To Give and to Take

This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.

To Give and to Take

By Plot Roach

Like leaves in an Autumn breeze, his memories fell from his consciousness. Other than being aware that they left his mind, the process did not hurt at all. If anything, it provided a brief numbness that he enjoyed. It was almost like having his mind misted with a cool solution of peppermint and ice water. The colors swirled in front of his eyes and he concentrated on them. It was how the computer determined that he was purged of the necessary memories he had come to sell. A few minutes later a high pitched whine was followed by darkness and the memory retrieval technician pulled open the door to the surgical pod he was sitting in.

“No need to move yet, Mr. Thurston” the young man in the pristine lab coat said. The tech, probably no older than his late twenties, began to disconnect the wires from the plastic discs that dotted Mr. Thurston’s head.

I was once that young, he thought. He winced as the tech pulled the plastic discs off of his face, a little too roughly for the old man’s taste. In earlier years, he never had a problem with it, but now that he was older, and on numerous medications, his skin felt paper thin and ripped easily with the adhesive on the medical discs.

“There you are, Mr. Thurston. Free and clear. I’ve been told that the receptionist already credited your account. Did you want to make an appointment for next week at the same time?” The tech asked, tossing the used medical discs into the trash bin standing beside the memory chamber. The old man wondered if his memories were tossed aside as easily once they were used.

“I always do, Todd.” the old man said, lurching to his feet and thankful that he did not yet have to rely upon a wheel chair to get around.

“We’ll set it up then.” the tech smiled. It was not out of genuine affection for the old man and he knew it. It was what he was trained to do. All part of the process, from signing the medical waiver to pulling the memories out of his head, to giving him a pat on the shoulder and ushering him out of the medical suite so that the next victim could be harvested of his memories.

Mr. Thurston smiled at the receptionist on the way out and wondered, not for the first time, what she thought of him and others like him. He took the elevator down to the ground floor, too tired this day to attempt the stairs.

Once home, he swallowed the second series of the thirty pills he took daily to keep him alive. He noted that the bottle for the medication he used for his blood pressure was running low. He called the pharmacy and arranged to pick the refill up in an hour. In the meantime, he ate a meager meal of bland rice, boiled vegetables and a thin slice of lean chicken. I remember the good old days of greasy hamburgers and stinky cigars, he sighed, chewing the last of the rubbery cauliflower. But old age and poor health had robbed him of the last pleasures of his life.

Why would anyone want an old man’s memories anyway? He asked himself. He flipped through the channels on his television and wondered just how many of the shows he watched were based off of the memories of real people, also desperate for the cash. He turned the television up as loud as it would go, though he barely paid attention to the program, instead he sat thinking about the past, what memories he dared to keep for himself against the darker days of old age.

Once at the pharmacy, he spoke to the man behind the counter as he would a long lost friend. Though Mr. Thurston doubted that the man remembered him as anything beside one of a hundred customers he provided service to on a daily basis. The man smiled out of courtesy, much like the lab tech back at the memory harvesting office. But a look in the man’s eyes said that his patience would only last for so long. Mr. Thurston glanced sideways at an ad for the memory removal clinic he went to. “Have you ever been there?” asked the old man.

“Once, a few years ago.”

“Selling or….?”

“I had an implant.” he said, looking over his shoulder to make sure that no one heard him speaking on his personal life, no doubt. “It was a gift from my mother. She was dying of cancer and wanted to give me the memory she had of us walking along the beach when I was a toddler. I couldn’t remember it because I was too young. But she held onto it for forty six years before giving it to me.”

“That was nice.” the old man said, a lump in his throat, his eyes misted over with tears.

“Have you given away any of your memories?’ the man behind the counter asked.

“Sold them.” Mr. Thurston said. “Most of them anyway.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

“Don’t be. They were doing me little good. And I needed a way to pay for all my pills and my bills. They have the technology to give and to take.” he motioned to the ad. “At least it‘s something to be grateful for, right?” the old man walked away from the counter and passed the information kiosk as he exited the store. On display was an ad for a new movie coming out in a month or so. It featured a happy family holding hands under a warm sunset. And Mr. Thurston felt drawn to the image, almost like he remembered it. After a few minutes, he wandered down the aisle and off to his apartment, wondering -and not for the first time- if it had been based upon a memory of his own.