All the Little Things We Can't Forget

      People always say it’s the small things in life that make the biggest difference. Often, it's said with a wistful sentiment, the kind that’s supposed to make you feel all fluttery and happy inside. It’s a saying built on hope, the hope that something seemingly insignificant might come along and make your day, or even your whole life, so much better. Everyone and anyone would love to believe in such a thing. As for me? I gave up on that hope a while ago, but I haven’t given up on that saying.

           It’s the small things in life that make a difference for me too, after all, just not in the typical sense of the phrase. You see, I remember small things. Graduation? Family vacations? Big things like that fade into oblivion for me. I can’t seem to bring myself to care. I remember the small, everyday things, and all of the feelings that came with them. I wish I could say I think back on them fondly. Instead, they haunt me.

           Today was no different. Perhaps, it was actually worse. Work had gone by at a crawl for the same reason it always did: mediocrity. The client I was working with today seemed hesitant to invest in my company’s cloud services. Most small businesses are. Any investment can be frightening, and it often seems I can do little to fully reassure them. I tried and tried but their reluctant tone never left their voice, right up until the end of the workday.

           There was truly nothing worse than that. They weren’t upset or worried enough to just express their concerns outright. They weren’t confident enough in our services to go through it all with a smile either. Instead, they just stayed in limbo, cards held close against their chest while I stumbled through the sale like a desperate parent trying to figure out what their pouting, inarticulate child was so mad about. Maybe I was just bad at my job, but the day seemed even worse if I thought about that too much.

           As I walked along the city streets, I passed many shops with their doors open wide to let cool air and people inside, luring the latter in with the siren call of popular music played over their speaker systems. Most of the songs were dull enough to be unnoticeable to me, but one song released lately always got my attention. I hoped not to hear it, but as per usual, luck wasn’t on my side. I caught a glimpse of the chorus as I passed by generic department store number three hundred and twenty-nine.

           The melody was all too familiar. It made no sense. The song had only been in the public eye for a month at most, but in its notes, I could hear the echo of songs from days long past. I remember small things, like songs played in the car while being driven around town to pools or parks in the summer alongside my brother. He and I don’t speak much anymore. I don’t feel the happy anticipation of arriving at those places anymore either.

           In those small things I seem to find only loss, things I can’t have anymore. The emptiest feeling comes when I realize I used to have those things. Somewhere along the way they just managed to slip through my fingers like sand. I can’t even pin down a time or place where it got lost. Where did you last have it? Truth be told, I don’t know. Then I look to the future, and I can’t help but ask myself a question that might be better left unanswered: what else will I lose?

           One song is all it takes to evoke such feelings. A small thing. Just one small thing and I spiral as I shuffle on home. Maybe some things are better left forgotten. If I can’t have it ever again, what’s the point of remembering? Why should I have to feel the stinging loss of those days gone by? If I could just forget, maybe I could live in the present, free from the chains of my own history. This wasn’t the first time I had thought of such questions.

But it was the first time I got an answer.

Need to Forget?

           The words were scrawled in colorful chalk on a blackboard sign sitting close to the buildings on the sidewalk. Lost in my own thoughts I had barely noticed as I crossed from the bustling midtown of the city to the downtown filled with smaller shops of every kind. The sign went on to explain in vague detail that “Charlie” had just what I needed in the store upstairs. A yellow arrow pointed to the doorway beside the sign, a cheery invitation. Now that was too good to be true, and things that were too good to be true were entertaining, if nothing else.

           After a short walk up the stairs, I found myself opening the door and stepping into a bland room of white walls and light grey shelves, filled with computer parts of the same dull colors. I was drowning in monotony. It hardly looked like any place someone would go to “forget” things, except maybe what color was. There was a man at a small front desk, leaned back in a chair with a magazine that looked just as boring as the store around him. I didn’t even bother to read the cover page title.

“Are you Charlie?” I asked, approaching the man.

“I am,” he said nonchalantly, setting his magazine down and leaning forward, “What can I fix for you?”

“I saw a sign down on the sidewalk, something about forgetting your past?” I asked, jerking my thumb towards the store’s window overlooking the street outside.

“Not sure what you’re on about. I just fix computers,” he said, gesturing broadly at the store.

“It said Charlie…” I thought aloud, brows narrowing as I tried to remember what I saw.

           Was I really so out of it that I had completely misread the sign? Was there a sign? Charlie simply gave me an unimpressed look, and after a moment of silence, reached for his magazine again. I quickly ran down the stairs of the store and back onto the sidewalk. As I looked around, I spotted the sign just where it had been before.

Need to Forget?

           Same sign. Same vague instructions. The same yellow arrow pointing undoubtedly at the stairs I just climbed. More to prove a point than anything, I stormed back up the stairs and into the store. Charlie didn’t even look up at me as I approached the counter.

“Sign says I talk to you about forgetting. Checked and double checked now. If this is some dumb prank, I’ll go down there and erase the whole blackboard myself,” I said.

