Echo.
-Again.-
A circuit closes.
An alarm sounds.
Richards extended an arm from under a cover, aiming to flip the catch on the tiny, chiming device. He missed, and the little demonic machine fell to the floor, it’s whining continuing.
"Hell." It was his first exclamation of the day, as he pushed the duvet aside to crouch down beside the bed, searching for the maniacal clock. Finding it, he flipped the alarm off with a palpable ‘click’ and stood up, now very much awake.
"Blast." Was his second.
He proceeded to avoid the temptations of the bed and it’s alluring softness, and made a start dressing for work. Pants, trousers, shirt, tie. All assembled with the precision borne of constant, regular practice.
He stopped. For just a second he had the fleeting impression that he had done this before, in just the same way, many times previously.
No.
But of course, he had. This was his routine and it was one Richards had undergone every day for many years. The routine of work and his own, very personal, rut in society.
He shrugged and continued, unperturbed. The ritual went on, with it’s associated absence of forethought and presence of daydreaming. His mind moved over it all as an observer, pondering matters entirely unrelated. His life, women he knew, places, people, things. It only connected properly with his actions once he had retrieved his briefcase, put on his coat and walked out of the front door into the cool grey, overcast light of the world outdoors, pausing only to lock it behind him.
And now, of course, came the new ritual. Set the mind to freewheel and walk, steadily loping, allowing each leg momentum to set it up for the next stride, using minimum effort. Minimum effort was the name of the game, and the way to accomplish it was to synchronize your movements precisely. Anticipate the patterns of traffic lights, so as to cross the minimum of roads and wait a minimum amount of time while the quiet electronics did their work.
And so Richards made his way through the town, with it’s bustling morning traffic, as a rat in a very open-ended maze, crossing here and here and moving, by averages, towards his destination. The mind ran automatically, sorting out the noise of engines and horns, the signals of traffic lights and the calls of other people and filtering this swathe of information into something small and manageable, as he navigated the grid.
It was that very unsung but always impressive facet of the human brain. –To perform such feats of complex filtering, reckoning and mathematics in an almost entirely subconscious setting, allowing the conscious mind to dither and wonder about the affairs of the day. Allowing Richards to wonder about economics and the current world order, to ponder of various celebrities unseen in some time, of…
He walked past a shop to his left, and started idly thinking about that too. That small, cramped newsagents, it’s aisles overflowing with various miscellaneous items of commercial interest, was one he had visited once when he was a child. He had, in that period of young teenage rebellion, bought several cigarette lighters, lighter fluid, lighter gas and a variety of party balloons. Combining all ingredients elsewhere in a quiet corner of parkland, he and a friend had lit a series of small but quite intense conflagrations, their breadth aided by the bursting of the gas-filled balloons.
He remembered, in particular, that one of their fires had not remained under control at all.
Shaking the memory away, he continued upon his careful ambling, his eyes scanning the pavement in front of him and peripherally noting the traffic to one side. Fumes and dust from their metallic chorus entered his lungs, unnoticed and unseen.
He continued for some way like this, making good time. The world became a sequence of greyed-out thought, habit and connected events.
-And then he saw him!
In front of him, some distance away on the same pavement, was a familiar figure, striding towards him with purpose and determination in his eyes. It was a figure he had known, long before. It was the same character who had joined him on that day in the park so long ago, setting fires and grinning at the quiet fireballs of the balloons.
Why, all these years later, it was an old friend from school and university! A friend not seen for many years. Richards felt compelled to greet him, since he had clearly already made eye contact.
He raised his eyebrows and made to offer greetings, before he realised that for a supposedly surprised and sociable old friend, he was walking far too quickly, far too purposefully and with nothing near a friendly look on his face.
"Dennis-" he started.
"Save me that crap, Richards!" He barked, scowling. Richards was completely taken aback by this, and did indeed step back, stunned.
"Excuse me?" He said.
"You heard perfectly well, Richards. I want all this to stop!" He stabbed a finger forward to exclaim the point.
"What? What to stop? I was just saying hello."
"Yes. You always do. Every single day you say ‘hello’, ‘excuse me’ and all the rest. I want this to stop. All of it."
Richards was completely gobsmacked. This was Dennis Hartmann, old friend. Acquaintance of many years, not seen in some time. He hadn’t seen him in years, nevermind saying hello every day.
"Dennis." He said. "I don’t know what has gotten into you, but I don’t appreciate it at all."
The other man merely looked exasperated. "Of course you don’t." He said. "You never do. We go over this every day. You always say that." This turned Richard’s expression of puzzlement over, almost into one of concern.
