2052 Pickup
It had been a hard day. An obnoxious client wasted the afternoon demanding unreasonable design changes. Another week to finish this damned contract, then back on the road. Now, Meredith needed to unwind, needed a drink.
She would have preferred a Travelers hangout, but didn’t know Kansas City and didn’t feel like exploring, so this retro fern bar would have to do.
Picking a table, she leaned her large pack against the wall, settled as best she could into the wooden chair, and looked around. Real, actual ferns, by God. Natural wood finish, dim faux-incandescent lighting. The only concession to modern taste was a little animated black light behind the bar. That and the glow of the customers’ saver screens hiding or partly hiding the booths and tables from view. Most of the screens were solid colors. The others displayed standard commercial patterns, Hallmark stuff.
She activated her own saver screen but kept it nearly transparent, with zodiac symbols of her own design flickering across the field. Not enough to shield her from view, but enough to show off her personal taste.
The waitress fit the decor, decked out in cotton and wool, or synthetics that looked the part. Meredith ordered a local microbrew and leaned back with a sigh.
She wasn’t looking for company, but as soon as he came through the door she considered him a possibility. He carried both a large duffel bag and a back pack. She shifted her own pack a little so it was clearly visible.
He sat at the bar and sipped a drink while his eyes got used to the dim light. Most of the saver screens were opaque or nearly opaque, signifying that the owners wanted privacy. She watched his head turn slightly as he surveyed the place. He saw her, saw her pack. He approached her table.
“I see you are a Traveller,” he said, “mind if I join you?”
She blanked her saver screen in silent answer and he sat down.
“Been in town long?” he asked.
“A couple of days,” she answered, “I’ve got a contract that runs another week.”
“Contract,” he said, “that’s good. What sort of contracting do you do?”
“Interface design, mostly sports work, some special interest news,” she said.
“You design your saver?”
“Yeah.”
“Nice. Wish I had graphic talent.”
“What kind of talent do you have?”
“Lots of non-graphic kinds,” he smiled, “but I make money on dialogue. Those scenes your interfaces manage.”
“Here for long?”
“Just passing through. I can write dialogue anywhere and net it in. So it’s south for the winter, the Yucatan or Guatemala.”
“You’re a serious Traveller.”
“I’m serious about enjoying life.”
“Sometimes I net, but interface design is so damn interactive. So for me it’s go where the jobs are.”
“This week Kansas City....”
“Next week Atlanta. Big CNN project.”
“Buy you a drink?”
“If I can buy you one.”
They traded drinks and conversation. They had some cities in common, some jobs in common, even some friends in common. His name was Burke.
“You worked on the Louie Morton show?”
“Did the Master Quiz dialogue for over a year,” he answered.
“Blaster! That was my interface.”
“The Master Quiz?”
“Blaster!”
“That was a good one, good, clean interface, easy to write for.”
“Surprised we never met,” she said.
“I netted everything in, rarely went to LA.”
Some other jobs in common, some other mutual friends.
“To think I just happened by,” he finally said, “almost meeting all these years, then we both just drop in for a drink.”
“Not really my kind of place.” She wanted to make clear she wasn’t a Dilbert.
“Mine either,” he answered, “actually, not a Traveller kind of place. I was pleasantly surprised to see you.”
“Same here,’ she smiled, “and to find we have so much in common. It’s a good way to end a crummy day.”
They talked, bought each other a few more drinks, made humorous in jokes about the lo-teks in the bar.
“Hey,” he finally said, “look at the time.” He made his move. “I’m going to doss out in the Marriott Travel-Park by the river. Want to split the rent?”
She looked doubtful on the outside, but was pleased on the inside. This guy was pretty attractive and almost famous as well. Keep it under control, Meredith, she told herself.
“Maybe,” she said, “for a little more conversation.” She held up her index finger. “First,” she continued, “let’s get to know each other better.”
“Sure,” he smiled, but was a little disappointed at the prospect of conversation only. Still, he reminded himself, an evening that started with conversation could end in different ways. He flipped open his Digital Versatile Connection as Meredith did the same with hers.
