Memories
by Alex Hurst
For NJ—Always with me, always in the same direction.
Memories
Copyright 2013 Alex Hurst
Visit my website at memoirsofhereafter.wordpress.com
First Printing: March 2013
ISBN: 9781301612253
ASIN-B00C4QSB1S
Memories
It is the shop of memories. Its stores are what moments we collect through our lives, those which gather dust or glory on the shelves of our mind. Some are forgotten, some boxed away; some touted as the very best of our life. Every article has meaning, every clipping, sensation. The store changes for each person. What will you see on its shelves? What will you find in its intimate interior?
***
Rag dolls hang from the ceiling of the shop, dangling on their strings like little marionettes. The faded, paisley fabric of their spindle legs makes every twist a ballet. Black, embroidered eyes and frozen smiles turn towards me, the only customer. It was the smell of book dust and potpourri that lured me to the corner; the whimsical display window that pulled me in. I have always had a weakness for stores like these. Something about them gives me a sense of comfort.
The interior is homey. Asymmetrical shelves of repurposed wood and walls of antiqued paint lend themselves to the feeling. There is no theme to the merchandise, and there are no tags or prices to tease me. I already know the value of each.
I start in one corner, picking up a silk bag of dried petals—the potpourri that had first attracted me. Tipping it to my nose, I inhale the sweet memories of birthdays and Valentines’, sixty-some-odd years of tokens from loved ones. It makes my body tingle to its toes and a smile touch my lips with ease unlike any other.
A figure, neither man nor woman, appears, flickering like a bad radio signal before me. In the time it takes me to actually register that I am not confused or startled by its presence, it is already speaking.
“Have you decided?”
“Decided?”
“Yes. Today is your day. You may take one item, but that is all.”
“Only one?” I look around, already seeing much that I would like to have. The dried petals are still in my hand, and they are merely the first thing to catch my interest.
“Only one,” it repeats, pleasantly. “Do take your time.”
I look at the specter a moment more, before turning my eyes back to the table. Setting the silk bag down, I continue to peruse its top, my old fingers and their shakes making it hard to pick up the smaller items. Many things at this table catch my interest briefly: old toys, candy from bank tellers, colored pencil stubs, stuffed animals in coats. A sterling capped baby bottle and the first pair of shoes I ever laced up on my own. Each works as a bookmark, bringing me back to their pages of memory; each fills me with that rose-tinted innocence of youth. Eventually though, I do move on; there is so much more to see. Life has many chapters.
A fabric board nearby lights my gaze. Polaroids, photographs and postcards neatly tucked behind strips of satin and lace pull my eyes. Contemplating those tangible memories, I pluck one from its backing, gazing at the young woman captured and immortalized on instant film. Jodie. How young we were back then! I chuckle out loud, tracing her cross-eyed stare and the whipped cream on her nose. The scene plays fresh in my mind— the mochas, the nighttime walk, trying on wigs in a costume store. My eyes travel the rest of the board, flickering across the windstorm of my life’s emotions. Every photo only tells one piece of my story.
“I can only take one, right?” I ask the manager, to which it nods. I put Jodie’s photo back, and instead pick up a bundled set of postcards plastered with photos of cheesy New Zealand landscapes. I smooth my fingers over those loved, stained backs, reading her clumsy hand-written notes of excitement and longing for me to be with her. We had only been friends then. Every day without her company had been one of missing her.
“Only one?” I repeat, but this time the specter shakes its head, smiling in a pleased way.
“You are lucky. Those come as a bundle. They aren’t meant to be separated.”
Smiling, pleased at this deal, I pick them all up, tucking them under my arm, and go to explore another area of the store. The figure follows calmly behind me.
The next table is littered with old cassette tapes and compact discs, even one of those silly iPods that used to be all the rage. I laugh a bit to see some of the names there, artists I haven’t listened to in ages. I notice the iPod doesn’t have a charger.
“What happens when the battery runs out?”
