I stare down into the nearly empty pint in front of me. I know it will be the first of many drinks to come with the sort of day I have had. My head is pounding something fierce. I try to drown out all the noise around me and focus purely on what was left of the gold nectar before me. Most of the bubbliness is gone. It don't matter. It still does the job, and watching those remaining few bubbles was helping keep me catatonic.
I needd to drink to wash it all away. With any luck, I will forget it all, too. This has honestly become my daily routine. The regulars all know me now, and at any moment, Paul will drop his butt down into the seat next to mine and proceed to talk my ear off for the rest of the night. Like clockwork, I feel the pat on my back as he plops down in place. ‘Hey Jimbo. How’s it hanging?’ I hate being called that, but I gave up trying to stop him a long time ago.
I keep my focus on the pint glass, waiting for it to suck me in somehow. Paul must have ordered us another round as the bartender slides a golden beacon of promise in front of me. I slam back the last few drops of the previous promise and stare at the swirling head of hope. I watch as the tiny bubbles race inside to the surface. I imagine each one popping as a metaphorical release of stress. They join the foamy storm of overflowing thoughts. I imagine them all bursting at once and how that empty bliss must feel.
‘That kind of day, huh?’ He asks. I nod in silence. ‘Oh man. That bad, huh?’ I nod again. We sit there for a minute in a state of purgatory before he has to break the stasis. ‘Hey. Have you sent that new memory backup place?’ I utter a short ‘Nope.’ He drones on.
‘They like, hook you up and sort of download all your memories and such. They can also help you forget about things you don’t want to remember too. I have been thinking about it, you know? Carl said I shouldn’t, though. Apparently, an old buddy of his went in, and the place screwed something up.’
I nod my head and choose to contribute. ‘He ends up with memory loss or something?’
Paul coughs. ‘Worse man. So get this. He now apparently thinks he is some form of sentient automata. Full on robot. Like total beeps and boops and whatnot. You can’t even get actual words out of him. Wild, right?’
I shake my head, mildly annoyed. Paul doesn't seem to notice, and another silence falls upon us. This time, it feels a bit better. The drinks must be working.
I look up enough to gesture to the bartender for another round for the two of us. When it arrives, Paul thanks me. ‘So, what do you think?’
I snap out of a daze and respond. ‘About what?’
He takes a drink. ‘Would you do it?’
‘Do what?’ I ask.
‘The memory thing. You know. With the risk and all.’
I look up from my glass and gaze at the poorly ceramic-coated bipedal cyborg next to me while a tube protrudes from its face, siphoning from its oddly grasped pint glass. ‘Nope,’ I reply and stare back down at my drink, watching the tiny bubbles pop as they reach the surface.
About the author
Marc Watson is a writer, educator, and father residing in Michigan. He spent most of his years in Texas before moving to Hawaii, where he passionately wrote on secluded beaches. He became a father and moved once more to Michigan, where he now writes under the canopy of maple trees. threads.
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