"Are you sure you’re alright?" He said. "Do you feel well?" He extended a hand, only to have it brushed away.
"Of course I feel well, Richards. What concerns me is that you don’t remember me, that you don’t see what is going on here."
"What?" Humouring him couldn’t hurt, Richards thought. "What is that, then?" Perhaps I failed to recognise him a couple of times this week, and he is angry.
"I tell you what; I’ll walk with you and talk on the way. Wouldn’t want to make you late, now." He seemed calmer now, though that exasperated set to his lips was still present. The two walked onwards, sidestepping a woman with a pram and navigating their way across another set of traffic lights, which had switched just at the right time right then. Hartmann had his hands firmly embedded in his pockets as he walked. He was focused, intent. "You’re not going to believe this initially, Richards. I know you’re not going to. You never usually do, but I must tell you."
"Usually do? What?" He has silenced again, and Dennis continued.
"Have you ever thought" he took his hands out of his pockets and gestured, vaguely. "Have you ever thought about perceptions of memory?"
"What? Yes. Sort of. Do you mean seeing things in different ways, in different-"
"No." The voice was emphatic. The cut-off sudden, as if what he had said was foreseen before he said it. "I mean whether you remember certain things at all." He looked at Richards and frowned. "I’m not getting through to you. Again, I’ll clarify." A pause followed. "Assume that your memory of yesterday was manipulated or wiped. Assume that you woke up without any way of knowing that a day had passed, even though it had passed and that you had passed along with it. Would you have any way of telling?"
It was an unusual question, certainly. Richards considered it, puzzled. Not puzzled as to the question itself, or of it’s nature, but at why Dennis, after all this time, would meet him like this, act so oddly, and ask such a bizarre thing. Where was the greeting; the vibrant ‘hello’ and the shaking of hands? The recollection between the two of old memories long passed? What was going on with him and why this strange new behaviour from an old friend?
It occurred to him that he should answer the question. "I… wouldn’t, I suppose. I would think-"
"You would think that it was the day before, all over again. Perhaps you would act exactly the same way as in the previous day, too. Perhaps you would have no idea that you had done it all before."
"Stop. Slow down." This was too much, too soon. "What are you talking about, Dennis? I haven’t seen you in years. I wanted to say hello, not listen to a rant about philosophy!"
Dennis, his eyebrows knitted, silenced him again and pointed, extravagantly, across the road. "That man is going to fall over." He said, simply.
Richards, despite himself, followed the outstretched finger and looked. Over the road, it’s way imbued with the flashing blurred silhouettes of motor vehicles, were pedestrians, bustling around. One man in particular, at the very apex of the extended finger looked to be the one Dennis was indicating. He must have been. He was carrying an outsized cardboard box, leaning backwards to take all it’s weight and shuffling awkwardly forward, in tiny, careful steps.
He turned back. "What? What are you talking about, Dennis? Stop acting so strangely."
"Look!" The finger pointed again, and Richards sighed and turned to follow it once more, to look at the man with the box.
Sure enough, he seemed to be having problems. The grip of his hands at the bottom of the box was becoming loose and precarious. He was aware of this, and stopped, trying to hunch down and use a knee to push it back up again so he might get a better handhold. His fingers continued slipping, and he tried again. This time his balance was off, and the motion simply caused the box to fall, lopsidedly, from one of his hands. Lurching forward to intercept it, he succeeded only in tripping himself up.
He fell forward, on top of the box, which hit the ground and crumpled slightly. A tinkling, breaking sound came from within, as of something delicate and fragile shattering hopelessly. The man got up, stunned, and began swearing profusely, waving his hands in the air in a futile attempt to guilt any deities present into making it all better and, failing that, to insult them for their negligence.
He turned back, to see Dennis grinning widely, an expression of some smugness set on his wide face.
"There. " He said. "I told you he would fall."
"Well done." He replied. "Very observant. But how does that relate to what we were talking about?"
"Because it has happened before! That same man falls in the same way every day."
"I’ve never noticed it."
"Yes you have!" He was gesturing wildly. "You do notice it, every time it happens. You simply forget it."
"Oh yes. Of course." Richards said, sarcasm heavy in his voice. "The ‘memory loss’. Naturally; why didn’t I consider that?"
Dennis seemed to become frustrated again, his forehead furrowing. "Why must you always be so skeptical? It’s simple enough. This day has been repeating over and over again. You don’t see this, because you lose your memory each time, but I don’t! I have been through this so much; this day, this conversation. I didn’t even meet you until I had gone through it at least twenty different times, trying out new things."
