Forget the Name of the One You Love

by Scott Volentine

  I toke just a little bit—with herb this good a couple hits will do. Out of habit I try to hold the smoke in as long as I can. My lungs burn, screaming for oxygen—what pussies. I thought they’d be used to the program by now—guess I haven’t smoked in a while—never had to when Amy was around—I know I just use the chemical to fill the void when she’s not around—so it goes. Well, the break’s over.

  I feel a rising sound surge up from my toes, numbing the crooked one, dulling the throb. My feet, they are dead weight—dead weight just like, well, a corpse for one. Am I a corpse? Did I just fool myself that I was alive this whole time? What if I’m actually dead and this whole thing is just a dream? I heard when you die your brain releases DMT—and that’s one hell of a trip. Not that I know what it’s like, but I have read about it—thirty minutes of complete release. I don’t know if I could handle it. What—what if life was nothing but an extended trip on DMT—what if we were really just floating around in a void?

  Damn, I just tripped myself out. Wait—what’s that noise?

  A small shuffling sound floats through the air, like two sheets of sand paper being rubbed against each other. My nerves light on fire—the fight or flight instinct—ready for some giant man eating beast to pop up out of thin air—to catch me completely off guard—the pipe still dangling thoughtlessly in my hand.

  Shit! Can’t let anyone find out I’m breakin’ the law, man. That would not be cool.

  Maniacally, I jump to my feet and run over to my empty pack. Only then do I remember I left the bud laying out in broad daylight. Can’t forget that. I walk back to where the bud is spilling out onto the leaves.

  Hey, I still have plenty left. Why not smoke another bowl? So I do.

  The next couple days are a haze, until I run out of marijuana. I can’t bring myself to leave the camp on the off chance that Amy finds her way back, but I am paralyzed by indecision. I don’t have any clue about what to do. No one has ever told me how to handle losing your lover in the middle of the jungle. Being completely beyond my comfort zone, I resort to my traditional philosophy—I go with the flow.

  #

  Alphabetically organized in rows inside the cabinet within the living room lying midway between the dining room and kitchen on the first floor of a suburban house built between two other identical houses along a street with children riding on bikes and couples strolling hand in hand with dogs on leashes dragging their owners past on a breakneck race for the prize. If only they knew the prize lay within their homes, within the photo albums chronicling the life and times of every person to ever live. But as memory stops reproducing itself these albums decay, brushed into the corners of consciousness to cloak the pain in darkness. As time sweeps forward with bubbling froth, raging with the knowledge of every bump along the way and what is lost remains so, as the trick of nothing happening continues tricking the viewer into obedience, as the hope of change elopes with the pessimism of awareness and the shine of the sun dulls and the leaves flitter down through the air, as gravity pulls you down by the roots of your hair, as moss grows on a stone rolling through the pastures of the coming dawn, you have to eventually let go. In this life you can never give up, but you should be wary of holding on.

  Throw more logs on the fire, build the flame until the heat licks your skin, sit cross legged at the point midway between the past and the future, wait for the moment not to come, eat all your food then start to starve as you wait some more, paralyzed by indecision until the weight, or emptiness, pressing on your stomach, gnawing at your intestines, drives you back to motion. Selflessness leads to self destruction so paint your face green and stalk hidden through the jungle back towards where you left your life, your light pack a constant reminder that you lost more than you can even guess. The high is long gone, so get in the car and drive. The only noble function left in this world—to escape from the realities of one place, to lose yourself into the oblivious unrealities of an entirely different locale. Nothing is left to remind you of her, swallowed by the fog. The park rangers searched for her, and they send their condolences. Build up a new life in a foreign town—ride a bike through the park or watch the children playing on the see saw. Let their innocence wash over you—not as a reminder of your corrupt spirit but as a gift of ignorance, of the ideals long stolen from you. Walk down the streets with head hung low but don’t think once that anyone is going to ask you what is on your mind. This is yours alone. How will you deal with it?

