Memory Lane

by Milo James Fowler

  Memory Lane

  Milo James Fowler © 2014

  www.milojamesfowler.com

  Originally published by Plasma Frequency Magazine

  On the afternoon of June 16th, Herman Neville started screaming.

  No one saw it coming. Not even his coworkers who found him hyper-multitasking regularly at Montgomery High School where he taught freshman English and journalism, those who knew for a fact that he never took work home, those who saw him at his desk long after hours with music playing from the ceiling speakers and four or more programs running on his desktop computer screen, his latest-version Slate sitting nearby and vibrating with incoming messages while various social media apps refreshed the most recent status updates.

  On June 16th, Herman was sitting in the teacher's lounge grading papers and lesson-planning between bites of lunch when, without warning, he gave a bloodcurdling shriek and clapped both hands over his ears.

  "Is it something we said?" asked one of his coworkers, an elderly woman who somehow managed to mention the horrors of past pregnancies in just about every conversation—though she hadn't been close to childbearing age for decades.

  "I can't take anymore!" Herman yelled. "There's no room!"

  It was a lot like his Slate. He'd recently upgraded to a 2-terabyte model after maxing out his earlier version. Deleting files in order to make room for new ones had quickly become a tedious chore, and he'd welcomed the additional memory with open arms.

  But now, having reached maximum brain capacity, he had to do the same thing with his mind. The problem was, he didn't know where—or even how—to begin.

  * * *

  Dr. Sneed wasn't much help—recommended by Herman's principal, a fellow Central Health member.

  "It's a myth that we utilize only ten percent of our brains. That's an idea promulgated by the psychic phenomena establishment, the paranormal want-to-believers. The truth of the matter is that we use every portion of our brains—just not all at the same time." He cleared his throat, a goggle-eyed stork of a man with a pencil-thin neck and an Adam's apple big as an egg. It looked like something he swallowed once, still making its way down his esophagus. "You, however…"

  He directed the jittery red dot of his laser-enabled ballpoint toward the multicolored brain scans displayed on his office wallscreen.

  "You are currently utilizing every quadrant of every lobe, all at the same time. It's astounding, really. I've never seen the likes of this."

  Herman couldn't watch. Or listen. Or respond. He cringed on the sofa in Sneed's office, knees pulled tight to his chest, eyes squeezed shut, rubber plugs jammed deep into his ears, as he screamed with all his might.

  "What does it mean, Doctor?" Mrs. Neville, Herman's devoted helpmate, stood beside her cowering husband with a frown ensconced on her alabaster brow and a gentle hand upon his quaking shoulder.

  "What's that he's doing?" Sneed appeared to notice Herman's clamor for the first time.

  "He can't take any more input—visual or auditory stimulation of any kind. He won't stop screaming."

  "He's closed himself off from the world, shutting everything out." Sneed nodded slowly. "Fascinating."

  "What can we do?"

  Sneed blinked at her, seeming to remember something very important. "We must place him into a sensory deprivation chamber until his neural impulses settle down. Right now, they're firing on all cylinders, so to speak, and his mind can't take the barrage of information. He has the right idea at the moment—although I'm sure his voice will give out eventually. He can't scream like this indefinitely."

  "He teaches high school."

  "Oh." Sneed blinked again. "Well, in that case..."

  "He keeps saying there's no room, that he needs to free up some memory." Mrs. Neville glanced at her husband with concern.

  "He's thinking of his brain as a computer hard drive." Sneed chuckled. "Or his Slate." He nodded to himself, pinching absently at his well-endowed Adam's apple. "Some time in the chamber should definitely remedy matters."

  "How long will he have to…stay in there?"

  Sneed smiled, baring white picket fences, as he escorted her to the door. "We'll be in touch, Mrs. Neville."

  * * *

  Herman's interment lasted three days and three nights. When he finally emerged from his sightless, soundless tomb, Dr. Sneed and his nurses were there with towels and a thick robe to warm him.