           This was a pretty dumb way to waste someone’s time. Who would even think of something like that anyway? I could feel myself getting red in the face, more from embarrassment than anything. Even if it was a waste of time, there was no need for me to get so worked up. Still, I wanted to believe such a thing could be true. I wasn’t angry. I was desperate. The last thing I wanted was for some joker to see that.

“So, you think you can just forget… whatever it is?” Charlie asked, head turned down at his magazine.

“Sign says so,” I shot back.

Charlie snorted.

“This look like some trashy dive bar to you?”

“Look, the sign says-”

“Forget the sign!” Charlie shouted, slamming the magazine down on the counter, “That’s called advertising, and from where I’m standing, it worked. Have a look around, but trust me, whatever you think you read, you’re misinterpreting it.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. I wasn’t sure what was more unbelievable at this point: the hope that there was some way for me to forget my past, or the idea that the sign was nothing more than an ad. The former seemed too good to be true… but the latter? Why would he pick that of all things to get people in here? And how could he get away with such blatantly false advertising? Charlie sighed and rolled his eyes.

“You’re a desperate one, aren’t you?”

“You’re not making any sense, I-”

“Just say why you’re here.”

“Because the sign said-”

“Forget. The sign.”

“I want to forget.”

“Bingo.”

           Charlie reached down somewhere behind the desk, and I heard the rustling of what sounded like a paper bag. He placed something onto the counter, and I leaned in to take a closer look as he pulled his hand away. It was a glassy, lime green disk just a little larger than my own thumbnail, coated in a clear, plastic wrapper. It looked like a piece of hard candy. I picked up, lifting it to eye level, and truth be told I don’t think I felt any different from a trick or treater.

“Twenty dollars. Cash,” Charlie said, picking up his magazine again.

           My first thought was a hard no. Everything about this set off warning alarms in my head. It could just be a scam. It could have dangerous ingredients. He clearly didn’t want this interaction tracked, that’s why he was asking for cash. I’d be an idiot to pay for this, let alone try it. I should just walk away and…

           Go back? I could set this down and walk out, then go on living life. That wasn’t what I wanted. I wouldn’t have come in here if that’s what I wanted. Maybe this was too good to be true, and things that were too good to be true… they always were. That’s what people say. People also say it’s the small things that make a big difference. They were right, just not in the way most people think. It’s different for me. Maybe this would be different too.

           I set the twenty dollars down on the counter, slipped the candy into my pocket and walked away. Charlie didn’t say thanks. He didn’t say goodbye. What he should’ve said was see you soon. My apartment was a short walk away, and despite taking the candy, I still had my reservations. I consumed it that same night, right away, hoping I’d have time to deal with any side effects before work the next day if anything happened. Nothing did. Nothing at all. I had the quietest night in months with no interruptions, not even from my own thoughts.

           The next day was a normal day at work, filled with mediocrity. On second thought, that word didn’t feel quite right. This was just normal. Days were sometimes better than this, and sometimes a little worse, but there had never been a time when things were really that much better. Still, it felt like something was missing. It almost felt like there was a whole other side to myself that lurked in some distant corner of my mind, out of reach. I tried not to think about it.

           It didn’t work. Days went by, and the feeling got stronger and stronger. One day I was at the grocery store after work and I caught sight of a cereal in the breakfast aisle. I truly stood no chance. It was one of the cartoonish, brightly colored boxes meant for children and certainly meant to capture my eye. It captured my mind too. I used to eat that cereal, a long time ago. I was only allowed to have it on weekends, a time filled with so much hope.

           I didn’t have that hope anymore. Things were just the same, day in, day out. What did I have hope for? My brow creased in concentration as I tried to dig it up from the depths of my memory. Dreams! I had dreams once. For what, I couldn’t recall. Maybe once they gave me a reason to keep going, but I couldn’t recall them now. All I was left with was the absence of this hope, without any part of me left to rekindle that hope.

           I can’t completely recall how I felt before I took that candy, before I walked into that store. All I know is this is worse. The pain as I think back on better times is there, but it lacks substance. It lacks identity. I really was starting to lose my grip on the past, and with it, I was losing a part of myself. It was too late now. Maybe the past had been bittersweet once, but now it was just bitter, a cold stabbing in my heart that grew worse the more I thought about it. I could do without the bitterness.

           I didn’t even finish the shopping. I crawled back to that store, and Charlie was there. Same boring store. Same boring magazine. I didn’t say anything. He didn’t even look at me. His arm reached down, the paper bag rustled, and a candy was sitting on the countertop. I traded the candy for my twenty-dollar bill and I popped it into my mouth then and there. I made my way back to the grocery store, my mind returning to the simple task of buying food. My mind now dwelt in uneasy peace.

           I could stave off the pain of remembering. I didn’t have to think about it anymore, and nothing could force me to think about it as long as I had those candies. The cost, however, was more than a twenty-dollar bill. I knew now that something was missing. I was starting to feel like an actor, reciting lines and executing movements all planned out for me by someone else. There was nothing left to call my own. Once, I remembered, but by daring to forget… I was forever consigned to oblivion.