Work Text:
Monday
Day had only just broken when a splitting headache pulled me out of my dreamless slumber.
Everything hurts. I groan as I stretch out on my bed, blinking away the last remnants of sleep.
I had left my computer running overnight. Beside it, a candle leftover from last Christmas had burned out the last of its Yuletide cheer and left a lingering odor of cinnamon and pine needles, sickly sweet against the backdrop of the harsh morning light.
Memorvise was still open to the Edit tab, fans humming loudly in the tower, the computer struggling to keep up with the intensity of the program.
The concept was simple enough, even if the mechanics behind it were well beyond my understanding. Access, review, and edit your own memories. Need to review last week’s lecture for a test? Can’t remember who paid for dinner last time? Pull it right up in Memorvise and watch it in real-time. Put your memories in the cloud and suddenly everyone is perfectly eidetic.
The latest software update brought the most exciting feature yet - editing. Unpleasant memory keeping you awake at night? Childhood trauma you’d rather forget? Search, highlight, and delete. Gone. No more losing sleep over that time you peed yourself in Mrs. Yanowicz’s second grade social studies block.
I look over the open tab.
“Last edit: 01:11:36.”
There was a long stretch missing from about 10pm until the edit timestamp. Must have been a rough night.
I drag myself out of bed and into the living room. I grab a light jacket and baseball cap to cover my unrepentant bedhead and, following a few minutes of rooting around for my keys only to discover them still in my jacket pocket, make my way out the front door of my apartment and towards Joshua’s, a coffee shop just a few blocks away.
I discovered this place shortly after moving in a few years ago. It had quickly become my favorite spot to grab a coffee and bagel in the morning, and was part of my daily routine. It was early enough in the morning that Joshua himself was still working the counter, a whip-thin man in his early forties with curly brown hair and thick rectangular glasses.
“Morning, Tom. Usual?”
“Hey. Yes, please and thank you.”
I pay and step to the side, scrolling mindlessly through my phone for the few minutes it took Joshua to put together my order. Onion bagel, cream cheese, dark roast with cream and no sugar. I thank him again and make my way to the door.
With my head turned to give Joshua a nod and a collegial raise of my coffee cup in his direction, I never see the man in his twenties, nose buried in his phone, who collides full-tilt into me in the doorway. My coffee splatters on us both.
“Hey, watch it!” he exclaims.
He looks ready to make much more of the perceived insult than is necessary. Caught off-guard by his aggression I mumble a lame apology, even though I don’t really believe I should be the one apologizing.
“Yeah, fuck you, buddy,” he says, moving past me to the counter. For a moment, I think of responding in kind, of an untidy fistfight on the floor of Joshua’s cafe. Before I can give the idea any serious thought, I’m already half a block towards home.
My stomach is a pit of anxiety smoldering into an indignant rage by the time I get back to my living room. I sit down to eat my crushed bagel with shaking hands while picturing all the things I should have said to that guy.
The anger keeps me from taking more than two bites. I pick idly at the bagel for a while, before returning to my bedroom to change out of my coffee-stained jeans. I pull a pair of sweats from my closet when I notice my computer is still running.
Still open to the Edit tab.
I place the sweats down on my bed and sit down at the computer. I refresh the tab, now up to date to the present moment. I scroll back to the coffee shop and stare at that prick and his punchable face. I click Play.
“Hey, watch it!”
“Uh.. sorry man, didn’t see you I guess.”
“Yeah, fuck you, buddy.”
Asshole. I can’t tell if I’m more bothered by the interaction, or by the fact that I can’t seem to let go of it.
I watch the clip a few more times. I feel myself going into an irrational spiral that threatens to paint the whole day an ugly shade of dysphoric.
I hit refresh again, the last few minutes of silently raging in the bedroom now available. I highlight everything that comes after getting my food, right up to the present moment.
I hit Delete.
I’m sitting at the computer. Memorvise is still open to the Edit tab. It shows my groggy morning, ending with me getting the usual at Joshua’s around 7:15am.
I look over the open tab.
“Last edit: 07:44:05.”
Huh.
I stand up from the computer desk, trying to figure out what had happened in the last half hour that would have been worth erasing.
I feel moisture and look down at the coffee stain on my jeans.
Spilled coffee seems like a trivial thing to erase part of my day over, but I suppose that makes enough sense. The technology is begging to be used, anyway.
