Mr. Moon's Daredevil Messiahs

by Brian S. Wheeler

  Chapter 2 - The Memory Shop…

  “Well, I’m sorry if it’s not a convenient time for me to take one of my personal days. I don’t care what the home office might have to say about it, Lucinda. Hang on a second.” The commuter train jostled as Digger Newman transferred his cell phone to his other ear. “Yeah, I’m on the rails. What do you think, Lucinda? It’s always a mess on the rails. Hang on a second.”

  Digger pushed his way through the throng of commuters towards the rear of the commuter car, where he hoped he might find enough quiet to convince Lucinda he had every right to take an unplanned day off from work. He hated having to move towards the rear of the car. It smelled worse and worse the further one moved towards the back. He hated having to elbow and jostle at strangers who appeared to have no empathy for his need. He hated the mumbling babble of so many voices speaking so many different languages that numbed his mind. Most of all, Digger hated having to push his way towards the back of that car because doing so took him further from the double doors of his eventual exit.

  For on that day, Digger had an appointment with the memory shop he vowed not to miss, and he hated to think he might find himself trapped on the back of that commuter car while his destination’s station rolled past in the windows.

  “Listen, Lucinda, it can’t be helped. No, I feel very fortunate to have any job at all in this economy, but I’ve stashed all those personal days away.” Digger glared at a woman who eavesdropped on his conversation. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

  Digger failed to feel as thankful as he thought he should have after Lucinda finally relented and agreed to help him. He had given the home office fifteen years, fifteen years of constant threat of lay-off and termination, of the home office always hinting that a clone model would soon appear to replace him. Perhaps it was time for Digger Newman to call the home office’s bluff.

  Digger had an appointment to keep with the memory shop, his most important appointment yet, and everything other commitment felt vain in comparison.

  Working for the home office certainly had not made him wealthy. He was fortunate to afford a seat on a commuter car that smelled of urine and sweat. He lived in a dim cubicle of an apartment, with hardly enough room for his single bed and his microwave. He didn’t possess any of the savings that might in the end save him from one of the elderly condos the city couldn’t find even enough clone labor to build at a pace to keep up with the rate at which the city aged.

  Though the home office had hardly provided him with much of a living, Digger had never missed an opportunity to taste on of Mr. Moon’s new memory. He had always found a way to scrimp and to save. He had found the funds his taste for those memories required in the sale of his family car. He had pawned his old wedding band. He had put less and less aside for his daughter’s college fund. And so Digger had always found a way to afford the newest taste Mr. Moon’s catalog of memories offered.

  The loyalty Digger had always shown to his local memory shop was about to be rewarded. His supplier had given him a tip that a new memory from Mr. Moon was about to hit the shelves. His supplier promised Digger that he could be the first to taste that memory’s thrill. Digger would not allow any home office from holding him back from that appointment Digger had with his favorite shop’s memory tank.

  “Pardon me, sir, but you got a dollar to give to a hungry man?”

  Digger tried to glance away, to act as if he had not heard the young man of a beggar plead for a dollar. Digger looked aside to give that man the chance to simply move along, to take back his request. Only, the young man did not retreat, instead holding his hand higher towards Digger. Digger frowned as he peeked at the man’s face and saw how the man had tattooed a clone’ two blue rings around his right eye, a brand more and more of the increasing poor were forced to forge upon their faces to earn a bowl of free mudder stew the work vendors reserved for Company clones. Digger’s nose wrinkled. The man smelled of that stew.

  “I don’t have anything to give you.” Digger pushed deeper into the crowd, hoping to put elbows and thighs between himself and the begging man.

  “Not even a dime? You look like a keen man. You don’t even have a nickel?”

  “I tell you I don’t have anything,” growled Digger. “You’ve got the mark around your right eye now. You go back to those street vendors and get the mudder stew.”

  Commuters cursed as Digger pushed through them to separate himself from the begging man, whose attention soon turned to another commuter standing in the aisle. Digger despised the poverty of the world. He hated how it walked among the streets, how it begged for nickels and dimes. He hated the smell, and the grime. Most of all he hated the poverty for the way it made him fear, for the way it made him worry that he too might soon count himself among those who pleaded for a next meal.

  Digger sighed as he found an open enough space upon the commuter car to simply stand and lean against the cool window. “I should’ve been at the memory shop a half an hour ago. It’s all that new highway construction. What’s taking the clones so much time to finish all the work?”