“One, two, three,” he said. They simultaneously touched the security sensor on each other’s DVC.
Meredith watched her screen. A green bar appeared on the right side. Burke’s fingerprint had been matched against entries in the national personal security database. Solid green. No arrests, no outstanding lawsuits, clean health check in the last 24 hours. He was nodding. She knew she was clean, so clean he was probably a little disappointed - Travelers often liked women to be a little wild.
“Now we’ve observed the niceties,” he said, “let’s leave the lo-teks behind.”
She smiled and grabbed her pack.
Most of the squaricles at the Travel-Park were taken, but they quickly agreed on one of the few remaining, walking past the shining electronic walls of the occupied spaces. It was a beautiful spring night, so they chose a convertible model and left the top down.
He tried to pick up the tab, but she insisted on a straight 50-50 split. The reader accepted their fingerprints and debit cards. As the green ‘approved’ faded from the reader screen, the electronic walls appeared, cutting off the view of the park. The environmental sound suppression kicked in and the traffic noise faded away. Intruder control hummed softly and drove away the night insects. The sanitary cubicle, a mini-bar and several soft chairs rose silently from the floor.
“OK,” he said, “equal shares on the costs. But I hope you’ll let me put up some art.”
“Maybe,” she answered, “what’ve you got?”
“The Gates collection, “he replied smugly.
Now she was genuinely impressed. Anyone with repro rights to the Gates collection either had money to burn or was willing to devote a lot of their budget to art.
“Blaster,” she said, “hang it out.”
He snapped in a microwave link from his DVC to the reader, keyed up the arts catalogue. He defined a slave screen on the nearest wall and displayed a dozen small thumbnail images of works of art.
“These are my favorites,” he said, “mostly impressionists, with a little Klee mixed in.”
“I like some of the moderns,” she said, “got any Nina Massey?”
He keyed against the data base. “A couple from her bow-tie period,” he said, “I’ll put one up.” He generated a cursor and moved it along the walls, occasionally clicking to mount a painting. They appeared in true color, lit softly from the top or bottom.
“Blaster,” Meredith muttered softly.
The mini-bar produced an unpretentious little Chardonnay. They dialed up a movie and settled into the easy chairs. The evening passed pleasantly, with a little more wine, a little more conversation and a late snack provided by room service, a rather battered robo-vend that dropped a surprisingly good pesto and salad right on their electronic doorstep. Meredith finally let him pay for something.
“So,” he said, “we’re getting along pretty well.”
“Yes, we are,” she answered, “I’m gl
ad we linked up.”
“So,” he paused, “um, care for a tumble?”
Meredith had been poised to reject intimacy, but he was a fox, and an art lover as well. “Blaster,” she said.
He didn’t want to give her a chance to change her mind, so he quickly set up both their DVCs. She placed her palm on the sensor of her DVC. He did the same with his. The screen on the wall flickered, then generated a three dimensional image of the two of them, sitting on a wide couch. His image took the hand of her image and kissed it, then moved up her arm. One thing led to another. Meredith watched the images, her palm sweaty on the sensor. Her image responded to Burke’s actions. She didn’t realize she was moaning softly. Burke smiled. Another thing led to yet another thing. They both cried out as the images on the screen locked passionately.
The images lay back on the couch, both clearly exhausted.
“Wow,” Meredith whispered, “not bad. Thanks”
“Not bad yourself,” he said, “my pleasure.”
“Downer,” Meredith said, “look at the time. I’ve got to face that dorkey client in the morning.”
“And I’ve got to net in some clever dialogue by 10,” he said, “so we better get some z’s. Thanks for a terrific evening.”
“Thanks yourself,” she answered. “Time for bed, Marriot” she said clearly.
The bedroom cubicles opened. Meredith waved goodnight as Burke entered his cubicle and she entered hers.
