Blackbox

Prolog

 

This story has been told a thousand times already, and the experiences related here are exceedingly common. There's no mystery to it; it happens every day, every hour. Albeit it's common as your momma, it's still a set of facts that are worth pondering, since it's a tale of mortality and decay, subjects which should be pondered by every living cognition. It's a good cure for hubris, it's a humbling experience, it hurts to find it happening, and to know you can never go home again. You may think you have a perfect memory, and maybe in some way you do, if you're lucky, but for every good memory there's probably some three dozen who are not as lucky as you, or your momma.

Bill had heard the record some twenty or thirty times: Senses Working Overtime: I think that was the name of the song. (Look it up, if you want, by XTC.) But Bill couldn't catch the beat. He was hearing the first beat as the second beat, the second beat as the first beat, the third beat as the fourth beat, and the fourth beat as the third beat. He was surprised. How could he no longer hear music? To not 'get the beat' meant something wrong with his cognition, at its most basic level, at the reception. It wasn't just a matter of not remembering the name of a film like 'The Miracle of Morgan's Creek'. It was a matter of no longer having your basic senses ... sensing right. Imagine you're some kind of an audiophile, with a precise idea of what stereo division is, and receptive of what ideas the musicians and producers and mixers and cutters are trying to get across in the mix. Bill knew that his miscomprehension was a sign of his general deterioration. (Did I already say that?)

 

Book 1, Part 3

 

A couple months later, Bill wrote an email to his son, who lived about two thousand miles away. It was Bill's son's birthday, so he filled him in on all the 'stuff that's been happening back on the ranch', and how the maternal figure was doing, and she was doing fine, 'as fine as possible in these trying times'. Bill had been writing these kinds of letters to his son for somewhere over thirty years, and it had become a habit. He more-or-less typed them automatically, and he saluted his son in how proud they were of him.

The son replied next day. "Is your spell-check malfunctioning? You've got some odd word in there. I think you should run a virus scan. 'Happening back on the rinse'? 'In the training times'? And you usually 'salute' me rather than 'salami' me!"

Bill fortunately had the email ready to check in the SENT files, so he looked it over. Sure enough, his son had reported correctly, though his son was too polite to refer to more than three mistakes. Really, there were six mistakes. And it wasn't a matter of spell-check or a virus. Bill knew how to run a computer; he'd been using them since he was in his twenties. However, he ran a virus scan, and the results were proper. No issues detected. But still, maybe he'd been tired when he'd written it. Yes, it had been late at night. However, I sleep fine through the night, so that can't be the matter. Yet, he sometimes woke in a state of something like confusion, you know, Where am I? and things like that. Maybe I should give myself a self-diagnosis on my typing skills. There's plenty of typing programs out there. I could measure my proficiency. That would be a good solution.

Bill never got around to it.

 

Book 2, Part 11

 

Bill was far gone. The only situation in which he felt altogether was in his dreams.

He would manage to fall asleep, even though he had no idea where he was sleeping. It was a narrow bed in a narrow room. It didn't matter where it was, from Bill's point of view, though we have no idea what he felt about it.

He managed to sleep, and he managed to dream. Dreaming was not touched be his senility; it was just like it always was.

He wandered from place to place in his dreams. Events from a half-century before were re-created; folks who were undoubtedly dead were resurrected. His grandmothers, his grandfathers. There they were, on a steamship he'd try to cross. People from his college days would walk and talk and give him advice. It was even the case that his old loves would talk to him and tell him they loved him. At times, he'd go off with them, to some secluded spot, and Bill would feel a passion he'd not felt in a dozen years, with the women of his dreams, all hot pussy and soft tits. But, of course, it would all come to nothing: no matter how much Bill tried to fuck and come, it wouldn't happen. Something always turned out wrong. The dream would come to an end when he pissed himself in his narrow bed, and he would return to his confusion. However, Bill had gone through something, something involving the real and genuine materials of fantasy, and though he returned to the world of urine-soaked sheets, for a bit of time, unrecoverable and unremarkable, never to be seen or acknowledged, he had been, despite his senility, in the wonderful world of dreaming, exactly as forever dreams work.

 

Book 3, Part 10

 

Bill was in a room he didn't recognize, at least not at that particular minute. The television was on. Something was going on. Everyone was talking really rapidly, but about what he couldn't catch. Maybe Walter Cronkite will come on and give his personal view of things soon, and then I'll be steady in my head.

A man came into the room with the television and Bill. He was carrying a tray with a sandwich on it. He set it down on a table beside Bill's chair. Was this guy a doctor? Maybe one of those newfangled male nurses? Bill had to figure it out, but he wanted to wait for a clue or two.

