MEMORIES GUTTED AND STUFFED
music (to be played while reading) & story
by Dead Times (Calvin Markus + Travis Bunn)
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The rusted hinges on the door crackled and moaned like the stomach of a starving addict. He opened it slowly. Before I saw inside, he turned to me, and nearly closed the door behind him.
“Please don’t be frightened.”
“Why would I be frightened?”
Alan grew up fighting in Vietnam and living on Iowa farms. I grew up on watching M.T.V. and having A.D.D. I’ve known him for two years. How our paths crossed is insignificant. This is the first time he’s invited me over. His house is in a warm family neighborhood in Tempe. Its front yard landscape is drenched in chaotic green scenery that practically hides the front of the house. He spoke with a slight discomfort in his voice:
“Do you remember what I told you my old job was ?”
“Yeah…and?”
“I know I can trust you, so I won’t bother asking you if I can.”
“Alright…”
“I just don’t want you to overreact.”
“What? Over what?”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have brought you here…”
“Alan, come on, what are you talking about?”
“There’s a reason I’ve never invited you over.”
“Alan seriously… Are you messing with me?”
He stared at me hard, it seemed as if his dull brown eyes gained fresh pigment. A single stare that told me I should listen to him and stop questioning every word he says—-that he was serious. His eyeballs vibrated with age and honesty. Comic relief would be inappropriate and unreachable right now, but suddenly I was overcome with a swarm of wit and sarcasm.
“Oh, I know! You’re secretly an avid porn collector and your entire house is covered in centerfolds.”
“Stop. No. I’m not kidding. I just need to know that I can trust you.”
“Didn’t you just say that you knew you could trust me?”
“Well yes, but…”
“What’s the big deal? Are you smuggling drugs or dead bodies or something?”
He moved his eyes from mine to the cracked concrete below us and he mumbled under his breath.
“Practically.”
He opened the door just enough so we could enter. My nostrils were then flooded with a mutt of different scents, from cigarette smoke to body odor. I coughed several times. My eyes had started to water from the smell. The living room was vacant except for a navy blue sofa facing a vintage television in the corner. A black and white film was playing on it. The walls were painted the same color as Alan’s skin, a drained, pale white.
“So this is it?”
Alan was staring at me with his eyebrows slightly raised like they were somewhere in between concern and confusion. I closed the door behind me and walked toward the sofa. Someone was sitting on the right side of it. An old lady with frail grey hair holding a cat in her arms. Her eyes wide open staring at the screen and a large smile upon her face, a smile that looked as if it was fake—- that it was forced on her face. I mouthed out “Who is this?” to Alan, giving him a look that I felt awkward not having been introduced. He continued to stare at me, with his eyebrows now somewhere in between surprise and sadness. I saw him grinding his teeth, which is something he only does when he’s very nervous. I shook it off. Maybe he’s embarrassed of her.
“Excuse me ma’am. I’m sorry to interrupt your movie, but I don’t believe we’ve met.”
No response. She didn’t even blink. Even the cat didn’t acknowledge me. I gently set my hand on her shoulder, glared at Alan, then looked back at her.
“Look I don’t know what Alan has told you about me but I…”
Her shoulder was stiff and cold. The cat still didn’t even, oh no. I backed away, my watering eyes now streaming. Alan still staring.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me… no, no, no, no, no why would you… Please tell me this is…”
As I covered my mouth with my hands and nearly tripped trying to back away as fast as I could, Alan caught me and spoke softly, trying to keep me, as well as himself, calm.
“Look, you can’t tell anyone about this, it isn’t legal yet.”
“Of course it’s not legal! It’s disgusting! It’s horrifying!”
“Listen, you have to listen to me.”
I thought about calling the police. I thought about running out the door. I thought about him stopping me and gutting me and stuffing me and mounting me on the couch next to her. I thought about screaming. I thought about puking. I thought about doing all of these, but did none. I just stood and stared, opening and closing my eyes, double checking that this is reality.
“Just hear me out. I’ve been a taxidermist practically my whole life and when my wife, my daughter, and my best friend all started dying… of age, of disease, of life. I wasn’t ready to be alone. I can’t stand being alone, I hate it more than anything. I had to do something about it… and this is what I came up with.”
I stood in discontent, in disbelief, in disillusion. His voice began to tremble, desperate for my understanding. He walked a few steps closer to me, grinding his teeth, sighing and nearly crying. It took him a few attempts to start talking again, he would half finish a word then stop completely, leaving a throbbing silence in between us. With the sound of him wiping sweat off his forehead and clearing his throat happening simultaneously, he finally spoke.