"Dennis-"
"Don’t you interrupt! The evidence is clear for you to see. How else could I have predicted that man falling over?"
Richards sighed, deeply. If only he had known. If only he had known that this old friend of his would have slipped deeply into this madness. –Some kind of advanced paranoia. Fantasy-weaving. He feared for his sanity now, and decided to make it easy on him.
"Dennis." He gestured at the man over the road with his pitiful, shattered load. "You predicted that because you saw him and used your head. You’re not stupid, you know. You saw that silly little man with a massive load and anyone could see that he was going to fall over. Anyone, Dennis."
"You’re not listening!"
He sighed again. This wasn’t going to be easy. It probably wasn’t even going to be possible, but he had to try, for the sake of his friend Dennis Hartmann. For the sake of old times he needed to break this madness, or at east give it a good attempt.
"Very well." He said. "Tell me your theory."
Hartmann positively twitched when he said that. "It is not a ‘theory’. It’s the truth." He gathered himself and calmed down a couple of notches. "Now don’t simply turn off when I say this, please. I shall be blunt. This day is repeating itself, like a simulation, over and over again. You and everyone else don’t realise this. Your memories are wiped and rebooted so that every single day is exactly the same, but mine isn’t. I have to repeat this same day over and over, as the only one who knows it’s causality. For a while I thought it was all some great joke or simulation. Not real, in any case. –Then I met you here." He shook his head. "I have tried to reason with you scores of times about it, but it never gets through. You just keep asking me questions and once the day is over I have to start all over again. I knew that man would fall over because I have seen it happen so many times. I could even tell you what is in the box. It’s full of stacked china plates. I know because I looked in it."
"What? Just now?"
"No! Days and days ago, before the whole thing repeated again, I went over and asked him. You can do so yourself if you want."
"I’d rather not, Dennis." This was getting tiresome, and was wasting valuable time, slowing him down as he continued the walk to work. "Is that all the proof you have to give?"
He saw Hartmann shrug and shake his head, distraught. What psychological torment he was putting himself through he could hardly know, but he certainly looked bad. His hair, matted and tangled, framed an unshaven face and knotted, tortured brows, thick with distrust and derision. His heavy jacket was torn and dirty, holes distinctly visible in places. He looked like he had been living on the street for some time.
Richards decided to make an act of charity. "Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but if you want a place to stay I can make room on the couch where I live. It’s small but cosy enough." He saw the other man wave his hands, shrugging off the offer.
"No. There’s no point. None of it is real anyway." He turned to look down a sidestreet. "I really don’t know if I should just go now and leave you in peace."
"No." Exclaimed Richards. "Dennis, don’t. You’re perfectly welcome. I’m just concerned, is all."
"Of course you are. You always are." He folded his arms after repeating the sentiment, and looked down at the pavement, glum and depressed. "It’s going to rain soon, you know. I’d use that umbrella if I were you."
Richards nodded and didn’t. "Look, mate, seriously. I can get you a place to stay and I’m sure I can find someone to talk to you about…" He gestured. "All this."
Dennis reacted badly to that. He unfolded his arms and reared bolt-straight, staring furiously into Richard’s eyes. "Oh." He said. "So that’s it, is it? I’m just some crazy loon from the past who needs professional help. Well thank you very much for your trust there, Richards. Thank you very much indeed!" He stopped walking and stood, in the diffuse light of the darkening sky, in front of Richards.
"I didn’t mean it like that, really."
"Of course you did! You’ve walked along by me and listened to my ‘theory’ and now you just want to shove me out of the way as soon as possible. –Let some professional headshrinker see to the loon, right?" He turned and walked away a few steps before stopping and coming back, stopping right in front of Richard’s face. It almost felt like he was going to lash out.
"Dennis!"
"Shut up! You really have no idea, do you? All this." He waved his hands around, at the road, the cars, the picturesque little shops and vans loading their wares into them. At the sky with it’s thickening clouds, blotting out the sunlight, and the hills visible in the far distance. "You take it all as a given, don’t you?" He pointed at a bright red hatchback, as it drove by, it’s engine chugging merrily and primitively away to itself. "I mean, really! Motor cars? You shouldn’t even be walking around outside. Breathable air, no domes, no big lights or stars. Clouds!? Where do you think you are, Richards!?"
"I’m walking to work! If you will excuse me-"
"No!" He shuffled in front of him, blocking the way. "No I won’t! First I want to know what it is you want from me. What is all this?" His face was growing red, angry.
"What I want is to get to work on time, Dennis. Get out of my way!"