The man said: "Here you go, Dad."

Dad? How could Bill be a dad?

Bill asked him, quite politely: "Your name has slipped my mind."

The man said: "Patrick, Dad. I'm Patrick."

Bill thought: Is he illegitimate? Did I miss something somewhere?

"And you're my son?"

"Yes, Dad, I'm your son."

Bill wiped his face. He was so confused. "So, where's your mother?"

'Patrick' said: "She passed away two years ago. Your wife, that is to say."

"Wait. I was married?"

"Yes. For something like thirty years."

This was news to Bill. How could that be possible? For him to not remember any of it? Maybe he was a little too tired to remember. This has been going on for some time, forgetting things. This is just another of those lapses.

"Do you have any brothers and sisters? Patrick?"

"Yes, you have a daughter named June and I have a younger brother named Nicholas."

Bill faked realization. "Oh, right. Sorry! Sometimes I can't remember details. The devil's in the details. I've heard that so many times." He started laughing. "The devil is in the details!"

 

Book 4, Part 4

 

Bill got to thinking about his obvious memory problems. He simply couldn't remember names very well, which could probably be put down to his infinite self-regard and vanity. What's the point of knowing a name? He thought back, way back, to an embarrassing event, and we're talking way back, to when he was nine or ten or eleven. He was a member of a Cub Scout troop, and the whole troop went off to a camp not that distant from where they all lived. Some ten miles or so. (He figured the name of the camp would come to him in time.) They were playing an outdoor game. They were playing Red Light Green Light. Bill was up, because somehow he'd won the last round. He'd turn his back on the other boys and the boys would try to get closer. Bill would call: "Red light!" and turn around and anyone he'd see move would be eliminated. Problem was, Bill drew a blank on all their names, so he was down to simply eliminating people by pointing and calling: "You! You! You!"

He'd never learned how to learn names, that was all.

Bill went out the front of his house. He should apologize to those boys. Now he remembered the name of the camp, and where exactly it was. He thought: I could drive there now, find my Boy Scout troop, and apologize to every one of them. I could even start over, and learn how to learn names. It's a behavioural defect, that's all it is. He went inside to look for his car keys. He looked in several places before realizing it had all happened decades and decades ago. All those boys were as old as he was now. Also, the camp had been shut down.

 

Book 5, Part 8

 

Bill was sitting in his armchair, and his wife was sitting on the couch. They were facing the television set. "Who are all these people? Are they new characters? Some look a little familiar, but they could be from some other show. Maybe it's the actors I'm confusing them with, their characters aren't the actors, unless that's, yes, that's the guy from that cop show, the one with the bald head. Or am I thinking of that other show, the one about the politics? Look, the guy ... the guy with the cup ... he's important. And that woman works for him."

Aloud he asked: "Are all these guys cops or politicians or what?"

His wife smiled at him. "Oh, you know they're C.I.A. agents!"

Bill laughed in reply. "Of course, I know that. They're C.I.A. I must have drifted off for a minute there."

"Sure, you know that...." and here she ran through much of the plot, which had to do with a terrorist attack and a counter-strike that goes wrong and there's a double-agent and a tense scene on top of a building and there's an illicit relationship that frankly seems to be going nowhere but maybe they'll pick up on it in the next episode.

Bill follows along like he's heard it all before when really it's like he's learning it for the first time. It seems they're on the third episode of the third season. Bill knew his wife knew about his mental state. What am I going to do about that? I'm never coming out of this. There's no going back. It's best to go along with everything. I don't want to cause trouble. The guy in the tv show, he's running things. That's obvious. His second-in-command is the one having the affair.

Who is this woman?

Oh, of course!

 

Book 6, Part 5

 

Some time not long after that--four months? five? nine?--Bill went to the huge mall across town. He had to pick up something complex, though our history cannot recall exactly what, such is time's eatery. He had to park quite some distance from the entrance, for by chance and chance alone it was a busy Saturday at a huge mall. In the mall, in some complex shop or another, Bill arranged a complex delivery of a complex thing. He simply paid.

From there, he went into three or four other items, carriageable items, things he'd been meaning to get for some time. Frankly, he was somewhat proud of himself for being of sound-enough mind to remember them, though he had the feeling he was forgetting something.... He tried to recall what that last item was, but couldn't, and didn't, for some time.

With three bags he went out into the parking lot, and he stood at the entranceway. Cars were rushing back and forth. People with struggling shopping carts passed him in all directions. He looked forth upon the ocean of automobiles. Which direction had he come from? Over there, to the left, or over there, to the right? He set off in the leftwardly direction, since he felt that was the right direction, though why he felt that way he was not sure of.