  #

  The plot has crashed in a ditch, the oil pan has busted and the leak has caught a spark and up in flames this story will go unless someone arrives just in time to stomp out the creeping spark and push the car back on track with some force unknown to man, some force greater than man altogether, yet who could say what guise this apparition will come in or how long it will take for her to arrive? Fate travels on an entirely different path than any tread by humanity; its whimsy guides the crossing of different paths. Chance is the law concerning how we meet. Most of all, nothing much ever really happens, but fortify your reserves of patience and with luck you will pull through. Until that day, just bear with me. It might get a little ugly.

  #

  The smoke drifts up to the rafters in mockery of corporeal existence—the bodiless, shifting shapes undulate up through the air, blown by the drunken tongues all sitting in a row. My own hand is too weak to lift the cup sitting before me. My shirt is already stained with stale sweat and hard liquor—my mind is tumbling over itself as I contemplate how many drinks I’ve already had.

  “Hey hey hey! Barman or lady! Come ‘ere! I need more beer!”

  One of the bartenders, a plump woman in her mid-twenties, as brunette as they come, pauses in mid-conversation with one of the other patrons and casts a measuring look at me.

  Motioning towards the cup in front of me, she says, “You still haven’t finished that one.”

  “Shit! This one? I can’t finish this one! I need more beer. I’m drunk.”

  As I wipe a gob of saliva from my arm, the bartender walks over to me, a look of pity in her eyes. I’m sure she’s seen other people like me, but hell if she thinks she has any idea about what I’m going through.

  “Don’t—don’t you pity me—hic—um—beer! Just leave me be.”

  She stares straight into my eyes, undressing my soul with her gaze. I fidget under the scrutiny.

  “No, I think you’ve had enough.”

  “Bullshit! I’m still conscious! Who are you to say I’ve had enough!”

  “Did you come here with anyone?”

  “Who do you think you are? Who are you to question me? You! You’re just another bartender! Me? I had it all—then I lost it. Shit!”

  She continues to stare into my soul, but I’ve retreated back into the comfort of self pity, where no one can reach me. Nowadays, this is the only place I feel safe. I can’t stand to look at other people any more—my constantly averted gaze guarantees no one will disturb my depression. So it goes—the self-fulfilling cycle. The same thing happens every night. There’s no telling where I’ll wake up.

  #

  The smoldering sheets shock me back to awareness, the mixture of body fluids soaked in the fabric creates a distinct odor, suffocating even as I gasp for breath, completely disoriented. I sit up and throw the sheet off me, exposing my naked body and the naked body of a woman I don’t even remember meeting. She isn’t the ugliest girl I’ve slept with, but she does have a very distinct heroin look. Shit, hope she didn’t give me any. I really don’t want anything to do with that. I don’t need all the trouble that brings. I do have enough of my own.

  What time is it? 8:00! Damn, I gotta get out of here before she wakes up.

  What day is it? Um… I hope it’s Saturday so I don’t have to go to work.

  I swing my legs out over the side of the bed and push myself to my feet. I sway a little as I stand, but I close my eyes and regain balance. This is one bad hang over. Feels like a cow was sitting on my head while I slept. I need
to get a shower to sober up a little.

  I see the bedroom door is hanging open so I walk out it into this dingy hall, about ten feet long, the paint peeling from the walls, no pictures to speak of, two closed doors at one end and an open door leading into the bathroom immediately to my left. I stumble into the bathroom to see the toilet still brimming with dried vomit. I suck it up and piss into the bowl then flush the whole concoction.

  As I watch the diseased stew swirling down the drain a feeling rises in my stomach. I double over and start heaving. Vomit explodes from my mouth like a laser beam, splattering all over the toilet and into the bath tub.

  “Shit!”

  I consider ditching the place right then and leaving the girl the job of cleaning up my vomit, but that’s really not in my nature. I know that the behavior I am displaying seems rather immoral but you must understand that my behavior is largely influenced by my situation and not my temperament. It is not within me to vomit and not clean it up. That’s just who I am.

  Despite my throbbing temples, I walk back down the hall and check within both closed doors. One leads into an empty bedroom, but the other opens up into an equally dingy sitting room, and through the sitting room is the kitchen. I walk into the kitchen, briefly taking in its condition—stacks of dishes in the sink growing mold, a broken refrigerator gurgling in the corner, trash scattered across the counters—as I look for a roll of paper towels.