“You see, this is what my wife loved the most, relaxing at home, watching her favorite films… petting her adoring cat. It’s what we would always do together after a long day; it was our time to be together, to enjoy each other’s company. Do you remember? I know I’ve told you before.”
I almost began to respond to him until a splash of vomit, which I thought was going to be a word, crawled out of my throat. I swallowed it back down and closed my eyes, trying to stay calm. This story of his wife, of them having rough and long days, then relaxing together at night on the sofa before going to bed, has been told to me many, many times. I had always known he was very nostalgic, but not to this extent… He only ever talked about the past; he could never enjoy a moment until it passed. Nostalgia pumps through his veins, it’s all he breathes, it’s all he feels. It’s the only thing keeping him going. He’s stuck, running in place, trying to chase these unreachable memories. This kind of nostalgia doesn’t whither away or dissolve with time. He has been reborn and raised by it. Attempting to relive something that is dead. Clearly dead.
“Look at what time has done to me… My skin, my hearing, my memory, they’re all fading fast and there’s nothing I can do about it. I became so worried that I was going to forget these moments… these people were so significant in my life, ya know? I mean you have to look at it as…”
“Wait… wait what? You said “these” people… you mean there’s more?… oh god.”
“There are four more, but I swear that’s all there is.”
“Four!? I can’t handle this… I don’t know what to do. I should leave. I should definitely leave.”
“Yes you can, you can handle this. I know you. I trust you.”
I put my hand on the door knob and was expecting him to stop me. I looked over my shoulder and saw him let out a sigh, a sigh that almost made me feel guilty for not accepting that he does this. He looked up at me.
“Please don’t go. I… I mean… I’d like you to see the rest.”
“See the rest?! What, do you think I’m impressed by this or something??…actually it is kind of impressive, wait, no it’s not, not at all, it’s sick! It’s awful!”
I wonder if I’m actually handling this myself, or if I ‘m just handling it the way I think that you would handle it, or how anyone would handle it… And with these thoughts echoing, I felt nothing. A brief silence entered the living room. In this moment, my mental noise turned off. My nausea was gone. The smell of the house didn’t phase me, I was used to it. My emotions went numb. I felt nothing.
“Fine. Show me.”
He smiled with relief, and possibly even enthusiasm. His teeth and his tension now finally relaxed. His body loosened and shoulders reverted back to being limp. His skin practically letting out a sigh of relief, going from complete constriction, to hardly being attached.
“Follow me.”
We walked down the drained, pale white hallway. His skin practically camouflaged in it. There were four doors. He opened the one to our left then waited for me to walk in. I did, slowly. This room was thoroughly decorated to look like a dining room, the floor was tile, there was Jesus memorabilia and paintings of Iowa landscapes on the walls. In the center was a wooden dinner table but instead of food on the table, there was playing cards. An overweight elderly woman, I assume was his mother, is holding five cards in her hands. She’s looking across the table at a man, his dad. This was one of Alan’s favorite stories. I know this one.
“I know this one.”
“I thought you would. I’ve told it to you it before.”
“Yes, many times.”
We continued to the other door. His daughter, who died at a young age, was mounted on a wooden swing that was hanging from the ceiling. The walls were painted as the sky, the floor covered with fake grass. I know this one. We continued to the next door. His best friend was an avid clock collector, all he ever wanted was clocks. He sat with his eyes closed in a large antique chair, looking as if he was in complete peace. The walls, the ceiling, every inch, covered with clocks. Alan has told me this, his friend used to say that time was on his side, that his clocks will stop when he stops. The clocks were stopped. Alan made sure of it. We continued to the last door. The room was strangely familiar but something was missing. There’s no one in it.
“There’s no one in it.”
“I know.”
“Who’s it for?”
“Don’t you remember?”
“What?”
A sudden realization widened my eyes and dragged open my jaw. This was an exact replica of where Alan and I met for the first time. It’s beautiful. It’s perfect. The counter, the chairs, the menu, it’s all the same. This was my part time job when I was in college. I was laid off due to the downfall of the economy, only a few months before the whole place was demolished and replaced with a hideous shopping mall. He handed me an apron. I smiled and stood behind the counter.
“Hello sir, what can I get for you today?”
“I’ll have a small black coffee to go… and by the way, my name is Alan.”
“Nice to meet you, Alan.”