The End of Time
Memory fades with age. That may be a good thing, Glenn would tell himself as he searched for his car keys. The sorrows and disappointments of life were softened by time, taking on a smooth, slightly blurred feel, like an old black and white photograph. But he began to worry after the Lost Car Incident. The grocery clerk was one of those young snots who pretend to be polite to old people, ‘yes sir, no sir, let me help you with that, sir’ all the while radiating smug superiority and contempt. Of course the whelp insisted on carrying the bag of groceries to the car, ignoring his protests with ‘no problem sir for me, nossir, you just let me take care of it.’ So Glenn led the way to the parking lot, the boy making a great show of walking slowly enough to trail slightly behind.
His car was gone.
Baffled, he looked slowly around the lot. No car.
“Is there a problem, sir?” the impertinent brat asked.
“My car,” he muttered, “I left it right here.”
The boy led him around the lot, saying “Maybe over here or over there,” and finally “are you sure you brought your car?”
“Of course I’m sure,” he snapped, “give me my groceries.” He seized the bag and stalked away.
Where the hell was his car? He wandered around a couple of blocks, but remained certain he had left it in the store lot. It must have been stolen, he finally admitted. Damn. His pension was enough to be reasonably comfortable, but buying even a cheap car would be a strain. Maybe this was a sign he should stop driving. Eighty-three was years after most of his friends had given up their cars for the bus and light rail. Thinking dark thoughts about car thieves, young punks probably stripping the old Chevy right now, he trudged home, the bag of groceries heavy in his arms.
Almost there. He turned the corner. There was his neat little house. And there was the Chevy, sitting in the driveway. The unexpected sight took his breath away. He examined the car carefully from every angle. It was his, no doubt about it. After ten years he knew every dent, every scratch, every tear in the upholstery. He touched the hood. Stone cold.
Feeling weak, he stumbled through the front door and settled heavily into a living room chair. He had been so sure, that was the hard part. And that young punk, implying that he didn’t know if he had walked or driven. And the brat was right. His cheeks burned with shame. He had shopped there for over fifteen years, but he would never go back.
He had been so sure. He thought back a few hours. Thought about the morning, thought about getting in the car... he couldn’t remember. He remembered getting up, remembered going to the bathroom, remembered his shower. Then, so seamlessly it frightened him, he remembered standing at the checkout counter. Frantically, he ran through the morning again. Gone, not blurred, not blank. Just gone
He didn’t know what to do, so he did nothing. And in a few days, he forgot. Not gone, just faded and powerless, like any normal forgotten memory.
He lived his life. The comfortable routines of bar and coffee shop and library, with free concerts downtown at noon. His life was comfortable and he enjoyed it. Laura had been gone for almost twenty years, carried off by breast cancer. He still missed her, but time had smoothed the pain. She had left him a daughter who lived two hours away. They weren’t close, but they got along. He enjoyed his friends, the ones still alive, even Fred Lynch, who no longer recognized him, but still smiled from his bed in the nursing home.
The friend Glenn enjoyed the most he met once or twice a week at Jerry’s Tavern. Alden Jeffers was eighty-nine years old and still a flaming radical. Friends for over fifty years, they argued politics, religion, the environment, feminism, with Alden seizing the radical high ground in most discussions.
Jerry’s Tavern was almost a typical neighborhood bar; several booths, a pool table, a row of video poker machines, a short bar with two or three regulars perched on the rickety stools. Jerry himself was long gone, but his widow Marlene kept the place going. Jerry had been a sixties’ activist, and in his memory Marlene maintained the only unique feature in the place: a large table under the front window, covered with obscure political newspapers and old literary magazines.
When Glenn came in, Alden was at his usual spot at a corner of the table, fingering some socialist screed. Glenn settled at the opposite corner.
“Howdy,” he said.
“Howdy”, Alden answered, “seen the latest copy of the Catholic Worker?”
“Nope”, Glenn said. Marlene landed a tall Portland Ale in front of him. He thanked her and took a grateful sip. Alden tossed the magazine across the table.
For all of his long life, Alden had managed to balance radical politics with devout Catholicism. “Everyone has to have some bedrock beliefs,” he would say, “and Christ and the Virgin Mary are mine.”