  Digger snarled as he peered out of the window and down upon the teams of clones working the concrete and asphalt of the growing highway. Even from his distance, he had no trouble seeing that Gus clone models composed all those work teams - athletic, wide-shouldered, strong-armed, and sun resistant Gus clones. Digger hated them most of all. He hated the ease with which a Gus clone completed his labor. He hated how the Gus clones never suffered a common cold, never burned with fever. All those Gus clones were stronger than him. They were smarter than him. And Gus suspected, like the home office so often implied, it would not be long until a clone replaced him. Digger’s hatred was a last possession he might hold back from those clones, who made mankind so poor, who shamed their very creators for their meek willingness to do so much for so little.

  The commuter car’s intercom buzzed. “Next stop, Chancey Lane. Exit on the right.”

  Digger ignored the glares and the murmurs as he pushed his way through the crowd to the double doors of his exit. Outside the commuter train, Digger panted up the station’s steep steps to reach street level. His right foot throbbed for the plantar fasciitis that haunted his heel, the fault of Digger’s cheap shoes.

  Finally, after shuffling the handful of street blocks between the rail station and his destination, Digger saw the memory shop’s purple and blue neon sign flickering in the rain, hissing as the raindrops fell upon its heat. The commuter car had been crowded with rude commuters who had no sympathy for his suffering. But the sign made all that indignity worthwhile to Digger. Digger’s mouth salivated thinking how it would taste to be the first to experience Mr. Moon’s newest memory.

  “Do you have it, Ray! For the love of the Maker, tell me you have it!”

  Digger burst through the memory shop’s doors and nearly sprawled into the man in the dark suit accentuated with a slim, pink tie. The man frowned and scrawled a note on small writing pad he pulled from the inner pocket of his suit jacket, causing Ray, the shop’s proprietor behind the counter, to sigh.

  “It’s against the regulations of the memory trade for any vendor or shop to advertise the arrival of a new memory before first receiving a Registrar’s certificate of approval.”

  Ray’s fleshy face trembled. “But he’s only Digger. He’s just a friend. I only whispered a little something, just hinted a new memory was coming my shop’s way. I didn’t tell anyone else, and I certainly didn’t take out any advertising in any of the memory papers.”

  The Registrar shrugged. “I’ll note that. They’ll be a small fine this time. But take note that another offense may force us to revoke your license.”

  Ray’s shook his head. “And the rest of the shop? Does it meet your approval to move forward?”

  “It does,” nodded the Registrar. “You have all the requisite bulletins posted through the shop clearing stating to your customers which memories have been created by clones. Your shop has all the bu
lletins reminding your customers how to spot a clone in the street who may be attempting to hide his or her mark. Your books are in order, giving me no reason to suspect you’re dealing in unlicensed memories. You’re shop’s in fine order for the shipment of a new memory, but remember to never again hint at new product before gaining a Registrar’s approval.”

  “I’ll remember.” Ray grunted as he signed the final forms proffered by the Registrar.

  Digger jumped out of the Registrar’s path as the official turned from the counter and strode out of the memory shop’s door.

  “I’m sure sorry, Ray. I had no idea I was going to get you in hot water.”

  Ray shrugged his shoulders. “It’s not your fault, Digger. I knew better than to give you a hint that a new memory from Mr. Moon was arriving today. It won’t take me very long at all to make the money to cover that fine. Main thing is all the equipment’s good, that the shop’s in order. And that Registrar certificate should last me until the end the month.”

  “Happy to hear it,” and Digger slapped the counter and grinned. “Will I be the first?”

  Ray winked. “Digger, you’ll be the very first just like I promised.”

  “I owe you. I’m not going to forget it.”

  Ray swiped Digger’s plastic debit card and raised an eyebrow. “Sure you want to go through with this? Sure you want to pay to be the first? There’s no shame in waiting a while until the memory cools off a little and the price drops a bit.”

  “I said I wanted to be the first, and I promised to pay for it.”

  “Alright, Digger. We’ll head on to the tank.”

  “You’re wonderful, Ray. Simply wonderful.”

  Digger’s spirit soared. No matter what would come of that unplanned personal day, no matter the stinking commuter car, Digger’s day was going to be wonderful. He would be the first to experience a memory crafted by none other than Mr. Moon. He wouldn’t even have to sit in the memory shop’s waiting room for his turn in the memory chair. He wouldn’t have to idly sip at the bitter and cold coffee Ray prepared for his waiting clientele. Digger skipped as he followed Ray down that dim and narrow hallway that led to the memory shop’s heart.

  Ray cracked open the door at the end of the hall, and Digger’s skin thrilled in anticipation of his appointment.