  No surprise, there are no paper towels, but after rummaging through the drawers I find some rags. Grabbing a handful I walk back to the bathroom and scrub the bathtub and toilet clean and flush it once again—it’s as clean as it can get. Then I draw out the shower curtain and turn the water on. I take the rags back to the kitchen, pondering what to do with them, deciding to toss them in the trash can. No big loss there.

  As I walk back in the bathroom, the steam rising up through the curtain draws entrails in my vision, obscuring the fact I am in a run down apartment. Shutting the door behind me I transport to a sauna, hopping into the shower, letting the water wash all the disease from my mind. The steam flows through my body, the molecules pulling apart from each other. In this cloud I am transparent. All my sins rise to the surface and the façade of goodwill I preach washes down the drain. I scrub dried semen from my leg with a bar of soap, small splotches of mold spreading across its surface. I try to imagine how the curtain became stained as it had, but the images called forth make my stomach churn. I turn off the water and step out onto a soaked towel spread across the tile floor. I take a towel hanging on a rack and use it to dry off my body, and then I wrap it around waist for feigned propriety so I can retrieve my clothes.

  When I enter the bedroom again I notice the woman has awoken, though she hasn’t moved from the bed, sitting there naked, legs sprawled before her. An awkward moment later I introduce myself: “Good morning. My name’s Jack if you don’t remember.”

  “Oh…. Jack. Why are you still here?”

  “Well, I had to take a shower. Is that wrong?”

  “No, no. Not that at all. I was just surprised is all. Usually no one ever stays until morning.”

  How the hell could I respond to that? And she wonders why no one ever stays? Learn how to hold a conversation. I wish I could say that to her, but no reason to involve myself in her life if she so desperately wants to drive every man away.

  I consider asking her if she has any food for breakfast, but before I can, she bends over the side of the bed and rummages under it for something. She sits back up, balancing a tray in her hand, blanketed with a white powder—cocaine. As she begins cutting it up with her driver’s license I decide it’s about time I left. Stupid bitch doesn’t have enough money to paint her apartment, how the hell can she even afford that shit? Nevermind, I don’t want to know.

  Letting the nameless woman be, I walk around the side of the bed and spot my clothes crumpled in a heap on the floor. Quickly, I put all my clothes back on, and turn back to say goodbye, just in time to see her snort two lines in rapid succession, sniffling and sighing after.

  Not wasting a moment, I say, “Okay, well, I have to get to work. I’m sure it was a good night. Take care.” I try to dash over to the door, but the commanding tone in her voice compels me to stop.

  “Wait! Don’t you want to stay for breakfast? I can make some of the best eggs you’ll ever eat! Here, let me get dressed real quick then I’ll go put them on the stove.”

  “I would really love to try your eggs, but I am afraid I really need to go. My shift is going to start in ten minutes.”

  She is running around the room, gathering clothes from random drawers, covering her naked and bruised body. Pausing at a dresser, she turns and pouts at me, “Well, I guess you have to do what you have to do. Will I see you again?”

  “There’s a good chance. Sorry if this sounds rude, but what’s your name?”

  “Oh, my name’s Amy.”

  Pause. Did she really just say that? Are my ears playing tricks on me? That single word seemed to crack over my head like an egg and the possibility of return flowed down my skin with a warming sensation. Has my Amy really returned to me in this absurd disguise?

  Amy watches me with slight confusion at the abrupt silence. Remembering that I am supposed to say something, I ask, “Wait. Did you say your name is Amy?”

  “Yeah. Why? Is there something wrong with that?”

  “No, no, no. That’s perfect. Have you ever been lost in the jungle?”

  “What the fuck?”

  “Have you ever been lost in the jungle?”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “Never mind, never mind. It doesn’t matter anyway.” I had felt the spark of hope for one moment, the first time in so many unremembered years, but as it flees even deeper into the recesses of my soul, I feel like I am even emptier.

  I guess Amy could notice something had happened to me, asking, “Hey, is there something wrong? You look like you just saw a ghost?”