Glenn pushed the magazine aside. “Papist trash,” he said, firing the first round.
“Ah, Glenn my boy,” Alden answered, “the sweet Mary and the promise of the hereafter is what makes life worth living.”
“The promise of the hereafter,” Glenn snorted, “I’ll take the reality of today and the sweetness of this beer.” He lifted his glass. “What exists is what we can see and feel and touch....”
“Do we really understand what we see and feel and touch,” Alden replied, leaning forward and slapping the table. “Is this table a solid piece of wood? Look closely and it’s mostly empty space, with a few protons and electrons whizzing around.”
They argued happily for two hours, working through several more beers. Glenn finally went home feeling pretty good.
The worry over his memory receded, although he started jotting down things he wanted to remember. Just old age, he told himself, what any old man should expect.
Then he forgot his barber’s name. After twenty years, he tried to return a greeting, standing in the middle of the shop, everything familiar, the worn linoleum, the old magazines, the man with the sandy hair and crooked grin. All so familiar, but the name was gone. Gone like it had never been. He turned on his heel and walked out of the shop.
He wanted to forget. The missing car incident had mercifully faded. But now he noticed little breaks, little lapses, the unfamiliar book, worn and dusty, lying on the stand by his bed. He blew the dust off. Had he been reading this? He leafed through it. Not a recognized phrase. He put the book down. Tried to remember the day. But if a memory was missing, how would he know? He couldn’t remember.
Worry forced him to the doctor. The doctor was
old. Not as old as he was, but old.
“I’m retiring at the end of the year,” the doctor commented, “I’m selling my practice. A nice young man. You’ll like him.”
“Retire?” Glenn said, “A young buck like you?”
“Time to go fishing,” the doctor answered. “Nurse said you had some questions about your memory.”
He told the doctor the stories, the missing car incident, the forgotten names, the time that slid by and left no mark.
“Not so unusual, any of it,” the doctor murmured, “let’s see....” He fingered the chart. “Just turned eighty-three, not surprising the old memory banks are slipping a bit. But its been a while since we did a work up.”
They did a work up. Blood, urine, electro this and that, even a CAT scan.
“Let’s put you on B-12 for a few months,” the doctor said as he prepared to leave, “here’s some samples, I’ll give you some more when you come back to review the tests. Have Nurse set you up in two weeks.”
He took the vitamins. He marked the appointment date on the calendar in red. He looked at the date every day until he forgot. But he remembered to take the vitamin B.
Life went on. Sometimes he remembered and sometimes he forgot. When he forgot, sometimes it was just forgetting and he remembered that he had forgotten something. And sometimes the memories were just - gone. Often he didn’t realize he had forgotten, since nothing remained of the memory.
The phone rang. It was Nurse, wondering why he had missed his appointment.
“I forgot,” he said.
“Can you come in right now?” she asked. “Do you need directions?”
“No, I don’t need directions,” he snapped, and was instantly sorry. “I’ll be there in an hour,” he said contritely.
The doctor asked him questions. How things had gone for the last two weeks. He did a few reaction tests, listened to the lungs again, checked the blood pressure again. Looked at the test results.
“Well,” the doctor finally said, “nothing much to report. Some hearing loss, we knew that, some hardening of the arteries, but not enough to impact.” He put the papers down. “How’s the memory situation?” he asked.
“Worse, and...,” he talked about the different ways of forgetting. He was becoming an expert on forgetting.
“Give the vitamins another six weeks,” the doctor said, and walked him to the front desk to make the appointment.
He called his daughter Nancy and asked her to remind him about the appointment. He remembered Nancy, but she lived in Eugene and visited every three months or so. They talked on the phone every week. Lately, he was surprised when Nancy called. He remembered her, but the little girl memories were stronger than the more recent woman memories, so he tended to remember her as a little girl. The woman’s voice on the phone surprised him.
“Are you OK, Dad?” she asked when he called, “you’ve been going to the doctor a lot lately.”
