself for coming up with it. On the last page I even left a reminder to add anything new that I stumble across before going to bed.
Once the lights turn out everything vanishes from the chalkboard in my actual brain, becoming totally useless if it isn’t transcribed onto the paper one. That sucks.
Either way, the folder is made up in sections. The first pile of pages lets me know that I have an issue with the part of my brain that records memories. The words aren't jumbled or anything, but I still have a hard time getting through those sheets right after waking.
They tell me that I have a form of Anterograde amnesia and that there is no cure for my condition. The block letters form words that form sentences and paragraphs and all of them tell me that I'm basically screwed for life.
After making coffee, adding the spoonful of sugar and dollop of milk that I'm told I enjoy, and sitting down to a plate of lightly scrambled eggs, cooked in a hefty chunk of Irish butter, reading through all of it again wasn't as traumatic.
I think I'm going to change the order of the pages so that I have the coffee first. It really is good that way. And the eggs, too. Irish butter is incredible. I might add some bread or something, also.
Either way I'm still screwed, but it turns out that I'm also an optimist and have decided at some point, to make the best of things. I feel like that's a healthy approach, but I forget why I decided it. Tasteless jokes are obviously part of my arsenal of humor. It says so on page nine.
The bathroom and its wares were my next concerns. Using the toilet had been obvious enough without urging from my manuscript of memories, thank God, but the grooming side of things hadn't stayed for the duration.
Luckily my handy-dandy papers gave very good pointers on bathing, brushing my teeth, and shaving. No actual razors were used in the shaving of this slightly unfamiliar face. Electric razors are safe to use, easy to learn, and don't require much maintenance. I couldn't imagine putting an actual razorblade to my skin without any prior experience. I guess I have some sense to go along with this smooth face. I didn't see any scars to prove otherwise.
After the bathroom was clothing, which looked to be the simplest of my daily tasks. Dressing in one of three different basic outfits, which are hung as complete pairs by someone that I've hired to do laundry and arrange the garments properly, proved to be the easiest of my preparations for going out into the world. It's even easier than brushing my teeth, which was pretty well reflex after getting the whole thing started.
I got a kick out of the multiple reminders to put on shoes. They were written in with an obviously frustrated hand, so I'm guessing that I forgot at least once and that it didn't turn out well. It's probably a good thing that I noted it on the crowded page.
Once I was dressed and shod, I went back for more coffee and some light reading so that I might be able to know what came next. I enjoy coffee. I wonder how it would be if I added more sugar.
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As I scanned through the second section of my daily biography, I sipped coffee made in the technique originally instructed. The extra sugar killed the taste of the actual brew.
Experimentation might not be a good idea on some fronts.
I don't drive cars. I don't have a normal job. I have no magical ability to make money, nor the talent to acquire it through trained avenues. No trust funds exist to support me in a way that I wouldn't remember being accustomed to. There are a lot of explanations about the things that I don't have.
The earlier panic returned in a very slight way as I read through my handwritten notes about all of these things that don't apply to me. If I hadn't also told myself to read through all of it carefully, I would've skipped ahead to find the things that do have an effect on my life. I swallowed more caffeine and waited for a good line to appear.
There likely aren't many delightful things in most lives. People seem, to me at least, like huge balls of contentment rather than happiness. Even the best things that happen to them are only a little better than the worst.
I hoped that the optimistic side of my personality would manifest at some point in the morning. I hoped that it would come in the next couple of pages because everything I read seemed only to describe gloomy and lackluster qualities in my possession.
Hope is definitely a four-letter word. Cursing in multiple four-letter words isn't something I'm opposed to, this being evident from some of my more colorful descriptions of things that I don't like and shouldn't try.
The writing told me that I was a fan of women and all they had to offer. I made it a point to let me know that I wasn't gay for some reason that I was sure to understand later in the day. I do like taxi rides, but am not a fan of either busses or horse drawn carriages. I love living in Tampa, but dislike the beach due to its sandy leavings in the bottom of my shoes. I hate flip-flops and sandals. No flip-side to that coin. I guess that I just hate that particular type of footwear. I thought about trying them out, but remembered the too sugary taste of the coffee and dropped the idea. Who knows me better than me?
My employment remained foggy until the last two pages of the second section of my notes. The optimism returned immediately.
I'm a private detective! Somehow I knew what that was and became very excited. Thoughts of someone named Sam Spade dribbled along the surface of my intellect until I read the line that stated YOU ARE NOT LIKE SAM SPADE! very adamantly. That must have been a recurring assumption that had to be squashed in capital letters.
To hell with that. I can be like Sam Spade if I want to. Whoever that is.
The tools of my trade were specified, along with their location in the hall closet by the front door of my apartment. I laid my stack of paper down and went to the closet with the same giddy manner of a ten-year-old on Christmas morning. Halfway through that thought I wondered how old I was. I discarded the question, figuring that I would stumble upon it as I read.
