Capitulism
by Evan Witmer
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
conclusion
Selecting a password involves a significant degree of strategic thinking. While it’s advised not to record it anywhere, the challenge lies in crafting a combination that remains firmly entrenched in your memory. The optimal approach often involves leaving yourself a subtle clue.
“P4n4s0n1c!” A triumphant realization washed over me as if I had deciphered the code to my entire existence. In truth, it was more akin to gradually inching my way back to a sense of normalcy.
The epiphany arrived without following any of the techniques my therapist had suggested. However, I must credit Wetzel, because the revelation did unfold during a therapy session. I was recounting my previous week to her, specifically mentioning my familiarity with Jenny’s TV, when suddenly, everything fell into place. “It was the only TV I could afford at the thrift shop,” I said, “but what did I care? It could play my Xbox, and that’s what mattered. I needed a login for Live, and I picked it right off the bottom of the monitor: Panasonic.”
Wetzel’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. “What doors does this password open?” she asked, passing me her tablet to test the code’s capabilities.
I started pummeling the screen with my fingertips, furiously investigating the background of my social media. There were pictures on my timeline hidden from everyone but myself, washed-out photography of college wildlife I masked to maintain an adult reputation. It was funny the things you thought would sink your career versus what actually did.
There I was, drinking from a shot Ski made from a gopher snake. I zoomed in on my big red eyes while three other shirtless men and I emptied four shares of Jaegermeister down our gullets.
“All this taxidermy stuff, now I know where it’s coming from,” I said. “I was friends with the ag frat; they all liked to hunt.”
“Does that mean you hunt?”
“Of course not. I love animals too much. I just thought taxidermy was cool.” I paused and flipped to the following picture: a game of beer bong played under a mounted fawn. “I never really found a way to reconcile those two interests.”
Unveiling a more risqué side, the concealed portion of my online persona painted a more vivid portrait of my social life as a young adult. Weekends saw me indulging in intoxication, romancing attractive women, and occasionally going topless at parties. Regardless of Ron’s pessimism, this was proof that there were, in fact, tons worth remembering that I had forgotten: pure cherishable immaturity. Each memory returned to me twice as valuable as before, and anything left forgotten I longed for even harder.
My exploration continued beyond therapy. Returning home, I settled into bed and dove into my old college email account. Amidst spam for discounted game tickets and tutoring sessions, I found the good stuff: exchanges with teachers, project feedback, and homework revisions.
Old neurons woke inside my brain, sending fresh currents across retired synapses. Burnt-out circuitry through the center of my skull sprung miraculously back to life. Memories sparked memories, which sparked more memories in rapid succession. The auras around my dendrites expanded their light to the dark corners of my once-lame hippocampus. The sea horse kicked his hooves and neighed as its heart drank power like a capacitor.
As this extraordinary mental reawakening unfolded, I marveled at the vibrant resurgence of my inner world. But amid this rejuvenation, an unexpected interruption suddenly occurred. Something sounded off beside my ear, like a woman screaming out the window of a speeding car. I shot up out of my slump in bed.
Smack! My eyes caught the moment Jenny’s face collided with my bedroom window. She peeled off the broken glass like a cartoon character and fell to the floor.
* * *
“If I’ve learned anything from my accident, it’s how to treat a head injury,” I said, pressing a cold gel pack against the cut on Jenny’s forehead.
She lifted her phone to read the symptoms of a concussion. My fingers pushed against the back of her hand and lowered the screen onto her navel.
“You shouldn’t look at that for the time being. It could make you sick,” I said. I cracked a can of seltzer and handed it to her. “You need rest and hydration.”
Jenny took the drink, shut her eyes, and took a loud sip. She held it in her mouth and cherished the mango flavoring. I could hear the fizzing in her cheeks.
“Can you remember at all how it happened?” I asked. “It seemed like you got ejected from my brain.”
“Yes, that’s pretty much it.” She rested the bottom of the can on her wound. “I was washing my hands, and my bathroom wall flew forward. It knocked me so hard I phased right out of you.”
“Why is your home shrinking?” I asked.
“It’s adapting to the pressure in your head,” replied Jenny. “In other words, the gap in your memory is narrowing.”
“That makes sense. I had some breakthroughs,” I replied. “It’s kind of your doing.”
Jenny rubbed the heel of her hand against her eyebrow. “Then I sealed my own doom,” she said. “How did I help?”
“The Panasonic you found, that was the password to my old email,” I explained. “It’s got all this history, and it’s like I blew all the dust off my old wires. My undergrad days are coming in sharp again.”
I saw Jenny’s lip tense up, perhaps from pain, perhaps from betrayal. “I’m sure with more therapy, the rest will fill in, too.”
Meeting Jenny’s gaze of despair, I responded with sincere regret. “Jenny, I’m... I’m so sorry.”
A furrow appeared on her brow. “Will you be kicking me out?”
“Of course not. You’re welcome to stay as long as there’s room,” I said, “but I will continue unlocking my memories. My career depends on it.”
“Why do you even want that old job back?” asked Jenny. “Don’t you make more as a landlord?”
“I do, but I worked very hard to get where I was. Naturally, I want to continue my work.”
“I could pay you more,” offered Jenny.
“Can you, though?”
Jenny yanked the gel pack off her cut and huffed. “No.”
“Why is that?” I asked. “You seem more than capable of having a good job.”
“I do have a good job. I’m an interior decorator,” she said, “but all my income goes to legal fees.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound good,” I replied. “You steal government secrets out of some dude’s head?”