“I’m OK, just getting old and forgetful. The doctor has me on vitamin B.” They talked for awhile. Afterward, he had a little dinner and watched the Jim Lehrer News Hour. There seemed to be something different about that show lately, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.
Nancy called. “Remember your appointment, Dad?” she asked. He didn’t remember but said he did.
He looked on the calendar and it was written there in red. He didn’t remember writing it. He didn’t remember the appointment. But he remembered how to get to the doctor’s office, so he went.
The doctor asked about the last six weeks. He described the losses, thinking of them as a series of little defeats.
“I could be wrong,” the doctor said, shuffling his papers and looking at his desk, “we’re never sure, especially early on....” He looked up and spoke firmly. “It may be Alzheimer’s,” he said.
“Alzheimer’s, like Reagan.”
“Yes, Reagan, plenty of others.”
“What does this mean?” He tried to remember what he knew about Alzheimer’s. Not much came.
“It usually progresses slowly,” the doctor said, “at your age, you’ll probably die of other causes before it gets serious.”
“It’s serious now, that’s why I’m here.” He shuffled his feet. He felt strange. Alzheimer’s. One of those diseases that happened to other people. AIDS, multiple sclerosis, things they had telethons for. Who was that geeky comedian famous for telethons? He couldn’t remember. The doctor was still talking.
“....might want to stick with the familiar,” he said, “it’s easy to get confused in strange surroundings.”
“I don’t like to travel, except to the beach. I have a cabin at Cape Meares. I go there a lot.”
“Well, no problem with that, I’m sure,” the doctor answered, “but you might have someone take you there.”
“I stopped driving,” he said, “I’m giving my car to my daughter. It’s an old car, but it’s better than hers. She writes for a neighborhood paper in Eugene. She doesn’t make shit.”
“I remember her,” the doctor said. He scribbled on a pad. “We’ll keep you on vitamins,” he said, “and the HMO has a home visiting service. I’ll have Nurse sign you up for once a week.”
“Why?” He didn’t want some stranger poking around the house.
“Just make sure everything’s OK,” the doctor said soothingly. He made an appointment in six weeks and said good-bye in the waiting room.
Outside, Glenn couldn’t think what to do. Alzheimer’s. He walked for awhile, then caught the bus for home. But he rode past his stop for a few blocks and stopped in at Jerry’s. Might as well have a beer.
Alden sat at his corner of the table. Marlene waved from the bar.
“Hey,” Alden said, “long time no see. It’s been weeks.”
Glenn sat down, picked up a yellowing Utne Reader, leafed through it.
“I’ve got Alzheimer’s,” he said. He looked at the table, poked at a copy of the Nation.
“Um,” Alden said, “um.” He was silent for a time. “Alzheimer’s huh, what makes you think that? You’re the second smartest person I know.”
“I started forgetting things. I went to the doctor. He thinks Alzheimer’s.”
They were silent for a time. “What does that mean?” Alden finally asked.
Glenn laughed. “It means it’s all downhill from here,” he answered, “memory goes, mind goes, and without the mind, what have we got?”
“Good point,” Alden said, “after all, how do we experience the world?” he leaned back, took a swallow of Ballard’s Bitters, and answered his own question. “Our body touches, hears, sees. Pressure, light waves, sound waves, all measured and converted to electrical impulses. Our body is a tool for sensing the universe.” He took another drink, on a philosophical roll and enjoying it. “But what makes sense of it? What makes sense of the sensing?” Alden laughed and slapped his knee delightedly. “Our brain, the brain takes in all those electrical signals, analyzes them and builds an image of the world. The brain is the tool that constructs our world.” He gestured at Glenn. “Now in your case, the tool is giving you trouble, and that affects the way you experience the world....”
Glenn tried to follow Alden’s rapid delivery. The words marched by, each one familiar, but he couldn’t quite catch the meaning of the sentences. He seized a word. Tool. As soon as he looked closely, the meaning slipped away. Tool. T.O.O.L. He could see the letters carved in stone, painted on a billboard, etched on the door of a red convertible. T-O-O-L. What the hell did it mean?
