He came home to his fleabag to find a pile of bills… He broke the seal and held the ampule over his vein…
…mixed the powder and drank, thinking about glue and plastic and little sticky decals…
…and found himself laughing… high, clear childish laughter.
Derek relived Derek reliving Derek reliving… The boys laughed together and Derek laughed along. But this time he struggled not to lose consciousness. He was ten again. But ten was no longer a goal. It was a way station. He lived as the child again, but this time he watched.
“Darling, don’t go into the water!”
“Aw, Mom!”
But Jennifer had made slightly veiled promises… overhead a jet plane growled… At one time he had wanted to be a pilot, but that was patsy’s work…
“Oh, Derek, you were wonderful!”
“Mr. Blakeney, you owe four months’ rent…”
“…the Black Chemists have upped the price.”
“Good Lord!” Bettide hissed. “You’re Derek Blakeney!”
“Honey! The agent says Derek’s got the part!”
…Making friends with a movie dog… an older actress at night… first reefer… teenage girls swooning… a fleabag hotel where he could continue taking the drug and relive leading the cast of Another Roadside… Meeting Melissa, her laughter sweet, her smile bright… joy…
“Derek, honey, the terrorists…” She held him… but then she wasn’t there to hold him anymore.
The scenes flickered from a plush condominium to a cheap room. From cheering audiences to downer reviews. Somewhere in the midst of it all Derek realized that he was replaying memories that had accumulated at the beginning of this very session with the drug… that like Achilles chasing the hare, he was parsing his life into more and more rapid cycles. The closer he got to the “present,” the more cycles had accumulated and the more densely packed they were—each a lifetime to be relived!
“But thoughts, the slaves of Life—”
Bless the Mercy Law, he thought, opening the shoe box… The runner passed the edge of the doorway. “Supper’s ready!”
“Good-bye, Derek.” The door slammed.
“Good riddance…”
“Melissa, don’t go!”
“You fool, she’s gone.”
This time he added, “Yes, she’s gone. But do you care enough to follow her?”
Derek grimaced and sipped the supplement… “Have they found any more like me, Doc?…”
“I saw Realm of Magic on the Late Show.”
“What would I do in the friggin’ Catskills?”
Even the groupies drew back…
“…an object lesson in the dangers of…”
“They call it Time-Jizz…”
…picked up the ampule…
…mixed the powder…
…picked up the ampule…
…found himself laughing, high and clear.
and laughed along
and laughed along
and laughed along but watched
and carefully watched…
“And Time, that takes survey of all the world—”
The runner found his stride…
“Good-bye, Derek.”
“Good riddance…”
“Don’t go!”
“You fool, she’s gone.”
“Yes, but do you care enough to follow her?”
“How, you idiot? How can I follow when the past is locked, and the flashbacks multiply faster than I can experience them? I can’t even get off.”
Derek sipped. “…any more like me, Doc?…”
“…saw Realm of Magic…”
“…friggin’ Catskills…”
“…object lesson…”
“They call it Time-Jizz…”
…picked up the ampule…
…picked up the ampule…
…picked up the ampule…
…mixed the powder…
…found himself laughing… and laughed along and laughed along and laughed along but watched and watched and watched and watched.
“And Time—”
“—Good riddance…”
“—Don’t go.”
“—She’s gone.”
“—Will you follow?”
“—How? I can’t even get off!”
Derek added another layer.
He laughed… high and clear.
“Must have a stop—”
The runner persevered. There really wasn’t anything else to do.
AUTHOR’S NOTES
A treasured colleague and friend is my brother Dan, a newspaperman and veteran of the City News Bureau of Chicago, who was so fierce and on target in his scrawled comments on my early work that I decided I had better get writing gooder quick!
Seriously, I do believe useful criticism is an author’s lifeblood. No story of mine is published without being read by a dozen or more selected people well in advance. Those who can’t find something to criticize, something needing improvement, tightening, or polishing, are dropped from my list with my thanks. Only by hearing the bad news can I improve. Dan taught me that.
It was Dan’s idea to do a piece about a memory drug. This is his story, as much as mine.
“A Stage of Memory” is also a tale about ego. We are probably the first civilization whose paramount heroes are entertainers. (Most others have admired warriors above all else.) Worshiping movie and rock stars may be a slight improvement, but it has its drawbacks. Crowing up near Hollywood, I got to see more than I wanted of what “ego rage” can do to people, especially when all one hears are the trumpets of praise.
The long road to hell can be traveled by not listening to others, or by listening and believing them too much.
Sic transit gloria. Remember where you’re standing.