Total Amnesia: Forgotten Lives

by J. W. Northrup

  But with professor Espree, that was all that I wanted—that look, that emotional bond.

  And yet she was the one person I felt incapable of creating that effect upon.

  Today is a little different.

  I have a question for the professor and for once it is genuine. The question about Hooke’s Law is the type of question I would ask any teacher. My hope is that by having a genuine question and therefore, having no false pretense to corrupt the interaction, I will somehow gain my personality back and she will see that I am not another fawning male, but an intellectual equal. That is all I want to accomplish today.

  I turn down the hall on the second floor of the Burnson Building and see her familiar figure standing in the hall at her office door turning the key. Apparently she is on her way out.

  She suddenly she turns toward me.

  “Hello, Tim. Were you were coming to see me?”

  “Uh, yes Ms. Espree. I…”

  “Well, I was about to leave for lunch,” she says, “Have you had lunch?”

  My reaction is instant and intense and butterfly’s suddenly take flight in my stomach.

  This is not just a question; it is an invitation to sit down with her; for a period of time, in an informal, personal setting….and talk. Oh lord, this is much more than I was prepared to deal with.

  “Uh, no…” I say.

  “I was just going over to the cafeteria.”

  “Sounds good.”

  She stands there in the hall waiting for me like a mother waiting for a child and I fall in step, feeling uncomfortable and exhilarate at the same time. As we walked along I find myself trying to remember how I act when I’m at ease with friends; fully realizing that this means I have graduated to the ranks of her “friend” and as a result, a new world is now opened to me. I now have tacit consent to ask the more personal questions reserved for those who are considered a friend—questions that will answer some of the unknowns about her.

  “So how long have you been here at Stanford Professor?” I ask casually.

  “Three years.”

  “Did you teach anywhere before?”

  “No.”

  “Have you always lived in the area?”

  “No.”

  “Uh, so where are you from?”

  She chuckles. “I am not from here Tim. I have no family. I live in an apartment just off campus. As for my past, all I can tell you is that I am not able to discuss it with you at this time.”

  “Oh, oh, that’s fine, that’s totally OK,” I say trying to be casual despite feeling suddenly rebuffed and rejected.

  “I did not mean to rebuff you Tim,” she says looking over at me with those emerald green eyes that somehow immediately put me at ease.

  We fall into an awkward silence that remains until we sit down to lunch in the cafeteria. I ask her the question about Hooke’s Law and we are once again teacher and infatuated student. I act as though I am listening when I am really just admiring her.

  She answers my question. I didn’t really get the answer but I say I do and we fall into another short awkward silence.

  Then she suddenly she leans forward and looks directly at me, with surprisingly intent eyes.

  “You are a very unusual being and I have been observing you for quite some time.”

  I don’t really know how to respond, so I say something stupid, “Uh, wa, uh what do you mean?”

  She smiles and leaves me hanging, then introverts me with another piercing question.

  “What is your purpose in this life Tim? What is it that you want to achieve?”

  I fumble around with that because I never really thought about it in more than a superficial manner. Finally I tell her that at this point in my life, I simply want to seek knowledge; to find out about life, what it’s all about, why we are here, all that happy shit.

  She shakes her head. “If you want to really understand life Tim, you have to study life. Physics is about manifestations of energy, Biology is about organic life. If you want to know life, you have to enter the province of the non-material.” Then she leans forward to emphasize a point. “And Tim, the non-material, the laws of life force and the spirit can be defined every bit as exactly as the physical sciences.”

  I let it go at that. I suppose I agree, but I wasn’t prepared for this unexpected, seemingly non sequitur conversation. So I let her continue, hoping it will lead to better understanding.

  She continues, “Universities have the psychology departments, but apparently all they want to teach is what other psychologists said which has absolutely nothing to do with increasing one’s enlightenment and awareness—or more importantly—ridding one of those things that make a person unaware. And worse, the department of psychiatry only teaches about the chemistry of the brain and about how to administer drugs—which is actually destructive to intelligence and awareness—making them oblivious to their pain and to the life around them….”

  Then she pauses and smiles. “Sorry Tim, as you can tell, I see the world from a very different viewpoint and I have this soapbox that I tend to get on when I’m not being a professor.”

  Then she rewards me with the best gift I’ve received in my life as far as I’m concerned; she laughs. And I laugh. And we are laughing together. Oh what a joy! What a wonderful moment! I feel like we’re best friends.

  The subject evolves into a discussion of life as a game—a silly superficial game played by people who take it much too seriously. The conversation seems so intimate and personal, like the conversation you have with your girlfriend in bed in the dark, after sex; which was a subject that seemed to be pervading my thoughts with regard to Espree, despite its total inappropriateness.

  I quite innocently ask her why—if this is true—can’t we just put this game of life away and play another one because personally, I think this whole game is rather irrational.

  Apparently I hit a nerve. She just sits there looking directly at me with those bright green eyes. The look seems to penetrate my very being, paralyzing me in its soft intensity. Then slowly, very slowly, it evolves into an expansive smile that seems to engulf me like a blanket of affinity and I feel embarrassed and self-conscious and…oh god I’m so in love.