“Bits,” Alden said, “on and off, just like a computer.”
Glenn chased the word down twisting corridors. Tool, ool, olto, loot. His churning mind stopped. Loot. He knew what loot meant. Ill-gotten gains.
“Loot,” he said.
Alden stopped in mid sentence. “What?” he asked.
“Loot,” Glenn repeated.
“Well,”
Alden said slowly, “I guess it is loot of a sort...” He tried desperately to make some sense of the word ‘loot’ thrown bodily into the conversation.
Glenn realized that ‘loot’ wasn’t the right thing to say. Utterly embarrassed, he stood up, muttered “Got to go,” and rushed out the door as Alden watched him in astonishment.
Glenn walked home, feeling too sick and confused to take the bus. He lay down for awhile, then called Nancy and told her he wanted to give her his car. He didn’t say anything about Alzheimer’s. She arranged to come up on Saturday.
Saturday afternoon, a friend dropped Nancy off. After talking for awhile over a cup of coffee, Glenn gave her the keys to the Chevy and signed over the title. Then he told her about his little problem.
Nancy was incredulous. “Alzheimer’s,” she said, and repeated it, “Alzheimer’s. But, but you’re so smart.”
“It’s no respecter of intellect,” he said dryly, “and no respecter of anything else.”
“What does it mean?” Nancy moved rapidly from denial to anxiety. “What will happen? What will you do?”
“Those very questions occurred to me,” he answered, “and I don’t know, I don’t know, I don't know.”
Nancy shifted from anxiety to grief. Her eyes began to water and her lower lip trembled. The sight triggered a fifty year old memory. It was so powerful that he momentarily forgot when he was.
The sobbing little girl, Laura in the next room, calling out, ‘what’s the matter honey, Glenn, see what’s bothering Nancy....’
“Dad? Dad?”
Who was this woman? His vision wavered, the strange woman faded in and out, replaced by the vivid image of the little girl.
Who was this woman? Panic circled the edges of his mind, curled around his stomach. The present faded into shadows, eclipsed by the bright colors of the past. In his fear and anger, he wanted to strike out, but some part of him that was still in control kept his hands clenched at his sides.
After an eternity of confusion, the past faded gradually into gray, color returned to the present. The woman - Nancy, the woman was Nancy, peered into his face.
“What’re you looking at?” he snapped, still feeling frightened and irritated.
“You, you’re acting so strange,” Nancy answered, her voice quivering.
“Well, I’m all right now,” he said, “I need to take a nap.” He needed desperately to be alone.
Nancy left reluctantly, radiating worry. She promised to call every day, ignoring his protests.
Alone, he at least didn’t have to be embarrassed. He sat down in the living room and watched meaning come and go. That was a wall. That was a ... vertical surface. That was a ... flat, hard, ... something. The room filled with geometric shapes, truncated cones on thin cylinders, flattened circles and squares, bulging round cornered nameless objects.
The light gradually faded until it was too dark to see. He felt his way around the room, recognized the feel of the wall, the lamp, tables and the couch. He fell asleep on the couch.
In the morning he puzzled briefly over why he wasn’t in his bedroom, then washed up and had breakfast.
He went for a walk, avoiding people, turning abruptly or crossing the street to keep from meeting anyone. He didn’t want to not recognize someone he knew, or worse, recognize someone he didn’t know.
Life like this was hard to enjoy.
Days came and went. Nancy called and he answered so she wouldn’t worry. He didn’t want to talk. He kept the conversations short and tried to sound normal, whatever that might be.
Life like this was not happy.
Early one morning he remembered the ocean. He liked the sea when he was depressed. He often spent hours on the beach watching waves roll in as they had rolled in for thousands and millions of years. He remembered the sound of the Pacific surf falling endlessly on the rocks and sand.
He wanted to go to the coast, to his little cabin on the coast. The memory astounded him. He had forgotten his cabin, his beloved refuge.
