Hoarse Tale

Memo hated his nickname. Not because it confused people when it was written on a slip of paper. And not because he sounded like a cartoon character. But because it was a reminder of his main failing. His life was reminders. Pieces of paper strewn around his small bedroom. Sticky notes stuck to the fridge, to the front door, at the top of the stairs. Torn up, ink-stained napkins in the kitchen.

They'd become so much a part of himself, that he felt naked without a small notepad in his pocket.
But he didn't forget everything. He remembered the playing on the swing set in the backyard when he was five. He remembered the girl who lived next door, her name and and the colour of her nail polish, the way she rolled her R's. But he couldn't tell you the last time he ate, or what time he was meeting his friend at the train station. He looked out at the old rusty swing-set in the backyard, with it's broken beams and the missing seat.

He stood in the doorway of the kitchen wondering if he should call, and what she would say. Would she laugh at his forgetfulness and tell him the time, or would she sigh and tell him that maybe it wasn't a good idea that they should meet after all. She didn't like when he forgot things. "If you cared about me at all you would remember," she'd say, "one day you'll forget about me entirely, and it'll be like I'm dead to you. But you won't even know I existed."

She was a little dramatic at times, but he liked that. Dramatic moments usually stuck in his mind, sticking out like a sore thumb from the other random bits of data floating around. It wasn't that he didn't pay attention, he did. His problem was that there was always so much going on for him that he found it hard to focus on the right thing. He knew he was going to be late, and hated rushing through the main street when he was in a hurry. There were always so many people in his way. They all walked so slowly, as though they were all sad, remembering things from long ago. People and places and names and stories and addresses and phone numbers.

He stood at the train station holding a coaster. The coaster had a date and a time and the name of the train station. He just hoped that it was the right one. Did he have plans at the same train station last year on the same date? Or the year before? He didn't think so, but you never knew with these things. How would he know? 

A diesel train slowed down at the platform and dropped off its passengers. She wasn't amongst them. He glanced at the timetable, but could only see one more train due today, and it was an electric train. Was she coming from the city or from the country? He sat down at the edge of the platform and searched his pockets for a cigarette. Nothing. He'd forgotten them on the side table beside the front door. He had time to run home, but he couldn't remember the exact way there. His mind had wandered while he'd walked to the station, and he couldn't remember which way he'd came. No time to wander home now.

A man stood on the platform looking exhausted and frustrated. He drew in hard on his black cigarette and looked at his watch. He looked like a stock photo, one you'd find if you searched "man waiting for train" or some such phrase. He looked over at Memo and smiled. It creeped Memo out when strangers smiled at him. Not because he was afraid of them, just because he could never be sure if they knew him or not. He smiled back and turned to face the tracks. The long weeds and wild grasses grew up between the wood and metal lines, making the track look as though it had never been used.

The man approached him and asked about the next train. "Don't know," said Memo. A phrase he used quite often. Forgetting about the electric that would arrive soon. 

"Can I have a smoke?" he asked, remembering his forgotten pack. "No problem," said the man, sliding them out of his briefcase, "they're clove cigarettes from Indonesia. You can't get them anymore. They taste funny, but they're nice." Memo turned the cigarette over in his hands, they had a weird smell of aniseed. He hated aniseed, he knew that much. He put it to his lips and lit it up. It crackled and popped like a wood fire. It tasted sweet. It reminded him of the taste of a Chai latte he'd had once. He turned back to the platform but there was nobody there. He took another drag of the cigarette and wondered where he'd gotten it. That happened a lot to him, but he didn't mind so much. At least he had a cigarette for the walk.

He walked along the platform to find the timetable. He couldn't remember arriving, but he figured he must have come on the last train. Maybe he'd gone to the city for the day. He checked his pockets, he only found keys and a lighter. He figured he'd find out someday. Somebody would mention seeing him somewhere, or maybe spending the day with him. It didn't really matter too much, he hadn't seen anybody for a while. He walked back along the track through the trees. The walk didn't take him too long, he couldn't remember why he was in such a hurry before. He knew he'd been late for something, but wasn't sure what.

He took his time walking along the dirt path, wondering what to do now. He reached the end of the track and emerged from the trees. He was standing in an open field. He stood for a while and searched his pockets for a cigarette. He didn't find any. Where was he going? He walked over to the swing set with the missing seat. He sat down and scanned the field. It stretched on for miles in all directions. He couldn't remember where he was going or where he'd come from. He closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them he was lying on his back in the grass. He started to cry.

He holds her underwear to his face. The red lace tickling his nose, but he doesn't care. Doesn't feel it. He pauses, pulls his hands from his pants and pretends he can't hear her at the door.
"I know you're there. I can hear the music. Fine. I'll see you tonight".
He had the music on on purpose. Hoping she'd think he couldn't hear her. He didn't want her so close, which was ironic considering.
He hears her footsteps leading away from his door. He resumes where he left off. He knows it won't last more than a minute. It never does when it's like this. Touching something of hers that has been so close to her. Something so intimate. It overwhelms him, and he pictures her. Wearing them. And then slipping them off. He then wonders about who else has touched them. Who has been inside her. It both angers and excites him. No one is worthy of touching her, yet, he pictures them invading her, and he likes it. Theyre rough with her, tugging on her hair, nibbling her lips, holding her arms back. He's becoming too rough now, he's hurting himself. But it doesn't matter. He just wants to feel like he's conquered her. Feel like it's not about her anymore. But it doesn't work. He finishes, but it's not over. It never is. With the others, the important ones, it was never over like that. Not until he hurts himself. Embarasses himself. Or hurts them. Then it's over. And he runs. New town. New Job. New Phil.

"I don't drink," he mumbled, looking to his left to avoid her gaze, "I don't go to parties. I, uh, just don't do them." He smiles and ducks under her arm, eyes to the ground, sliding along the wall until he feels the door knob. He reaches behind and lets himself in before whipering goodnight to the darkness. Claire smiles and walks back to her room, dangling her room key with its oversized heart-shaped keyring from her hand. He moves away from the door, puts the now empty wine bottle under the basin and goes to bed.