  “No. Nothing wrong. You just have the same name of someone I used to know.”

  Without waiting for a response I turn and sulk out into the hall. The abrupt change in my behavior must have caught Amy off guard so she just stands there, watching me walk out of her life. Will she ever see me again? Not if I can help it.

  #

  I know why they put everyone in cubicles. It is to deface the integrity of every single person who has to crouch within the cubicle’s confines, every soul drained of willpower. It is to ensure that everyone surrenders to the will of the omniscient corporate machine. Alone in a 5 by 5 box, no thoughts of mutiny will ever cross over into the surface, but if you put all of us together we could easily tear down the foundation one block at a time. This is what they did to slaves if my memory serves me.

  That’s me, a slave to money. Every hour spent here shreds my soul to pieces—all for that paycheck. In America the only way to judge a man’s value is by how fat his wallet is, but what can you do? A fat wallet feels good in your pocket. Although my entire being revolts against this institution, I am stuck in a deadlock. I have to file a case report by 3:30.

  The stapler cowers over in the corner of my desk, fearing the pound of my fist as I staple stacks of paper, filing them away or sending them out. I swivel my chair 36 degrees to face my face-melting monitor. Excel is open to an assortment of spreadsheets I have no clue about. What am I even supposed to do with these? Forward it to someone else. Eventually it will get to the right person. What now?

  Solitaire. The waiting game. Walk over to the water cooler, chat with the few courageous souls. Wait for something to do, but look busy doing it. But don’t start spreading dissent. The management will hear about it and they’ll be up on your ass. Those stalking orc, breathing the holy corporate fire, pounding their clubs in their hand, waiting for an opening to attack. When one of them comes by take the cautious plan of action, scamper back to your cubicle and play possum. Sometimes they’ll still pop their heads in and role play boss for a couple
minutes, but just keep your cool and you will survive.

  Most of all work is about making it to 5 PM. As the second hand drags closer to this mark you will notice that time slows, you even breathe slower. The condensation on your cup slides down at a snails pace. But then, like a wave breaking over you, you are free. Step outside and you will instantly remember what it is like to have free will. But with free will, reality sets in.

  You have a date, one of your coworkers, an attractive brunette you met by the water cooler. Gotta get ready for this, it’s all about the first impression. Gotta get in the zone.

  #

  The melodic clink of wine glasses, a welcome release from the drudgery of life. In this restaurant I can pretend to be a stranger, I can be anything I say. Who is there to tell me I’m lying? I just have to sit back and let the words flow. This is not the first time I’ve read this script.

  Smiling and nodding up at our waitress—dressed in a real mockery of style, emphasizing the breasts to distract from the shabbiness—as she fills up our wine glasses from a bottle of White Zinfandel, I try to flatten some of the ruffles from my borrowed dinner jacket. My date, Isabel, has been casting glances at my chest since we first sat down; hopefully she likes what she sees. The waitress asks Isabel first for her order; she asks for some vegetarian bullshit salad, a real crowd pleaser around these parts apparently. We’re surrounded by a bunch of pencil pushing jackasses in suits and chicks souped up on Xanax and whatever painkillers they can find. A grand panorama of the different faces that money creates.

  Don’t even ask me to look at your menu, I don’t want to look at this façade of culture. I’m too aware of the depression emanating from everyone around me. Just cook me up a big old cheeseburger and fries. American through and through, and proud of it.

  The waitress disappears off into the steam of the kitchen and I take a sip of wine before looking Isabel in the eye. Then off to the races, playing along on that well rehearsed script. Where did I meet her? I really can’t remember. The specifics have begun running together; it feels like my body has reached its limits, like I have filled myself beyond capacity with life, with the raw essence that runs through everyone’s veins, camouflaged in the blood. That by tapping into other people’s souls I have been giving away a little of my own. Still, my soul beats in rhythm with my heart but only I can hear my soul. These women, so obsessed with their words, only listen to the words, not the actual words shining in my eyes, but the hollow ones dripping from my mouth. I’m on auto pilot and that’s what they want, but under this guise I can still judge those around me.