Robert stared at the seven digits he’d scrawled on the back of a crumpled drug store receipt trying to commit them to memory. He did this by repeating the numbers silently in his mind again and again then closing his eyes and trying to recall them. No matter how many times he did this, he couldn’t seem to remember them. During the past few weeks Robert had noticed that it had become harder and harder for him to remember anything.
“This is what happens when your brain starts to fill up,” he thought before folding the receipt and jamming it into the back pocket of his khaki shorts. Most people didn’t bother to memorize telephone numbers anymore. They let machines remember the numbers for them, but Robert was never like most people. That was something he took pride in.
Though he tried to pretend this wasn’t the case, Robert knew the space inside his brain was finite. He saw the evidence of it filling up everyday when he looked in the mirror and saw the red line that pushed its way across the gauge in his forehead, just below his hairline. He knew that once that line had worked its way to the end of the gauge, he wouldn’t be able to form any new memories at all. As he walked back to his apartment, he put his hand to his forehead brushing the fringe of gray hair to feel the gauge’s smooth surface. Though he couldn’t see it he knew what it was telling him.
The breeze blew pass Robert in waves forcing the black hairs on his arm to stand on end. The sky was clear and blue reminding him of the day he moved to Florida. He and Emma had gone to the beach to splash in the warm salty water leaving their lives still sitting in boxes in their new condo. Robert loved recalling those times. He loved all of his memories and couldn’t think of a single one he would want to give up.
He entered his condo and went straight to the phone. He’d always known that he’d have to make this call sooner or later. Most people did, but Robert had tried to put it off as long as possible. He pulled the crinkled paper from his pocket and punched the numbers into the phone. He held the cool plastic receiver to his ear. It rang twice before a women answered.
“Tampa Bay Deletion Center, how may I help you?” the voice said on the other end of the line.
“Hello, I’d like to make an appointment for deletion,” Robert said and as he spoke he started sorting through the memories wondering which ones would go.
Even as he scribbled his appointment time on the back of an envelope Robert was not paying attention. Making medical appointments had become so routine with age that he didn’t need to pay attention anymore. Instead, he ran through all of his memories of his sweet Emma, of their boys growing up, of family vacations. He thought of his own childhood, his parents and his school friends. He’d had 72 years of memories stored in his brain.
“We’ll see you at your appointment,” the deletion center’s receptionist said.
“Before you go I was just wondering if they can control which memories get deleted?” Robert asked her.
Without hesitation she answered, “They haven’t perfected the technology yet. Just let the doctor know how much space you think you’ll need and he’ll take care of it.” Her answer was robotic. She’d said this exact same sentence to countless people before him.
“But what if he erases something important?” Robert imagined himself waking up in the recovery room unable to remember his name.
“That almost ever happens. Our doctors are very good.”
Robert sighed. Almost never just wasn’t good enough for him. He wanted a guarantee that he would forget his childhood phone number, but not his wedding day. He wanted to forget being beaten up by Peter Meier in 8th grade, but not the birth of his son. “Forget it,” Robert said. “Just cancel my appointment.”
“But Mr. Smith, we offer the best service in town.”
“Never mind that. Just cancel it.”
“Okay. If you change your mind be sure to give us a call.”
“I won’t be changing my mind.” He hung up.
Robert went to the bathroom to have a look in the mirror. He pulled his hair back to check his memory gauge. It was full just like he’d expected. “Guess it’s time for me to call a deletion center,” he muttered.
Picture by pj_vanf