He walked along row after row, looking for his car. He recalled it was blue, or a colour like blue. He didn't know his licence plate number, and none of the licence plates he saw looked familiar. He started his search anew, using a methodical system which broke down after fifteen minutes since there were hidden parking spots everywhere. He eventually got out of his jam, though no-one is quite sure how.

 

Book 7, Part 6

 

Finally, after so long, opportunity presented itself. Bill had to go to his wife's doctor, for he had no doctor of his own because he didn't trust them and he felt it was cheating on Great Goddess Life, to get checked for something far too disgusting to be mentioned in these solemn pages, whereupon at the end of the examination and procedure which involved sterile plastic bottles of various sizes and shapes, all with computer-printed labels applied to them, Bill brought up his recent experiences of forgetfulness and confusion and dis-co-ordination, whereupon the doctor said more-or-less the customer is always right and arranged for a session of a test at a nearby diagnostic clinic. "They'll be able to tell precisely the nature of the problem, if there is a problem, and the results will be sent to myself and myself alone, and I will interpret the results for you, for I am wise and I have complete control over everything in the universe, for I am Yahweh, and I also have control over you, o one who is losing his mind." The doctor's facial features had been smoothing over while he made this speech; his eyes shifted to black, his eyebrows smoothed themselves, his mouth became the mouth of a cartoon character, his hair returned to something approximating youth, and his nostrils and nose because like nostrils and noses in bland Dristan illustrations. Bill refused to show the terror in his heart witnessing this peculiar real transformation, and he turned away to look at a tree outside the building. The mathematics of the tree were incredible. How could such a thing grow? He turned back to the doctor, who was now looking like his ordinary self, apparently. End of medical scene.

 

Book 8, Part 1

 

Bill went downtown to his old stomping-ground as he did on occasion, to have a drink with his old pals if there were any to be found, and also to get a haircut from his old barber. In the barbershop, for some reason, he simply could not remember immediately the barber's name even though he'd know the guy for fifty years or so. Bill sat in the chair and pretending he was merely being polite, because they were on such good terms for years and years. They talked about their families and what had changed in the ol' neighbourhood. Some buildings had fallen into ruin and had been replaced by more efficient ones, like the place that had the record shop and the dressmaker's place. Bill was reassured at that point, because he'd found the area rather foreign to him. But that's how time works, isn't it? It rolls on, said the barber, and decay sets in. You can't expect to keep all your teeth, or for that matter all your hair, though yours is in pretty good shape for a guy my age. Meanwhile, Bill was reciting the alphabet to himself, expecting to remember the barber's name soon enough or at least before he left the shop. Do you remember that little lady who got whistled at all over the place? You should see her now. White hair, arthritis, hobbling along. Oh, but she was hot back then, and she knew it. ....L-M-N-O-P.... Bill wondered if it would be the same when he got to the bar. Would he be faced with the same dilemma? Perhaps it's better not to go. Pat!

Bill said, "Pat, you've done a hell of a job on the old bean here." They shook hands and Bill left, wondering if he'd ever return ever again.

 

Book 9, Part 2

 

Bill chose to go to the local watering-hole anyway, partly to see if he could recall its décor and habitués, and partly because it was his routine to go for a beer after every haircut. He went directly there, as if guided by what the eggheads call 'muscle memory'. The door looked the same as it ever did, or was he piecing together familiarity on the spot? Like how in a dream you can fill in everything, including logic, to give it some kind of experienced reality....

There was of course the bartender, shining up glasses and mugs with a clean cloth, a while cloth. Did Bill know this bartender? Had he met him last time? A little math said the bartender was too young, and thus the two of them were strangers. Probably. However, sitting at the bar with a small pilsner in front of him, was Harvey Cheshire, phone number 416-690-2564, lives two blocks away to the west, in an apartment with his wife Zooey and two kids who must be something like thirty years old by now. Bill didn't know anything about the two kids. He'd never been told. Bill sat down beside him and they exchanged greetings. Harvey was looking at Bill a little strangely, but Bill didn't know why. Was it the haircut? They talked about old times, back in the day. Harvey was tall and thin and had a beard. Harvey filled him in on the details of his life since they'd last seen one another, must have been eight years ago. Yes, the meeting was tied to an historical event, if only they could remember what it had been. It had been on the television. But what was it? What the hell was it?