  “You know the drill, Digger.”

  “That I do.”

  Ray flipped on the chamber’s lights before vanishing behind a door on the opposite wall. The shop’s sensory-deprivation tank filled the center of the room. The first tanks had been simple contraptions, little more than inexpensive, fiberglass tubs encased in domes of sewn-together garbage bags. Yet when the memory industry exploded, market competition forced shop owners to be vigilant for ways to attract clients. The shops grew more luxurious, with fine leather furniture replacing the folding chairs first gathered in the waiting rooms. The sensory-deprivation tanks became chambers shaped from curved and fine hardwoods. The most posh of memory shops offered their clients a variety of tank choices for their pleasure, and the Association of Memory Shops held each winter a prestigious contest to challenge the most celebrated of memory tank crafters to create their masterpieces from glistening ice.

  Ray’s tank might not have been a masterpiece, but Digger never felt the proprietor had a thing to feel ashamed about regarding the shimmering, green memory tank of jade housed in the shop. Elegant lotus flowers, carved by such a skillful hand as to seemingly float across the chamber’s surface, adorned the cylindrical tank. Fine pearls of silver and white dotted the tank like stars. Though Digger knew it was a trick of his imagination, he often felt like the tank’s deep green pulsated in accord with an inner heart. Nothing lifted Digger’s spirit like Ray’s memory tank. No matter how bitter the day’s disappointment may have been, Digger knew the jade tank would refresh his soul. The tank, and the memories the shop proffered within its confines, was what made Digger’s life worthwhile.

  Digger stepped out of his clothes and entered the jade tank’s teak doorway as a naked man. He lowered himself softly into the inner chamber filled with warm, soothing water. The tank’s door closed at the press of a button, surrounding Digger in perfect darkness. Though he could not see, Digger’s practiced hands easily found the waiting headband that would deliver Mr. Moon’s memory to his mind.

  Digger sighed in comfort as the water level rose to float his body. There was no light, no sound. There was only the nothing, and it made Digger’s soul grin.

  Soon, Ray would finish installing Mr. Moon’s new memory into the shop’s system, and then Digger would be the first to feel that great artist’s most recent thrill. Meanwhile, Digger thought back to the day his ex-wife and his daughter had tried to push him away from the memory shop by holding a surprise intervention. They had known nothing of the memory shop. They could only see Mr. Moon’s memories as a vice. What could they understand of his need to find one place in that dingy world in which to become lost to himself? How could they understand what it meant to Digger to meditate for that moment before a thrilling new memory came rushing into his vision? They could not understand how the lost savings were nothing compared to the memory. What was the value of a retirement account when compared to the pleasures Digger felt in the tank - from the thrilling jet pack flights around snow-capped mountains, to the simple, joyous, guilt-free sex sessions with curvaceous and talented love clones? And if even those memories failed to sweep aside a day’s disappointment, then the tank offered the violent and red murder memories that might give his heart the catharsis it so badly craved.

  Ray’s voice whispered in the tank’s dark. “Are you hooked in, Digger? The memory’s in the system now. I’ll start the transfer as soon as I know you’re ready.”

  “What do you think Mr. Moon’s going to give us now?”

  Ray chuckled softly. “You’re guess is as good as mine. I’ve never been the first to taste one of Mr. Moon’s memories. That honor’s all yours now. So promise not spoil any of the surprise to me once you step out of my tank.”

  “I hope it’s something special.”

  “You certainly paid for something special.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Ray, but Mr. Moon’s memories haven’t been the same as of late. They haven’t elevated me in the same way.”

  Ray sighed. “You’re not the first to say it. But rumor has it Mr. Moon was really excited about this one.”

  “I hope it’s grand, Ray. I hope it’s grand.”

  Digger felt the first tingle, and he knew that the memory began its transfer into his mind. The memory arrived with a fog. It’s outlines were blurred, and Digger for a moment feared that Mr. Moon had lost his touch, that the greatest of all the memory stunt artists had lost his touch. Curtains of orange and gold washed the fog away, and a sensation came to Digger of flying at incredible speed. Digger recognized no faces. He saw no landmarks. He could not see from what origin the memory had been drawn.

  Digger felt most disappointed as he felt his skin warm. He resented the price he had paid for such a poor beginning to one of Mr. Moon’s thrills. For a fraction of an instant, Digger felt betrayed.

  But then, Digger’s vision blinded into white a moment before a figure with halos of pearl and silver whirling behind its head reached out to embrace him.

  And Digger Newman knew in an instant he had found the memory his soul had always craved.

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