Story: Memoria

Ella Fitzgeralds at every street corner, trapped in giant speakers, singing their countless lungs raw in blue streaks of sound. “For this time is the one, where the first time is the last time. I’ve got beginner’s luck…” Strips and bits of paper fall from the sky, confetti of garbage and dead trees. The store windows are Omnicolor brilliant as they transmit moving scenes from a not-so-moving life. Mine. I stop, my compadre walks on, and I hear myself saying, like Keanu, “Whoa.”

My voice sounds like it’s coming from my sneakers. Why is that? Why are my sneakers so scuffy? What have I been doing?

“Move along now.” My companion’s standing there, waiting, his fingerless hands punching the sides of his stomach. It’s not as bad as it sounds, really. He has no fingers because he’s a Gingerbread Man, browned to my skin tone. “Come on.”

I just realized I have no idea where his voice comes from. How does he talk when he has no lips (and thus presumably no voice box)? I hold up three fingers, and they are an arm and a half’s length from my head, because I shift my face to the side like a Hindi movie. I am squinting and making my best fishhook mouth.

“Three fingers, and you are squinting and making a fishhook mouth.” He sounds exasperated. I can hear him mutter “druggie, murderer, hopeless – druggie, definitely” because he underestimates my hearing powers. He sounds like me when I can’t find my fucking Houdini keys. And now he’s walking towards me.

His breath smells like dead squirrels, even though he has no nose. “You are not supposed to be here, but since you are here I will give you what you need. What you want.” He’s gesturing to the store windows with a Doraemon hand: screen after screen the tablets of Christopher Jonathan, last name More-ron. Done this. Didn’t do that. Did her, and many times over, oh yeah. I wonder whether Alison McNee is successful. She always was a smile slut.

“Focus.”


.


I wasn’t on drugs anymore. This was for real. When he said “focus” the fog in my head… wasn’t. It didn’t evaporate, it wasn’t sucked away, it wasn’t blown away by a giant fan. It was. And then it wasn’t.

But after the fog wasn’t he still was. Ella was still there, and all her copies, and the sky was still falling to pieces everywhere.

He looked at me while I went through the stages of shock, and when I was finally done he tossed me a sheet of paper, literally tossed it. That sheet of paper had the weight of a bomb, and the words nailed every bit of my head: “Ella Fitzgeralds at every street corner…”

After I finished convulsing again his moon face twisted where his mouth should have been, and I shivered.

Then he took me by the hand, and he carried me in his doughy arms, and he piggybacked me, and together we went through all the streets of New York, New York, Alphabet City to Columbia University, Hudson to East Rivers. The stores were all gone, vacated, doors removed, each storefront turned into a still or video, definition higher than shit like Blu-Ray or HDTV. He made me look at each still and video, and he said, “Yes or no”.


I killed him in the end, of course. Or at least I think I did. I don’t know if there had been any other option. He stopped fidgeting, and his neck stopped pulsing under my hands like all other necks, and then he just dissolved. Wind blew the crumbs into the air, mixed it up with the shitstorm. He smiled just before the end, another twist of the dough, and I said, “You’re welcome”. And I meant it.


I think that if you are reading this it means that you have offed me in turn. I found a piece of paper after I killed my predecessor, and I assume that this is some sort of pass-it-down tradition, so I have followed the formula, changing the details, of course.

A couple of final things:

It will suck a little at first. You will think to yourself, was I really such a stud when I lost my virginity? Occasionally you may also wonder whether there was more to the world beyond the East and Hudson Rivers, and beyond Alphabet City and Columbia University. Or, if we were in another city when you came, beyond the gray walls sheer like glass and beyond the lines dividing street and smoke. You may wonder that.

And yes, it will sometimes get a little boring.

But this is my personal theory, free: if you got here, and if you actually managed to kill me, and if the knife appeared to you after that, then you must belong here.

So this is what you need to do later, as passed down for god knows how long this place has existed: you need to take the knife, and you need to slice off your nose, gouge out your eyes, shave off your lips, and straighten the lines of your head. You have to chop off the toes too, but the hands will take care of themselves after you finish everything else. And, I’m sorry, but the penis has to go too.

I’m not sure what happens if you turn out to be a woman. I didn’t get any instructions about that. Sorry.

And if you’re afraid, prick any part of your body first. You’ll see why this place ruxors, like a buddy of mine used to say. Go ahead. Isn’t that the neatest thing? And once you do all of that, just sit and wait. The rest will happen to you without you doing anything. I promise.

The power to change the music and the storefront channels will come in time. I recommend Times Square (if you’re in New fucking York) for your best memories – lots of triple-plus-size shops there.

And, lastly, before you do anything else, you need to write down something like what I’ve done here. Copy the piece of paper I tossed at you, write down how you felt when I took you through your life, brag about how you killed me or whatever, and then just basically copy this set of instructions, adding your personal details as you like, I guess. Remember to do this first before anything else. I was here for you, so don’t mess it up for the next guy (or girl). Have a sense of pride, yeah?

And then go ahead and cut, and cut, and cut, and then wait.

And have fun with this city. I know I did.