I change into a pair of sweats that are already laid out on my bed. I walk back out to the living room. My coffee is half-empty but still warm. I add some sugar and scroll mindlessly on my phone as I eat my onion bagel.
Tuesday
A splitting headache pulls me out of a dreamless slumber.
My computer is running, fans noisily thrumming along. My eyes slowly adjust to the brightness of the screen - 4:15am. The smell of cinnamon and pine needles permeates the room, as the dying blue flicker of a Christmas candle whips about in its death throes as the wick burns away to nothing.
Memorvise is still open to the Edit tab. I look it over.
“Last edit: 01:00:47.”
A few hours are missing just before that. The last thing that happens on Monday night is me digging through Prime Video for a few minutes, before stopping on a new release to rent.
I think I get it.
I check my e-mail. There’s a charge for a 24-hour rental, which I had forwarded to myself with a brief message - “You’ll love it.” The e-mail is timestamped for about two hours after the rental charge.
Ok, that’s pretty cool.
I’m probably not getting back to sleep any time soon and now I’m curious about this movie. I shuffle over to the couch, turn on the TV, and settle in to watch a film that I have wholeheartedly recommended to myself.
I love it.
I watch a few of my favorite scenes again on YouTube and read all I can find on the Wikipedia page and interviews and message boards and trivia. I’m deep in the rabbit hole when I realize it’s well past breakfast time and I’m starving.
I grab the usual at Joshua’s. Something nags at my stomach as I leave the coffee shop, but I’m too distracted by my new obsession to pay it much mind. I find myself vaguely wishing I could watch the movie for the first time again.
And then I realize I can.
I leave my coffee and onion bagel on the living room table untouched. I head into my bedroom.
My computer is still running.
Memorvise is open to the Edit tab.
I highlight everything between uncovering the e-mail to myself and this moment.
I hit Delete.
I’m sitting at the computer. Memorvise is still open to the Edit tab. It shows me at the computer, going through my e-mail.
I look over the open tab.
“Last edit: 09:37:11.”
That’s just a moment ago.
I read through the e-mail and head to the living room. There’s a hot breakfast waiting for me on the living room coffee table.
I load up the movie I e-mailed myself about last night. It has my recommendation, after all.
I love it.
Wednesday
The agonizing sensation of a nail being driven in behind my eyes pulls me out of sleep. I am damp with sweat and slightly nauseous.
I didn’t dream again.
My computer is running. The tower radiates with heat. The cloying odor of Christmas hangs in the air - a fresh gingerbread candle is still lit on the desktop and mixes unpleasantly with the stale odor of pine and spices from the candle beside it.
Memorvise is open to the Edit tab. I look it over.
“Last edit: 01:08:26.”
Yesterday is filled with holes, two or three hours at a time, right up until a four hour block missing just before bed. My living memory is a blur of walking back and forth from the living room to the bedroom. My recorded memory in the program is about the same.
There’s an e-mail to myself from myself sitting in the inbox. Something about a movie. It sounds pretty good, but I’m really in no mood to sit down and watch something. I feel vaguely dreadful and there’s a pit in my stomach.
I’m pretty sure there’s a coffee shop at the end of the block that should be open by now. I throw on my jacket and pull a pair of sneakers out of the pile by the door. I don’t remember having this many shoes. The pair I squeeze into is a full size too small but good enough for a short walk.
The walk is longer than I remember it being. A few blocks, not just one. The place is called Joshua’s. It seems like my sort of spot.
The pit in my stomach deepens as I stand at the counter. I look over the menu.
A brown-haired man with glasses approaches me to take my order.
“Usual?”
“Huh?”
“Do you want the usual?”
He has me mistaken for someone else.
“Um.. sorry, still thinking. Do you guys have onion bagels?”
The man chuckles. “Funny, Tom. Onion bagel, cream cheese, dark roast?”
I can’t remember coming here in recent memory but this guy knows my order and my name. He has a much better memory than I do and I’m impressed.
“Yeah, that sounds great. Thanks.”
I mindlessly scroll through my phone while I wait for my order to be ready.
I nearly walk out without paying. I tip an extra dollar for both an apology and for the man’s feat of memorization.
By the time I return to my apartment, my toes are screaming. I hastily kick off the shoes into the pile by the door. I sit down in the living room and have my breakfast.
Breakfast doesn’t get rid of the unpleasant sensation in my stomach but it helps a fair bit.
