Thursday, May 15, 2014

500th Post: Prompt: Memory Bank, Part 1

We all have our bread-and-butter memories. The ones you trade in for grocery credits and don’t miss when they’re gone. You know, riding the bus, or studying in the library, or watching a vid. It’s always been a mystery to me why anyone would want those boring old memories anyway. But to each his own, I guess.

I got a really good deal on most of my grade school memories when I was traveling in Asia. I’d met up with four other guys at a hidden beach resort in Thailand, and one of them heard about a dealer from the bartender. Five of us walked into town from the beach resort. He gave me so much credit I bought dinner for everyone. Banked the rest and used the memory of choosing my first dog from the shelter to pay the resort bill. So many unwanted dogs in Thailand – it struck me as particularly curious that they’d choose that one.

Back in sunny C-A, I found a nice apartment about an hour north of San Diego. The light was awesome, and I setup a studio and started painting and teaching like I had before Asia. It was in my catalog, anyway. I must have traded in the rest of those memories sometime during my travels. Funny, cause I didn’t usually trade in art memories.

I began to wish I had kept better track of all that. But I had always thought, what’s the point of worrying about memories you don’t have any more? It kind of bugged me, though, that I’d traded in something I didn’t think I should have. So I made an appointment with a credit planner to review my catalog and a few of what I thought might be my more valuable memories.

I was expecting a bank, but her office looked more like a spa, or a psychiatrist’s office. She even had a reclining couch, though we sat on opposite sides of her desk to get started. While she accessed my catalog and paged through it, making a few notes, I looked around her office. On the credenza behind her was a headset that looked like an old-style phone, with a thin band curved to rest over the head. Was that a memory scanner? The Thai dealer’s miner had just been a wire glove, and the creditors usually just used a finger sleeve like a heart monitor.

While she was going through my catalog, she kept sneaking glances at me. I wondered if I had something between my teeth, and I resisted the impulse to feel with my thumbnail. Looking at my fingernails, I had not done the best job cleaning paint from under them. I studied the colors and tried to remember the piece I was working on. Was it a landscape or a model? I couldn’t remember…

Dogs in house:
Houdini, Brindle

May word count:

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