“Nothing sinister. We just cut our plane costs in two while we traveled,” she explained. “My boyfriend had a thing like you. It was worse though, early dementia. He had a lot of little holes, and I would slip inside them while he rode in the plane. It worked great until I got a DUI in France, and they had no record of me going through customs.”
“I’m all for saving money,” I replied. “I get why you did what you did.”
“Yeah, well, my boyfriend disappeared. No one can find him, not even the cops,” continued Jenny. “I’m still paying fines to the airplane companies we scammed and, for the most part, this apartment in your head has been the one stable thing to keep me sane.”
“There isn’t anyone else you can live in?” I asked. “Plenty of young folks don’t even know Freddy Krueger anymore.”
“It was never the name, not really.” Jenny swung her legs off the couch. Her neck bowed below her shoulders. “Tyler, people just don’t want other people in their heads.”
* * *
“So, do you know anyone with a space in their head for Jenny?” I asked Ron. We sat together on my couch watching Twister. The cow on the screen lifted into the air.
“No,” he answered flatly. “I’m only friends with one amnesiac.”
“Do you know anyone desperate enough to put their head through a little trauma?”
“That’s sick, Tyler,” replied Ron.
“I’m only joking,” I said. “I just want to make sure she’s got a place to go. She’s a nice lady.”
“You went from wanting nothing to do with her to fighting to keep her inside you,” Ron remarked. “Are you certain her constant presence in your thoughts hasn’t left some lingering impact on your emotions?”
“It’s not like I’m in love with her, but she’s a good friend, and it helps to have a good friend so close to your thoughts. She brings a sort of feng shui to my mind,” I said. “I stopped screaming so much inside my head just to make things less noisy for her... and honestly, that little change made my days so much brighter.”
Ron’s eyes left the movie and stared directly into my forehead. “I don’t know if you’re taking me seriously.”
I pulled my face out of his gaze and paused the movie. “About what?”
“I’m very serious, Ron. It sounds like Jenny has sunk her roots into you. Being at the center of your thoughts, there might be a literal hold she has over your subconscious.”
“So we’re back to her being a narcissist, are we?”
“She might not be doing it on purpose,” said Ron, “but you shouldn’t be considering giving up your dream job to house her.”
“Dream job,” I scoffed. “The deadlines, the micromanagement. I’m certain a large part of the screaming anxiety started at Trinity!”
Ron placed his hands on my shoulders. His face hadn’t looked so severe since the day I questioned whether a foster kid belonged in a place like college. “You need to think back,” he said. “Think back to the moment you wanted to be an engineer. I’m not saying it should be an easy decision to kick your new friend out but, Tyler, you chose a path a long time ago that came to a stop when you lost your memory. I’ve never seen a man fight so hard to regain what he lost, and now that it’s right in front of you, I can’t let you pass it by.”
It wasn’t Ron’s decision, but I knew I had to take his advice seriously, or I could regret it. He was worried I could be betraying my younger self, so I needed to revisit him to see what he thought. I followed my doctor’s directions to maximize recall; I brought out something physical attached to the event. Laying in bed, I pulled out my copy of A History of Electric Chairs.
The memory played out within my mind’s eye. I sat on the park bench beneath the sheltering oak tree, engrossed in the pages before me, oblivious to the bustling world around me. But this time, as I observed my younger self from an almost spectral vantage, something was amiss, something was palpably awry. The words on the page, once clear, had plunged into darkness, becoming indecipherable.
Raising my gaze, I was met with an ebony expanse. The absence of illumination veiled everything, rendering even the closest objects indiscernible. The book resting before me lost its significance in an instant. As I probed the depths of the memory for elucidation, all that emerged was the image of a panicked child desperately flipping through a textbook amidst the oppressive darkness. The once-familiar park bench sent a chill down my neck. The other park-goers had vanished entirely. As I directed my gaze skyward, the sun itself had been expunged from the heavens.
* * *
I took my usual seat at the Cobweb Cafe, a Derry Berry Refresher in one hand and my retractable pen in the other. I pressed the ink to my logbook and filled the line midway down the page: Joe Oneiro, two months, no payment. Response? I imagined his flat and tapped the tip of my nose. A boy with brown curls and thin, round glasses answered. He saw my facetious smile and took a seat.
“I promise, I’m doing everything I can to catch up,” Joe spoke like a child apprehended by his mother. “It’s just been a difficult time. College expenses—”
“I won’t minimize the importance of tuition, but I have my commitments, too,” I said, tapping the back of my pen to my temple. “It takes a lot of operating cost to run a whole community inside me.”
Just before he blurted out something bold, Joe’s shy demeanor cracked like an eggshell. “As I understand it, Sussex County already pays you a lot,” said Joe, “and they’re never late.”
A smug smile crept onto my face to counter the boy’s bravery. I leaned back comfortably till the front legs of my chair left the ground. “Right you are,” I said, “but then it goes right down the drain, don’t you see? The garbage you leave in my head takes meditation, which takes practice, which takes an expensive instructor. Then there’s the infrastructure and the public art; all that took a creative writing course that was not cheap. Then there’s the therapy — so much damn therapy — just so there’s never a cloudy day inside my head.”
My seat clopped forward; I grabbed my refresher and drank the melted ice at the bottom. “Trust me; for all the trouble I go through,” I remarked, my gaze sharp and direct, “my prices are very generous.”
Copyright © 2023 by Evan Witmer
