The Day

SJ Shoemaker
Word Count: 2,235
12/17/2019

Content Warning:  Contains descriptions of lost of loved ones and contemplations of suicide.

The sun came out that morning. Seattle was overcast and rainy 370 days of the year, and it chose that day. The Day. To finally show a bit of warmth and light. What a cliché. But I refused to change plans two months in the making. Should it have taken longer? Should more consideration have been involved? It wasn’t the first time the passing thought pestered my concentration. But even a momentary glance toward the next year was enough to make me vomit. Was this what it was supposed to feel like? No fear. No anxiety. Not a hint of shame or self-loathing, no Liza had taken that along with Marcy and the VW. No, the only emotion I felt was haste, a desire to get it done and over with already. The sun wasn’t a sign, it wasn’t a miracle sent to dissuade me… that’s what He was. The sun was just an annoyance, reflecting off the wet pavement at odd angles and irritating everyone’s visions.

Rain would have been more poetic.

Liza was a stubborn woman, maybe too unforgiving, but she was right to leave. I never faulted her for making the only rational choice available. It was hard to even see her faults through my own stained ledger. There’s a saying… something about logs and neighbor’s eyes. A household needs money. And that’s the man’s job—my job. I couldn’t accept pity from my rich father-in-law and forever be in debt to someone with their nose that high in the air. The only money in my house would be mine. And money takes time. That’s another saying: Time is money. And after two years of being passed over for that promotion because “you’re young, you’ve got your whole career ahead of you”, decent money meant a LOT of time. All my time… I couldn’t even tell the police how old Marcy was when they found my—Liza’s VW in a ditch.

“Chicken Pho. For here, please.”

It was a Tuesday, an arbitrary day of the week on an irrelevant date. I wasn’t looking to make a statement. There’d be no note or final message decrying the injustice the world handed me. I just wanted to forget… and be forgotten. If the world could awake the following morning and shrug away my memory like a bad dream, maybe that’s what it was. A bad dream. My greatest fear about the whole process was sparking strangers’ interest. Some unplanned detail appearing on the news spawning a string of conspiracy theories on message boards across the internet, invoking my name endlessly. “It has to mean something,” I could hear them say. It doesn’t. I don’t. So, for a final meal, undercooked noodles. What’s less assuming then Pho? And for those in need of connections where none exist, I was observing my kinship with the poultry. Rain would have been more poetic.

I heard my name called, took my seat, ate my broth. Sunlight reflected from each spoonful of brown liquid like the persistent irritation it was.

She never changed her mailing address, after she left. Took a secretary job in New York at her Father’s firm, I later found out. I spent too many nights arguing with no one in particular about what that meant. The mailing address, not the job. Didn’t she need them? She wasn’t planning on coming back, certainly. So what then? Maybe she left the country for an extended vacation after so many I denied. It was more likely she feared I couldn’t take a hint. That I’d use the mail forwarding address to follow her to the other coast demanding my fatherly rights. Did she know me that poorly? I couldn’t survive a confrontation, just the word makes my palms sweat. I never got that promotion.

So letters piled higher. Letters I couldn’t look at and daren’t get rid of. And what was once called my problem was suddenly my solution. Longer hours. Can’t look at the pile if I wasn’t home. And apart from the bed, what need had I to be there, besieged by memories of my failure, confronted with my shortcomings. I hate confrontation.

You know that’s what they tell you to do, right? At first, at least. Distractions. Anything to keep your mind off your depression until you’re in a stable enough place for introspection. Not my first mistake, listening to advice articles online. Distractions they said. Distractions I had. Project after project, I took the lead, worked until I couldn’t each day. Slept at the office more than once. Distractions were my focus, my being. All the while, a stack of mail became a pile became a box became a mountain. Distractions, like the refracted sunlight in my spoon. Like I took Him to be when He sat in my booth.

“Mind if I intrude?”

His blond hair was swept back and to the left, held uniform and static by generous quantities of gel. His blue-striped shirt wore the same silky sheen as his hair. Two buttons hung unfastened below a pearl-white grin. Stubble—noticeable but manicured—dotted his jawline. His every inch cried Sales Department.

I considered noting the futility of his question, he was already sitting regardless of how much I might mind. But I couldn’t let my final public action be an irrational outburst. I had message boards to consider.

“Allow me to introduce yourself.” He said with a self-congratulatory grin. “Your name is Jacob. And you are not only depressed but considering one last hurrah.”

“How did you—?”

“Know of your planned final act? A logical deduction based on your mental state.”

“And how did you—?”

“Know your mental state? Your vocal inflection is restrained, showing little emotion. Your movement is limited, indicating joint pain or lack of energy. The bags under your eyes give away your sleeping problems. You squinted to while reading the menu. Potentially eyestrain, but more likely blurry vision due to poor eating habits. All classic signs of depression.”

“What about—?”

“Your name? They called it out a minute ago.” His laugh was as bright and irritating as the sun.

I hated him. “Get on with your sales pitch so I can decline already.”

“Oh, I’m not selling.” He folded hand together and leaned forward in a sudden severe manner. “I’m buying, or hiring, depending on how you look at it.”

I could see it in his smug… everything, he wanted me to ask. Speech prepared. Transitions selected. Personal anecdotes fabricated. “What are you buying?” I could hear the words echo through his mind as he waited to pounce. But I didn’t give him the pleasure.