“Oh, it won’t ever run out.”
“Well, that’s nice. Does it still get wifi?”
“Afraid not.”
“That would be the way of things,” I muse, though realize it would probably be cheating if it did. Still, I’m not sure I want to have the one thing I take with me be a song (how cliché!) so I move on, the postcards still under my arm.
A display shelf nearby shows off a thousand pairs of earrings, in an instant giving away my one lifelong obsession. My thumbs come up, lightly toying with my Buddha ears, stretched out from age and (without a doubt) some of those heavier pieces. I regret nothing. The twinkle and shine of their sequins, Swarovski crystal and metal spirals delight me, even now. I remember each pair; the dresses worn with them. I snort at the earrings that still hang alone, even here.
“I guess I really will never find out where the other ones went.”
“Actually, those are the missing ones,” the manager says, “No one really values the things they still have as much as the things that go missing. I think we have a few of your socks, mittens and contacts as well, if you’re interested.”
I find his words truer than he intends them, though I have no want of the things he offers. The postcards become all the more valuable to me in that moment, and as I turn down the next aisle, I think on the owner’s bit of wisdom carefully. More gadgets. Watches, a Nintendo, an old smartphone, an iReader. I note how much more clunky they all look now.
Oddly enough, there is even an old dial-up modem, its little green lights flickering unsteadily. Following the wire jutting out from its back, I find a desk and an ancient dinosaur of a computer nearby. I bend over, lightly blowing the dust off the screen, wondering if computers are a typical installment in this kind of shop now. I ask my transitive friend.
“Oh yes. Before your generation, it was typewriters.”
“Really? I wonder what the next generation will be….”
“Typewriters,” the figure answers with a click of its tongue, and a bit of a grin in his absent eyes. “Hipsters came after you.”
I chuckle, brushing the rest of the dust off the computer, though I don’t turn it on. I already know the hard drive is fried. There is no doubt in my mind, however, as to why this computer is important enough to be here. “I met Jodie on this computer.” The figure nods, “Yes, I know.”
The memories stretch my cheeks and pull my ears back. I remember late nights spent chatting about books and baking, debating politics and religion. It took no effort at all to type through the entire night, simply because neither of us could bring ourselves to let that goodbye be the last one. I remember huddling over that computer, shaking in anticipation as I told her I might be gay. Of course I had always known, but the fear of losing her friendship after so long kept me from being totally truthful. She had always had boyfriends. She had never shown any inclination.
That night, she admitted something to me as well: she told me she liked me too. It was the first of many times I cried tears of pure happiness. Life couldn’t have been better in that moment. We were crushes then, on that awkward, heartbeat-skipping precipice between confidants and committed.
I stop next at a large bookshelf, looking at the titles of sto
ries I have read over and over, or hadn’t, despite a promise to. Jodie gave me so many of them. Their title pages are scrawled with little notes to me. There is one book, though, that is not mine. It is actually hers; one that I gave her. I give the figure behind me a look of confusion.
“Sometimes a gift that is given is just as important as a gift that is received, in the grand scheme,” it offers.
I remember scouring the Internet looking for it. I remember, with a wry, embarrassed smile of an old woman, what the occasion had been. Our first Valentine’s Day. I had taken her to a small, deep-dish pizzeria in Chicago for dinner. She had looked so lovely in her deep emerald dress. I could have stared at her all night; I probably did. We ate and had wine and laughed, and then I handed her the book. It wasn’t exactly a romantic gesture, but it was signed by her favorite author, a novella that I was pretty sure Jodie didn’t even know existed. Every moment of stress leading up to her reading the title page had been worth it. Jodie was always gorgeous when she smiled.
The memory stirs deep emotions and I take the postcards out from under my arm, putting them back on the shelf. The book is quick to take their place. That night had been the beginning of the rest of our lives. I met her parents, this time as her girlfriend, the following week. We were sweethearts then.
Jodie’s parents weren’t religious and weren’t homophobic— they had actually