The shock of remembering stirred him. He dug out his picture albums, leafed through for pictures of the beach. He studied those he found, hoping to remember. The cabin was small, but well built and cozy, with a wood stove feeding into a huge stone chimney. Images came to him of the woods around the property, the houses of the few neighbors, the ten minute walk to the beach.
He called Nancy, who often worked at home during the day.
“I’m going to the beach,” he said.
“How will you get there? I’ll come up and drive you. Maybe I should stay with you.”
“No, no,” he said, angered and trying not to show it. “I can take the bus to Tillamook and the county mobility van runs to Cape Meares twice a day.”
She continued to protest but he insisted. On a mysterious impulse he did an unusual thing. “Remember,” he said to Nancy, “I love you.”
“I, I love you, too, Dad,” she stammered. This was not something they talked about.
He was embarrassed. “Good-bye, Nancy,” he said and hung up over her reply.
Now he was eager to go. He called and checked the schedule. The bus for the coast would leave in just over an hour. He threw some clothes and food into a bag, took the light rail downtown, bought his ticket and was sitting in a seat in the back of the bus to Tillamook with twenty minutes to spare.
He dozed on the familiar ride, waking when the bus heeled into the sharp curves above the Wilson River, then drifting off again. Once in Tillamook, he enjoyed poking around town until it was time for the mobility van’s afternoon run.
For the trip from Tillamook to Cape Meares, he stayed awake to watch the cows and then Tillamook Bay move slowly past the windows. His good mood broke when he couldn’t shake the sensation that the van was standing still and the scenery was moving. He finally closed his eyes.
Once in Cape Meares he thanked the driver and limped stiffly up the road. Sitting for long periods locked his knees up something awful. The walk, the cabin and the sound of the sea lifted his spirits. The afternoon was typically cool and cloudy, so he built a fire and watched the trees through the window. After dark, he sat on a log on the beach and listened to the waves for a long time.
The first two days went well, but he avoided his neighbors after the Puzzled Neighbor Incident. He greeted old Tim Couples the second afternoon, asked after the wife, the garden, the usual. Tim answered politely, looking quizzical, said everything was still the same. Back in the cabin, Glenn was surprised to see several squash and a head of lettuce sitting on the table. Where were these from? He couldn’t remember. Tim. Tim’s garden. He must have gotten them from Tim. He couldn’t remember meeting Tim, not a bit. Bits, bits, what did that mean? Feeling faint and dizzy from anxiety and embarrassment, he went to bed until sundown.
Somehow he could remember better in the dark, as though the feel of things stayed with him when the look of things slipped away. After that second afternoon, he spent most of his time in the dark, sleeping all day and sitting up at night listening to the waves or the crackle of the fire.
Nancy dropped by on Sunday. She insisted on driving him to town for groceries. Somehow her presence bothered him. He struggled to be civil but sometimes lost the battle. He was relieved when she left; he just wanted to be alone, with the remnants of his thoughts and memories.
He’d had a good life, friends, a loving wife, and understanding daughter. Never much on memories - he often joined Alden in scoffing at nostalgia - now he was upset at every real or imagined loss. Sorting through memories, he laid them end to end, fitted them together, tried to discover if any were missing.
For years he had felt his physical powers fade. His golf game had gone first, his scores rising with shorter drives and errant chip shots. He learned to enjoy the walk, not worry about the game. His eyes went; he got glasses. His hearing went; he got a hearing aid, then two. He still enjoyed life.
Now his m
ind was going and it bothered him all to hell.
“Once it’s gone, it won’t matter,” he muttered, but he didn’t mean it.
On a night that was cool for August, he wrote a note and put it in the pocket of his jacket. He walked to the beach and trudged north, out Tillamook Spit. About a mile from Cape Meares an area of the beach was a little protected by outlying shallows. The surf was quieter here, the waves not so high. There was little wind and the sea was calm.