  Finally she answers:

  “Because Tim, you have all become convinced that you are no longer the creators of the game. You think you are the pieces themselves and you believe that the Laws of Physics are the forces that animate you—the pieces. You have become victims of your own game!”

  It does strike me as odd that she seemed to be downgrading the subject she has obviously devoted her life to teaching.

  I have to ask. “Then why are you teaching the Laws of Physics? Why aren’t you teaching a more spiritual subject?”

  “Methodology,” she says, “I am interested the Scientific Method and the use of logic in solving problems. Spiritual studies do not use this, it is all opinion and revelation and faith. By being inclined toward the artistic rather than the scientific, the emotional rather than the analytical, the creative rather than the pragmatic, I have failed to use this structured form of logic to address your entrap…well, I mean to develop a technology to address the spirit. Through my studies of the Physical Sciences, and the Scientific Method used therein, I have learned a discipline form of thought and found a new way to address the problem that I seek to solve.”

  “And what problem is that?” I ask.

  She seems to hesitate, choosing her words.

  “There is no science of the Spirit Tim.”

  I reply in for some strange reason, realizing at once that I as merely quoting authority—the very thing I knew she opposed. “Yeah, but Professor Irving says…”

  That is as far as I get.

  “Professor Irving is a nitwit!” She barks with an unexpected flash of anger in her eyes. “All Professor Irving wants to do is convince you that you are a victim of Physics and ruled by physical universe. Professor Irving is a lost soul who hasn’t had an independent thought since
he was conceived. His only purpose is to convince you that the soul does not exist and that all thought and action is simply mechanical reaction.”

  Well that destroys the mood.

  Her smile puts me back at ease.

  “Sorry Tim. As you can see I have some strong opinions in this area.

  “I have seen the meteoric progression in technology from the physical sciences and I recognized that this was something I needed to know. Sadly, the Humanities and the various Philosophic studies have digressed into authoritarianism and opinion and have offered no actual science to address the problems of life. Thus you have made absolutely no progress in the subject of the mind, communication, happiness, and most sadly, spiritual freedom.”

  Strange, she is talking as if she is a separate entity. I actually feel as though I am a representative of the human race, being summoned before a higher authority to answer to the frailties of mankind.

  Yet I remain infatuated by her eccentricity and it only adds to her appeal.

  We finished lunch and as we walked back, I keep trying to find a propitious moment to ask her out. When we arrived at her office door, I feel just like one feels on a first date, standing the doorway in the odd silence, wondering what to do; hopefully anticipating the kiss, waiting for the acquiescent motion that will bring us together; all the while knowing the absurdity of that thought under present circumstances.

  She hesitates for a moment as she turns the key, then she looks back at me.

  “Would you consider me crazy if I told you this planet has been sold and humanity is about to be moved out?”

  “Uh, moved out?”

  Another student walks up, breaking the moment.

  “Oh hi, Sara,” she says giving me a brief raise of the eyebrows, “come on in.”

  I stand there in the hallway for a while trying to grasp what has just happened in the past hour. I realize I have missed my class, but I don’t care.

  I decide to call her later, but then I realize I only have her office number.

  So I end up going out with my roommates and their dates and drinking some beer and listening to some music. I never mentioned anything about Espree to them but I was completely pre-occupied throughout the evening. My thoughts continued to replay over and over the time we spent together; sifting through them, seeking a sign from her that would acknowledge a mutual affection.

  It would become a moot point though as the next day I would see her again and her question about the planet being sold would already be answered.

  CHAPTER 3

  ABOARD THE APPROACHING SHIP:

  “OK, OK, let’s get to work,” says Toko, “the purchase order says we are to harvest the 3B’s and take them to P226429-XX3220.”

  Bisto looks up at him with a startled expression. “Did you say XX?”

  “That’s right.”

  “In house research?”

  “Right, they were bought by the Barguto Group for an R&D project. They think they can speed up the metabolism and still stabilize their attention factor to make them 25% more productive with a 10% reduction in the error margin.”

  “What is the projected yield?”

  “They estimate around 87% and around 7 billion units. It’s just a small job but Barguto pays pretty well if we make the yield and the delivery date.

  “Then we better stop talking and start harvesting” says Bisto, “time is money!”

  Toko switches the viewer to the harvest supervisors’ desk.

  “We ready Yaw?”

  Yaw looks from his desk. “Yeah, we’re about ready here.”

  Yaw turns to Haas, the foreman. “Is the Harvest checklist complete Haas?”

  Haas looks up from the checklist. “Checklist looks complete.”

  “OK, let’s get it done.” says Toko, switching on the general ship communicator.

  “Production note to all workers. This is a lot job with bonus. Bonuses will be paid as follows:

  2.2 centi-terms is the collection time limit. Minimum body count is 87½%. There will be .253 credit bonus paid if we make minimum body count. Each percentage above 87 ½ increases the bonus .0035 credit. Preliminary estimated is 7 billion bodies. Exact count will be broadcast when the scan is complete.”

  Yaw nods and pushed the startup button.