I start mindlessly scrolling through my phone again when I notice some missed calls. There’s a voicemail from thirty minutes ago, which I don’t remember listening to, but is marked as though I have.
I play the voicemail.
“Mr. Foer, this is Eli at Dr. April’s office. We have been trying to reach you about the appointment you had this morning. Unfortunately, this is the third time you have missed a rescheduled cleaning, so we will have to dismiss you from the practice. Please give me a call back so that we can refer you to another dentist. Our number at the office is…”
The fuck?
I call back the office. I argue with Eli for a few minutes that they never called me about the appointment today, much less three of them. I haven’t had an appointment with Dr. April in years. I can barely remember the guy’s face.
The argument escalates and Eli hangs up on me after I tell him he’s full of shit and demand to speak to the doctor.
I look down at the coffee table. There’s an empty paper bag from some coffeeshop and a nearly-empty cup of coffee. I head into the bedroom.
Memorvise is opened to the Edit tab. I look it over.
“Last edit: 10:02:33am.”
Just a few minutes ago.
There are large swaths of time missing. Most of the morning. I highlight the last few minutes of arguing with Eli and cursing him out over the phone.
I hit Delete.
I’m sitting at the computer. I’m feeling vaguely upset and I’m not sure why. Memorvise is open to the Edit tab, with the last deletion just a few seconds ago.
My phone is in my hand. There’s a recent voicemail. I give it a listen.
It’s Dr. April’s office. I missed my appointment.
I call the office to apologize and reschedule.
A man picks up the phone.
“Dr. April’s office.” He sounds vaguely exasperated.
“Hi, my name is Tom Foer, I’m calling about-”
He hangs up.
Asshole.
Thursday
Something is wrong and it wakes me up or I wake up because it is wrong.
The computer is running with its fans buzzing furiously and the heat they give off and the smell of gingerbread remind me of the cookies she used to bake and there I am and I am seven and she is opening the oven and the smell is everywhere in me.
I blink and she is gone and I am back in bed and the buzzing is loud so I get up to turn the computer off and I see that a program is running and it is called Memorvise and it is opened to the Edit tab and the Edit tab shows me that the last edit was early this morning and I cannot remember going to bed or waking up for that matter and the smell comes from one of the three candles on the computer desk and I do not remember lighting it or ever buying candles or baking cookies.
There is a pit in my stomach and I do not know if it has always been there but it tells me there is something wrong and I look for a way to fill it. I open the doors and the drawers but this is a bedroom and there is nothing so I move to the next room of the house and it is almost certainly the kitchen but the cupboards are mostly barren and full of nothing and what is not nothing is moldy and old and I leave and take shoes from the pile and they almost fit.
I do not know where to go but my feet do and I am at a store and the man behind the counter has brown hair and glasses and there is the smell of cookies baking but not gingerbread. I do not recognize him but he calls me Tom and I open my mouth to scream but the pit steals my voice away and I leave and my feet can find my way home.
Home again I can tell by the shoe pile and I hide in my bedroom with the smell that makes me seven again and the pit grows and I see the oven is open to the Edit tab and I click on it all and I hit Delete.
I’m sitting at the computer. Memorvise is open to the Edit tab. I look it over.
“Last edit: 9:20:01.”
The morning and most of yesterday is gone. My stomach feels vaguely upset and I think it might be triggered by the stench of the candles lit on my desk. They coalesce to form an oppressive holiday odor and I blow each of them out in turn. The smoke is intense and pungent and I feel nauseous for a moment before opening a window. The smell fades into the background and is forgotten like any other omnipresent odor.
There is something else present. It seems wrong. A smell that’s both sweet and acrid. It hides in the background and it screams at me to run away, that nothing good is here.
I leave my bedroom but the smell grows stronger. It saturates the apartment. I open every window and door but it clings to everything. I begin to dry heave.
The smell is strongest behind the door at the opposite end of the hallway from my bedroom.
I can’t even remember what room it is.
I approach and the smell grows increasingly potent and my mouth is watering with the threat of impending vomit.
I gently push open the door. There is a bed-
Friday
I sit at my computer.
Memorvise is open to the Edit tab.
I look it over.
“Last edit: 09:53:44.”
The morning is gone. Yesterday is gone.
A half-dozen candles with their merrily dancing wicks burn gently on my desk.
It smells of Christmas.