He sat on the sand and watched the white foam gleam through the darkness. The muffled roar of the surf rose and fell, but always sounded. He settled into the sound, hearing and feeling it, always changing and always the same. He felt the ageless sand under his bottom and thought of the thousands and millions of years the waves had thrown themselves against this shore.
His mind wandered. He forgot the sea, didn’t hear the surf. The gritty stuff under him -- what was it? He felt a strange combination of panic and sadness fill his heart. This was a hard way to live.
He tried to gather his thoughts. He took off his jacket with the note in the pocket and dropped it on the beach. The jacket turned into a dark shape against the white sand. He wondered what the shape was and bent to touch it. A jacket, his jacket. His thoughts weren’t at all clear. It was easy not to think about what he was doing. He forgot about the jacket.
Standing facing the ocean, he felt the cold wind pressing against his skin, rippling his shirt. He saw the faint outline of the waves and heard their endless crashing. He took a step toward the sound, another and another. The water lapped at his feet. He walked unsteadily into the surf, the biting cold water seeping into his shoes, reaching up his legs. He kept walking. The water was so cold it burned. Waves splashed to his waist, then receded to below his knees. He stopped and shivered and felt the waves rise and fall. After a time, the water felt warm but the wind was still cold. He took a few more steps. A big wave washed against his chest and almost knocked him off his feet. He stopped again and felt the power of the water, lifting and dropping him. The water wasn’t cold, but he could feel himself shivering. The beach sloped sharply, and a few more steps brought the water up to his head. Waves lifted him and pushed him back. He finally kicked away from the sand and floated, rising and falling in the light surf. He swam a few strokes, sputtered when the water broke over his head, relaxed and floated, cradled by the deep.
He forgot where he was, but it was soft and comfortable. His mind drifted with his body.
Life began to change. He felt the water against his skin, then felt the molecules of water sliding past one another. He became aware of the atomic structure of the water, the protons and electrons spinning, wheeling around one another. Inside the wheels were more wheels, spinning in time, interlocked and synchronized. He realized the succession of wheels within wheels went on forever, ever smaller but never smallest. He chuckled and floated gently in the waves, pulling his senses back from the endless tunnel, letting them drift outward. He felt the surging waves against the coast, the resistance and counter push of the earth. He sensed the people in the nearby town, most sleeping, some awake, their spirits turning, pressing against one another in the night. His awareness moved outward across the country. He recognized some spirits, the barber, the bartender, Alden at home, reading in bed and slapping the covers in glee at his own clever thoughts, Nancy sleeping a sleep tinged with worry. He started slightly at this. Was she worried about him? Anxiety crept in and he felt the water cold around him. Was this a mistake? His thoughts clouded. No, his life was over. Nancy would cry, but live on and be happy again. He relaxed and let the waves carry him. He felt warm again, became aware of the planet spinning beneath him, let his senses drift out, feel the earth orbiting the sun, carrying the moon. The other planets turning in their place, wheels within wheels, all reacting to one another. The solar system turned, spinning in time to other stars, wheeling in their own orbits, all circling the center of the galaxy, another wheel. Galaxies pushed and pulled and circled in gigantic clusters that wheeled again around one another until all the universe was one huge interlocking, turning structure, and that only a part of a still larger structure, going on forever, ever bigger but never biggest.
He became aware of time, realizing that the past always existed, with every moment frozen in time like a gleaming jewel. He saw or felt himself walking toward the beach, standing in the cabin, holding the baby Nancy in his arms, locked with Laura in their first slightly guilty teen-age embrace. He felt his parents, his grandparents, the young Earth coalescing out of cosmic dust, the birth of the universe and the death of the old universe before that. The past was forever, always earlier but never earliest.
Intrigued, he wondered about the future and instantly felt the same immensity of time stretching endlessly forward, until the concepts of ‘past’ and ‘future’ disappeared into a realization of eternal existence.
Time was added to distance, and he was simultaneously aware of both time and the physical world reaching in every direction, world without end. He understood at last. This infinity was God, and he was part of it, part of existence and part of God. He let go, and his being merged gently with the fabric of the universe.
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