“Not interested in starting a new position. All things considered.”

“Right, the big day.” Was that excitement in his voice?

“No reason it has to be big.”

“Right, the… day” He didn’t miss a beat. “Sounds so boring when you say it like that. Just a day like any other. Can’t help but notice the tan line on your ring finger. She have anything to do with it?”

Instinct alone withdrew my hands out of his view, behind the bowl. My arm hairs prickled in anticipation. Confrontation. Cheeks flushed too quickly for me to stop. A nod. A shake. Yes, but not directly. If she had just left me, I would have been content to fade into the grind for half a century. I pulled the wrinkled envelope from my pocket and offered it as answer. The only letter on that mountain I would ever dream of opening, that was my name on the address line, not hers.

Liza took a day trip up North, extended family up there. Heavy rain lead to flash flooding. Truck slid over the line, I guess, hit her VW head-on. Wasn’t enough of her to identify, but Marcy… She survived the impact, but the door was crushed. Two hours in a ditch in that weather… well, a second connection for those who need one.

And she never bothered to change her address. Her expired license led them back to me. Three days. It took me three days to notice when she left, that’s how little I cared. Only seems fitting it took another three to book a flight to identify Marcy. Three days after learning by goddamn mail.

She was eight. That’s what the birth certificate said.

He tried his best to look solemn for my sake as he handed back the coroner’s letter, but he was a terrible actor.

“Are you a religious man, Jacob?” He asked.

“No.”

“Good, me neither.”

“Then why ask?”

“Because what I’m about to say may sound a tad blasphemous.” His chuckle was high-pitched and rapid. Sunlight faded behind the clouds. “With what I deal in, my customers see me as nothing less than deific.”

“And what that would be?”

“There’s the question!” His shout echoed from end to end of the noodle shop, but he paid no mind to curious glances thrown his way. His excitement was palpable. “I was hoping you’d ask.” He leaned in close but failed to even approach a whisper. “Memories.”

Memories?

“An entire lifetime lived between two ears, and not a single product willing to touch it. Talk about an untapped market. Imagine it. Change personalities like clothes. Books memorized in an afternoon. Life skills at the snap of a finger. Kung Fu is quite popular these days. Trade secrets… if the price is right, of course.”

I struggled to keep up with his pace. His words flew past in a torrent. “You want my memories?”

“Heaven’s no, I can make them at the drop of a hat. But you can imagine the customers I attract. It’s not like I can throw up a brick and mortar and put an ad in the paper. No, I come to them. My couriers do, I mean.”

“Couriers?”

“How were you going to do it? When the Day comes. Slit wrists?”

I shook my head. “I can’t stand blood. And it has a low success rate.”

“Then probably not hanging or pills either.”

“Drowning,” I said feeling less conviction than my cracking voice suggested. “I’ll fill the bath and use a bowling ball for extra weight.”

“To each their own, I guess,” he rolled his eyes. “Personally, I would go with helium. That way I could go out the same way I lived: Smiling and out of my mind.”

“What does this have to—”

“do with my offer? You already said you weren’t a religious man. No afterlife for you. Just death, nothingness. Such a waste of a perfectly good mind, don’t you think?”

My hands found one another under the table sweaty and shaking. I couldn’t recall when they got there or where my spoon had vanished too. How long I had left my broth to cool? I just wanted to eat Pho.

“See, I can guarantee what religion merely promises. A life after. You want to disappear? I promise, no government on earth will acknowledge your existence when I’m done. You want to forget your pains? Requirement of the job. I can barely remember my own name. It’s Angel—no an angel. Michael, I think. Gabriel?”

“You’re a courier too?”

“I was until demand became too high. That’s what a monopoly will earn you. I spend my days recruiting, can’t bring them in fast enough.”

Why was I listening to him? I just wanted to eat my noodles and fade away. No one would notice my absence. Just keep my head down for one more day before taking a bath—It should have rained. Was I actually considering his offer? Who was I to believe myself worthy of… anything? I wanted nothing. Nothing beyond an excuse. A reason to say no.

“What happens in the end?” I asked, not sure how to phrase my question. “After… employment?”

“Well, we obviously depose of the body.” He didn’t beat around the bush. “Easy enough to do once their minds have deteriorated that far. But I ask, how is that different from what you were planning? Bit of delay is all. I’ll even promise to drown you when the time come, if that helps.”

“But I’ll forget? Lose my memories.”

“Of course. Job requirement.”

“And the memories I… deliver? They’ll all be taken from me in the end?”

“Yes. But think about all that time in the middle. New languages. Deadly secrets. Spicy encounters. They’re all yours. Personal memories for your consumption and enjoyment.”

“For a time. Before they’re robbed from me again.”

“Summed up life perfectly, haven’t you?” His smile flashed again, then he stood from the booth and held out a hand like we were somehow done with the discussion. “So, do we have a deal?”

There was my chance. I just had to say no. Slap away the hand and get back to my Pho. It was probably already cold. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Was I considering his offer? How could I not? Either way, I died. Either way, I forgot and was forgotten. But in His employ… Sure, whatever personalities wore my body, whatever thoughts rented space in my head would be pure chance, reliant on the highest bidder whims. Could be pain a thousand times worse than I already knew. But it could also be… I mean there was a chance, no matter how slim, that a memory somewhere along the way would make me smile the way he did.

“When can I start?”