 

Book 10, Part 9

 

Some time later--though it doesn't matter, in a personal-perspective biography, the order of events, for personal memory is never naturally in chronological order (thus I've composed one-hundred-and-four chapters so far, in chronological order, though any chapter can come anywhere)--Bill was having that dream again, and it was stronger than ever. His old house was growing stronger in impression day-by-day, and the pictures he created became more-and-more experiential, may we humbly heighten, and he was more-and-more there. When he'd wake up, he'd be confused about where he was. He could find himself sitting in a soft brown chair, to choose one instance, in a room he barely recognized. The milieu of the dream would fade away like one of those fade you see in movies--you know the kind--with the transition taking longer and longer, and it would flutter and progress and regress in a haphazard way, until one image nearly (but not completely) eradicated the other. All that would change, in later chapters.

A person was sitting in a chair near him. Bill couldn't recall her name, but he was almost certain he knew the person well. Perhaps he was even related to her. For some reason, that seemed likely. Yes, it was Sandra. She's my daughter. He said: "Was I asleep long, Sandy?"

She looked up. She looked very happy to be known. "How ya doin', Dad?"

"I'm a bit hungry. What time is it?"

"Two-thirty. You've been asleep for a half-hour."

Bill looked at his hands resting on the arms of the armchair. They looked much older than they should have looked. He held one up to his face and wiped his face with it.

"Sometimes I forget she's gone. How could I ever forget she's gone?"

Sandy replied: "I forget things all the time."

 

Book 11, Part 7

 

After his visit to his wife's doctor, or shortly before the end of his visit to his wife's doctor, Bill decided that, seeing he was in the neighbourhood, quite by chance, he should drop by the toy-store. He only had a nickel and a dime with him, but still he could look around, because Christmas was coming, or his birthday, he didn't know which.

Mr. Jenkins was in the store, standing atop a rickety stool, putting dolls on shelves. He looked down and said: "Ah, Billy, good to see you!"

"Hello, Mr. Jenkins! What's new?"

Mr. Jenkins got down off the stool. "We got in a new Mustang model."

"Sounds fun!"

Together they examined the box. The paint colours to be used were listed on the side. Three different possible recommended styles. Two engines included. But boy let me tell you it cost more than 15¢!

Billy wandered over to the shelves of games. He could hear noisy and dangerous and exciting cars out on Main Street. He'd be driving soon too. He had a driver's licence, but he'd never driven before, which was a little confusing, but the feeling passed. The games were all the same old ones.

In a glass cabinet there were the computer games and stuff. Someday, maybe he'd have enough money to afford one of these expensive things.

He went back to the counter, where Mr. Jenkins was. He picked out fifteen cents worth of candy and handed Mr. Jenkins all his money.

Then Bill recalled something, and chose to voice it. He asked: "Mr. Jenkins, is it true you murdered your wife?"

Mr. Jenkins was shocked. "Heavens no, what gave you that idea?"

Bill awoke, or at least changed his attitude. It wasn't true, was it?

 

Book 12, Part 12

 

Billy was a boy. He climbed trees. Bill was in a tree-house, but really it was little more than a platform and some plywood sides. He was climbing when someone said to no real consequence that fuck he'd shitted himself and people moved around him and Bill at first thought it was funny but then he realized his parents were expecting him home so he said: "I have to go home."

"You're home now."

Bill saw the house he had to get to. (It's too distant for me to describe.) "I have to go home now."

"Bill, please, you're home now."

Billy couldn't believe it, not much. He was in the house, upstairs downstairs and cellar. Why did I end up being sent down into the cellar? Sure, Gary Wagner and me smoked dope down there and wrote a comedy skit on my electric typewriter. I think it was some spy parody. I'm still alive, if anyone is wondering. I remember Julie Kerr. I got her to take off her shirt and everything. My sis, my sister, came to show us..... Man I love Kelly McGaughhin. I should have gone up with her to her apartment. Has that time happened yet? Did that happen in the last, or is it yet to happen? I can't keep track of anything anymore. How to get home? Maybe if he could find a significant street, then everything would fall into place. He knows all the streets. He can read signs, too. His mother taught him about how to find his way around. I even know the phone number. Maybe if I could find a phone.

He looked around the room. There was no sign of a phone.

Maybe if I can find a phone. Mommy could pick me up. Sure. She'd want to pick me up!

 

Epilog

 

It was a bed in a room. The colour of the walls of the room seemed a creamy off-white. Bill was in the bed, facing the ceiling. He hadn't said anything in about twenty-four hours. All he knew was that he was tired, and that he would be sleeping soon. He was finally going to return! It had been quite a journey getting there to that there bed. Time would go on, but he couldn't. He bid a farewell to the ceiling. He was lucid for a moment. Well, yes, this is my moment.