  “Harvest start time: 22:92:0. Let’s go boys, the clock is ticking!”

  Two bay doors open in the Harvest Ship and 100 UWF Scanners emerge and head toward the planet. When they are within 75,000 feet of the surface, they spread out and activate their shields. Yaw watches the monitor as the ships move into position. When the formation is satisfactory he gives the order:

  “Begin scanning.”

  CHAPTER 4

  A day has gone by since my “break-through” lunch with Professor Espree and I know she will not be in her office until tomorrow.

  Every night I have had some strange dream with her in it. This Sunday morning is no exception.

  In my dream she is walking toward me in slow motion, her dark hair flowing, a smile illuminating her phosphorescent eyes.

  “I only want you,” she says, “I only want you Tim.”

  I’m trying to understand the significance of the statement. Does she mean she is actually in love with me, or is she saying she “only wants me” to handle whatever it is she’s talking about…what is it anyway? And why is she here tonight in this cluttered apartment that I share with my two messy roommates? Why is she hanging out with us?

  I suddenly realize I have failed to dress myself. I have a tee shirt on, but otherwise I am naked from the waist down. I’m trying to cover myself up and think of an explanation as to my state of undress, but I can’t think. I don’t know why I’m undressed and I don’t remember why she is here.

  She continues to walk toward me, smiling. She doesn’t seem to notice my state of nakedness. I am trying to act like nothing is wrong despite the obvious situation.

  Why am I undressed?

  “Thank god I found you,” she says still smiling.

  What does that mean? I search my mind for some context to make sense out of all this, but there’s nothing there. Why is she seemingly unconcerned that I am undressed…

  “Tim, hey Tim, get up, get up!”

  I find myself suddenly wrenched from the anxiety of the dream into the reality of what seems to be an emergency. There is a tone of panic in my roommates’ voices. What’s that they are saying? I’m thinking there must be a fire, maybe an earthquake… but they’re saying “aliens!”

  Aliens?

  “Tim, you gotta see this! They think there are alien UFO’s orbiting the planet and they’re creating blackouts!”

  “Wha--”

  They’re pulling me out of bed, escorting me into the living room.

  Mark points frantically at the TV, “Look, look at that! It’s an alien ship! They say there are hundreds of them orbiting the planet!”

  Now that I am awake, I make a quick assessment of the situation and I’m not buying it.

  “I thought we agreed it was time to stop with the stupid pranks you jerks; enough already!” I shake them off and head back to bed intending to resume my encounter with Professor Espree—this time hopefully, with my pants on.

  Mark grabs hold of my arm. “Tim, this isn’t a joke! Look!”

  Both of them are pointing convulsively at the TV but I won’t even give them the satisfaction. You don’t just wake someone up and show him UFO’s on a Saturday morning when he’s got a hangover. I just can’t stand people pushing me around, especially when I’m tired, particularly in the morning. I don’t care what the reason is. I look at the clock. It’s 9:30. Well, I suppose I better get up.

  “Has anyone made any coffee?” I say as disinterestedly as I can.

  “Coffee? Who cares about coffee Tim?”

  Their finger pointing is getting more frantic.

  It only serves to irritate me more.

  “Well, the ‘invasion’ will have to wait until I’ve had my coffee.” />
  I go into the kitchen and get the coffee going, then—of my own volition—I walk back into the living room; my self-determinism fully intact.

  Both Mark and Alex are standing rigid in the middle our disheveled apartment intensely staring at the TV. Mark, a tall gangly blonde and Alex, dark and stocky, stand there in a state of semi-dress in a perfect pose for a Norman Rockwell painting.

  They jerk around as I approach and resume their frantic finger pointing.

  “Look at that Tim; it’s one of the UFO’s!”

  The TV shows a gray, hotdog-shaped object against the blue sky. The picture is jumpy and unsteady with the word “LIVE” in the corner of the screen.

  I recognize the commentator as Jay Anderson, who is one of Channel 6’s chief correspondents. He’s describing the strange shape in the picture as one of hundreds of identical UFO’s lined up pole to pole, spaced about 100 miles apart. He says the featureless flying objects are about half a mile in length and appear to be flying sideways. They can barely be seen by the naked eye from the ground. They’re cruising at a speed of Mach 2; at an altitude of 75,000 feet.

  There’s a tone of panic in his voice—but then Jay would have a tone of panic in his voice if he were reporting on a bake sale—he’s a reporter.

  The picture changes to a scene along a street in Honolulu. It shows a crowd of people with their faces turned skyward. The camera follows their gaze upward and zooms in on a tiny spot high above until the same sideways-flying hot dog comes into view.

  Mark looks over at me. His blue eyes are wide open and I think to myself that I’ve never seen the upper quadrant of his pupils before. Mark has been in a chronic state of boredom since I’ve known him. He must be really putting some effort into this.

  “They’re aliens Tim! We’ve been trying to communicate with them, but they just keep cruising along and no one knows what the hell they’re doing! They say it’s some kind of scan or something. They’re disrupting communications and knocking out all power when they fly over.”

  I check the TV recorder and see it is off. OK, this is a stunt they’ve put some thought into.