"You? What you want!?" Hartmann grinned maniacally. He positively danced with mock glee at that singular statement. "You’re nothing, Richards. You’re a puppet, a simulation!" The strange grin widened, and he looked taut. Ready to snap. "I want to know what they want. The people who made all this!" He poked a finger at Richards still, silent mouth. "I can see this for what it is, Richards. This is nothing but an interrogation! This is a torture chamber, just for me. -The same day sweeping around and around, always the same. Never changing!"
"Dennis, I’m warning you. Get out of my way now! Stop blocking me!"
"No! I’ve found you and I’ve figured out your intent. So you’re interrogating me, right?" The grin disappeared and the frown appeared, then vanished again. Richards could have sworn he could see tears in those crusty, abused eyes. "Well I’m ready to sing like a bird, Richards. I want to tell you everything. All the stuff you want to know from me! Just say it!" He reached out, delicately. "Just tell me what you want to know. End this for me. Please!"
Richards backed away from this bizarre, crying figure that had replaced his friend. This figure who had, in the space of one conversation and several minutes, broken down completely in front of him. Pity overtook him and he felt compelled to aid his friend, to make it all better.
"I… can’t, Dennis. I’m sorry. I just don’t know what it is you want. Tell me, please."
The other man all but collapsed at that. His hands drew back and he stepped back out of his way. "More questions." He sobbed. "That’s all I’ll ever get from you, isn’t it? You don’t have the answers to anything here." He staggered past Richards, brushing against him roughly, before turning to call back as he walked away. "All this time I’ve wasted on you! Useless!"
Richards stood, thoroughly dumbfounded, at the display and the retreating back of his old friend, who had refused all the help he had offered. "Can’t I at least give you my phone number?" He called.
Dennis turned round and spoke his last, parting, comment. "No. What’s the point? You’ll always be here anyway. You’re never going to change."
And with that, he left. Richards was left alone, standing stock still and thoroughly shocked. What on Earth had just happened here? What was it all about; domes, stars, breathable air? Memory-loss?
He wiped his eyes and brought himself to his senses, slowly.
-No time to waste. Work awaits.
And so he hefted his briefcase and continued the walk, following the old ritual. Traffic lights, the muffled conversations of people around him, the sounds and peripheral blurs of cars passing by. All of it filtered through his head as it always had been, the ritual of minimal effort continuing as always.
And so he walked to work.
After a time, he felt something prick the top of his head. And again on his exposed right hand, making a tiny wet mark.
Rain. He thought. He unfurled his umbrella and continued.
---------------------------------------------------------
The day had been a long one.
And now, with the evening well and truly hanging over his house and with a heavy downpour patiently tapping it’s hundred fingers against the windows outside, he slunk into bed, raising the covers and wriggling himself into a comfortable position. It was a good day for an early night, in his exhausted opinion.
Staring up at the ceiling, however, he could not help thinking of how the day had gone, constantly perturbed as it was with the memories of the startling encounter he had had that morning. Even later on, when he had manouevred his way delicately into a local pub with his work colleagues, he found his thoughts and actions polluted by the memory. In the end, he had made his excuses and left early, leaving with strange ideas moving around in his head.
After all, it was always easier to assume a simple explanation. It is easier and more rational to assume life exists as it is, rather than postulate some huge, monolithic machinery arranging things just-so in order to fool you. That was, of course, Occam’s razor, and it’s use was one which any rational man should encourage, as he saw it.
But you could never excuse the potential for oddities. The Razor was, as ever, only a guideline, not a rule. You could never be absolutely certain that the simplest explanation, or even the most rational one, was the truth in fact.
How could one know?
He cancelled the stream of illegitimate thoughts and switched off the light with a pull of a chord. Nestling himself in under the covers, he wished, lastly, that Dennis Hartmann would find the help he needed to resume a normal, fruitful life.
And then he fell deeply asleep.
--------------------------------------------------------
-Again.-
A circuit closes.
An alarm sounds.
Richards extended an arm from under a cover, aiming to flip the catch on the tiny, chiming device. He missed, and the little demonic machine fell to the floor, it’s whining continuing.
"Hell." It was his first exclamation of the day, as he pushed the duvet aside to crouch down beside the bed, searching for the maniacal clock. Finding it, he flipped the alarm off with a palpable ‘click’ and stood up, now very much awake.
"Blast." Was his second.
He proceeded to avoid the temptations of the bed and it’s alluring softness, and made a start dressing for work. Pants, trousers, shirt, tie. All assembled with the precision borne of constant, regular practice.
He stopped. For just a second he had the fleeting impression that he had done this before, in just the same way, many times previously.
No.
and usually I don't try to criticize things that I can't do myself.