The small case at the bottom of my coat-closet was labeled in the same flaring red marker as the folder. YOU ARE NOT LIKE SAM SPADE! it said. I had to frown, knowing that I was making a point of this for a reason that couldn't be captured or easily accepted.
Dismissal of the thought preceded my pulling out and opening of the hard case, but only by a second or two. My frown changed to a grin as I saw the contents. The ten-year-old had returned.
A Canon 7D digital camera with three lenses. A tape recorder, also digital by the look of its label. A silver flask that contained a fowl smelling liquid with a stamp that said DO NOT DRINK on its shoulder. What looked to be a set of lock picks. Small billfold with a Detective's license bearing a
picture of yours truly. Great stuff.
The name printed on it proclaimed that I'm Mason Thursday and a small piece of paper folded next to it told me again that I'm not like Sam Spade.
Right. With such a cool, detective-like name I was sure to be at least similar to the fictional investigator.
The final and most exciting object was a small pistol along with a pile of cartridges. Use of a gun didn’t carry over like reading. I only knew that because I didn’t know how to load the ammunition into the hollow chambers. Another thing that would have to be re-learned. Oh well.
I carried the case back to my kitchen table, set it upon the surface, and continued my morning's reading.
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I thought about putting little snippets from my Brain Folder into this manuscript, but decided against it. The prose is very technical and descriptive for the most part and I don't really have time to pour all of that into this. Remember, I only have a day of memory to capitalize on. You have more than that, so you’re a show-off and I’m not very impressed with your talents. So there.
Also, you likely don't need instruction on how to soap and wash your genitals. You probably don't want to see some of the crap that I've noted in there in order to make it through the most ordinary of days.
After perusing some of my recent meanderings, I've realized that what I find exciting really won't do much for someone who can retain what they experienced during their "yesterday". I found my first taxi ride to be monumental. I'll bet that I'll think it's great tomorrow, too. I wonder how much I liked it yesterday.
So I'll just keep things simple. It's easy enough for me to describe most of it for you from my current point of view.
The section on my job was pretty descriptive and technical, which I've basically already stated. Thankfully, it's even more so than most parts of the thing.
I told myself to check the planner sitting on my hall table before leaving the apartment. That would tell me where I was supposed to be at the different times throughout the day and keep me from straying off of the planned path. I decided to stick to the instructions on that one so that I could concentrate on figuring out how to use all of these toys I'd just come into possession of.
The book said that I would automatically know how to use the lock picks because of muscle memory. The camera would be fairly effortless; somehow the device functions stayed mostly intact as to where my dislike of Cheetos had to be noted. The pistol, a Smith & Wesson Bodyguard 38, was self-explanatory, but I would need to stop by the firing range listed in my planner to get the hang of it before doing much else. I couldn't wait!
Even if I wasn't a P.I. from the old detective novels, there was sure to be some kind of mysterious case that would provide adventure and excitement, right? Maybe I was in the middle of some dangerous set of circumstances right then, preparing to snag some bad guys that the normal police couldn't manage to catch. I might even meet a gorgeous woman that would find my awesome detective work attractive and appealing in a primal, physically rewarding way. I was appreciative that I made myself aware of the whole liking women thing. It was sure to be a great experience, as long as I didn't bring the woman back home for a sleepover.
Could you imagine waking up in the arms of a stranger when you, yourself, are also a stranger? Scratch that idea off of any list. I'll bet it works out in a much less appealing way than your experience with the random bar hookup. I didn't want anything to do with that.
More words. More instructions. I'd gotten really anal retentive about noting every little thing, which is a comfort half-way through every day, but very tedious in the mornings. Again, I can only appreciate things as they come. The history as to why my brain doesn't record as well as my digital voice recorder seems to be the only thing that isn't touched on. Sadly, I know that it's something that I forgot before I had the chance to make my memory into its physical form. It's just something I have to accept every day. Not awesome.
Imagine, for a moment, that you live in a single room without the benefit of light or sound. It would be very frustrating to live without use of your senses. That's how I feel when I wake up, or it's how I felt today. I'm not really sure what my state of mind was like yesterday. It's possible that I sometimes wake with the acceptance of a saint who knows that nothing can be remedied by becoming frustrated. I somehow doubt that to be the case, though.
I was becoming impatient with my personal research, wondering what the day would bring, when I turned the twentieth page of my mind. The letters that demanded my patience were bold and labored upon. It was almost creepy. I knew that I lost my happy thoughts at about the same spot in the folder during most days and had taken the time to let me know about it. Because I do what I want, I listened to myself and kept reading into the third section without much hostility toward my yesterday self.
Walking Back (The Dark Roads Book 2) Page 9