  "I'm hungry." Herman shivered, and a moment later he realized that his mind had cleared. Whatever they'd done to him, it had worked.

  "You're bound to be," Sneed said with a hearty laugh. "You've been fasting since Friday."

  "Starving is more like it," Herman muttered. Going without sensory stimulation—as well as food—had obviously done the trick. Hydration hadn't been an issue; they'd hooked him up to some kind of IV drip. And certain awkward measures had been taken to deal with his excrement—now in the removal and disposal stage, courtesy of the nurses. He didn't envy them the job.

  "We'll of course need to run another battery of tests to be certain your brain is functioning within normal parameters," said the good doctor. "But everything appears to be in fine working order at present."

  "Where's my wife?" Herman thought for sure she'd be there to greet him.

  Sneed blinked. "I'm sorry?"

  "My wife." Herman coughed. He could see his own breath in this sterile, icy room.

  The nurses glanced at each other. Sneed dismissed them, and they carried away Herman's catheter and bags of urine and feces.

  Dr. Sneed cleared his throat. His Adam's apple leapt and fell. "Mr. Neville, you need to understand. Your time in the chamber may have resulted in certain … psychological side effects."

  Herman sniffed, wiped at his nose. "How's that?"

  "Think of it this way. The life you thought you knew is no longer yours. Today, you begin a brand new chapter."

  Herman stared at the doctor. "Are you some kind of quack?" He tugged off the robe and threw it at him. "Where are my clothes?"

  "Clean slate, Mr. Neville. You'll need to start from scratch. And that includes your wardrobe. Obsolete memories no longer have any place in your life."

  Herman glanced down at his alert gooseflesh and grabbed the robe. Tugging it back on, he demanded, "You'd better start talking sense."

  Sneed nodded with an appeasing smile. "You came to us with a rare condition, Mr. Neville. Maximum brain capacity. There is only one known cure, and that's a total reformatting."

  "Reformatting." Herman shook his head. Sneed sounded more like a computer repairman than a medical doctor.

  "That's right. While you were in the chamber, we performed a complete brain reformat. Your verbal processing and psychomotor skills were not affected—only the regions of your brain designed for memory storage. They have been wiped clean." He brightened, grinning. "So now you have plenty of room for all that multitasking you're known for. Speaking of which, would you like your Slate so you can get back online? You've missed three entire days of social media updates, you know!"

  Herman raised a shaky finger to point at Sneed. "You're insane. You're out of your freaking mind." He staggered backward, bare feet numb against the slick linoleum. "I'm getting the hell out of here!"

  "But where will you go?" Sneed called as Herman jerked open the door to flee the premises.

  "Home!"

  * * *

  The problem: home wasn't exactly where Herman had left it. The house was there, a modest two-story with a porch and a well-groomed lawn in a nice enough neighborhood. But the place was empty, locked up tight with one of those steel boxes on the front doorknob and a real estate sign planted in the middle of the grass.

  Herman's home was for sale.

  "Hey-uh…" He didn't know his neighbor
s' names, neither ones on each side or across the street. But the guy on the right—a silver-haired gent with wire-rimmed spectacles—had glanced his way while retrieving the evening post, probably wondering what Herman was doing in a bathrobe and nothing else. "You seen anybody around here?"

  "The place is for sale." He gave Herman another cursory glance and returned to his own porch with the day's junk mail.

  Herman scurried after him, struggling to keep the hospital robe closed in front. His bare feet swished through the man's grass. "I don't think we've met. I'm Herman. Neville." The man stared at him blankly, looking about ready to charge into his house and call the police. "I'm your neighbor." Herman gesticulated back at his empty house. "I live right there!"

  Mr. Silver frowned. "The place is for sale."

  "Since when?"

  The man parted his lips, half-turning toward his house. "If you'll excuse—"

  "Don't you recognize me? Even a little?"

  The man swallowed. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave, sir."

  Herman threw up his arms and uttered what could only be translated as "Gah!" He wiped both hands down his face. "Okay, I'll go, but can I borrow your mobile? Please, I just need to call my wife and get things sorted out. I'll just be a minute."

  The man stared at him, then glanced at the taxicab waiting at the curb with its motor running. He proceeded to reach into his back pocket. "Then you will go." It wasn't a question as he handed over the device.

  "Thanks, man." Herman fumbled with it, tapping seven digits onto the touchscreen. "Thanks a million."

  The first number he dialed—his wife's mobile—bleeped in his ear followed by the standard The number you have reached is no longer in service message.

  "What the—?" He ended the call and tried another, his wife's work number. Same result. Same automated message. "This doesn't make sense."

  Mr. Silver held out his hand for the mobile. "You'd better go." As an afterthought, he added, "You don't want to make a cab wait. They'll adjust the meter when you're not looking."

  * * *

  Herman's second stop was his place of employment, but Agnes at the front desk looked like she'd never seen him before. He knew as soon as he stepped inside that they wouldn't let him through, not dressed as he was.

  "C'mon Agnes, it's me. Neville! Has everybody lost their minds?"

  "Only you, sir, by all appearances. Please leave right this moment. I have already notified campus security, and they're on their way."

  "Who's teaching my classes? Tell me that? Who have you replaced me with? Spafford? The guy's illiterate!"

  "Do not raise your voice to me, sir." Agnes's eyes bulged with the reprimand. "Leave now, or I will call the police."

  Herman blew out a frustrated sigh. "Listen. The world's turning the wrong way or something today. I just need to make a call. May I use your phone? Please, Agnes."

  She pursed her wrinkled lips, watching him. "Who do you need to call?"

  "My parents. They live on the other side of town—I've got to make sure they're okay, that whatever's going on hasn't gotten to them, too."

  Two overweight men in buzz cuts and uniforms that looked more like stripper costumes stormed in through the campus end of the office. The string of sleigh bells on the glass door jangled behind them. It was easy to tell who they'd been summoned for: the crazy loon in the hospital robe.

  But Agnes held up a crinkled hand, and they stopped. The hard look in her watery eyes had softened.

  "One call. Then you leave." She pressed a button on the phone's cradle and handed Herman the wireless receiver.

  "Thanks." He narrated the number and watched her fingers, making sure she got it right. "Please pick up," he murmured. His folks had a habit of screening their calls through an old-fashioned answering machine. They despised telemarketers with a passion, and he'd gotten used to leaving half-composed voice messages interrupted when one of them eventually answered.

  But not this time. Instead, a familiar automated voice answered telling him the line had been disconnected and was no longer in use.

  "Gah!" He slammed the receiver down on the desk.

  "This way, sir." The security goons escorted him out.

  "Spafford's an idiot!" Herman hollered over his shoulder. "Those kids will never pass their SAT's with him in there! I'll be back!"

  "No." One of the goons forcefully shoved him outside. "You won't."

  * * *

  Sharon Neville woke up on the morning of June 20th with her heart racing. The stress of the past few days had finally caught up to her.

  "None of this is right," she moaned aloud, sitting up on the edge of the lumpy hotel mattress with her head in her hands. She hadn't been sleeping well at all since she'd dropped Herman off at the Central Health medical center. Last night she'd finally broken down and taken an over-the-counter sleeping aid. It had knocked her out within minutes, but now she was paying the price. Nauseated and disoriented, she grabbed the digital clock on the nightstand and squinted at it. Almost noon already.

  So much time had been lost. At first, she'd agreed with Dr. Sneed that the only way to help her husband's overloaded brain was to clear his mind of all memories and allow him to restart, to rebuild his life without all the clutter. The idea was to take away his past so that his present would be able to reassert itself. Over time, residual memories would return, and she—along with every other member of his past—would be allowed to resurface and reconnect with him.

  But for now, Dr. Sneed said they would jeopardize Herman's already fragile state of mind. Drastic measures had to be taken. Central Health was involved in all aspects of society, at all levels across the entire United States and its protectorates. It was no small matter for them to erase Herman's past and relocate his family, but they'd done it. They'd had to do it before with other cases, Dr. Sneed had said, and the results spoke for themselves.

  "All for his own good," he'd told her. "When the time is right, we'll contact you."

  "How long will that be?" Sharon had demanded.

  "Could be days. Could be months. You must be patient, Mrs. Neville. You want your husband to get well, don't you?"

  Of course she did. But four days after abandoning Herman at Central Health, and with no word from Sneed, not even a progress report, Sharon was beginning to think she'd made an enormous mistake. Something else had to be done, and she was the only one to do it.

  * * *

  The cab driver was far from happy.

  "Listen buddy, I don't mind driving you all over town. It's how I make my living. But sooner or later, you're gonna have to pay up. So I ain't moving from this spot until I know I'm getting my money." He cursed under his breath. "Maybe I should take you back to Central Health, cuz I'm thinkin' you might need some serious help."

  Herman scrubbed at his stubble-covered face. "No, you're right. You should be paid. I'm sorry, I just don't have my wallet with me. But if we could stop at the bank—"

  "Now we're talkin'!" The driver grinned, easing away from the curb.

  Herman didn't share the man's optimism. If some supernatural force or government power or other manipulative agent had successfully managed to rid the earth of Mrs. Neville, the Neville estate, parents Neville, as well as Mr. Neville's English class, couldn't they—whoever they were—just as easily have also cancelled his bank accounts?

  But to what end? What the heck was going on here?

  * * *

  Dr. Sneed couldn't help wondering the same thing. As a devoted practitioner of self-talk, he mused aloud in his empty office, "Chalk it up as a failure, or try again? Aye, there's the rub."

  Nursing a latte in an enormous mug with WORLD'S BEST NEUROSCIENTIST printed on the side, he blinked at the brain scans of Herman Neville displayed on his wallscreen.

  The intercom buzzed, interrupting his train of thought. He shook his head and tapped a corner of his desktop.

  "Yes?"

  "He is attempting to withdraw funds from their joint back account, Doctor.
Should we nullify this transaction?"

  Sneed sighed heavily and set down his mug. Obviously, the brain-reformat hadn't taken.

  "Of course. And we'll need to collect him for another session."

  "Right away, Doctor."

  Sneed returned to his mug, savoring every sip as he regarded Neville's scans. It was a rare case, but not unheard of—maybe one in a million in the past three years since the introduction of the hidden data stream. Incorporated into every free, web-based social network in the country, and designed by Central Health at the bidding of the federal government, its purpose was to placate the masses and keep them distracted from world events and the economy, to stimulate mental optimism about the future whether or not such a positive outlook was warranted.

  "For the good of the many," Sneed mused.

  But there were always exceptional cases, isolated incidents, such as this Herman Neville. With a brain like his, it was virtually impossible to ignore the concealed data. While his conscious mind probably had no idea it was there, his subconscious and unconscious mind had been storing up all of it, even without any apparent use for it. Neville had what was called perfect recall—which explained how he could make so many phone calls from memory when the majority of the populace relied solely on the numbers stored in their mobiles.

  Unfortunately, Dr. Sneed couldn't go digging into Neville's mind and removing the stored data from Operation Mass Opiate—as the government affectionately referred to the hidden stream. No, Sneed and the other Central Health neuroscientists across the country with situations similar to Neville's had to perform a complete brain reformatting. They induced total amnesia, in other words. No relocation of family members or disconnecting phone numbers necessary. External stimuli wouldn't be a factor. The patient would not remember a thing from his former life.

  With Neville, Sneed had hoped things wouldn't get to this point. But the current situation argued differently.