Short Term Memory Loss

Short Term Memory Loss

The concept of time travel has always fascinated me. I can literally argue for hours about the semantics of the process, the gravitas of being able to achieve such a feat, and how time travel as a whole could greatly change human growth for the positive if achieved.

I have done my research.

I have read H.G Wells’ “The Time Machine.” According to him, one has to be an asshole to time travel.

I have seen the “Back to the Future” movies numerous times (except for the third one, the one with the ridiculous Wild West storyline which really, really sucked). Marty McFly is an idol of mine.

I’ve bought the time machines via EBay and experimented with their time crystals. I have been burnt many a time.

But in all of my extensive research, the one constant seems to be the need for an actual device that allows for time travel. Whether it be lightning, a Delorean, or magic birthday dust which allows one to turn thirty from thirteen overnight, there must be some sort of “control” which allows for the portals of time to be open and allow the traveler to go through. I have spent my life looking for such a device.

Now I’m no scientist or genius or anything of that lot, but I have put in the hours and have found such a device.

Alcohol.

I started experimenting with the concept of time travel and alcohol quite frequently during my time in college-the perfect time for discovery and wonderment. Surprisingly, the effects were positive. I could travel hours into the future, wind up in strange parks or houses. I could wake up entangled with mysterious members of the opposite sex. Who were these strange future peoples? I could only remember bits and pieces of the process but never full memories.

But this form of time traveling had its drawbacks. First of all I could only travel into the future. There was no way I could travel back in time. It had its labors on my body as well. I would constantly wake up dehydrated, head hurting, and this hanging form of shame looming over my head. The shame was expected; Darwin must of felt the same when he took on God full force. I was trying to undress everything He had worked so hard to maintain.

I also always seemed to wake up naked without having a clue where my underwear was. My pants, shoes, and socks would be placed neatly under the bed but my underwear was never to be found. I began to nickname this part of the experiment “Terminator Syndrome.”

To increase my chances of being able to travel into the past, I increased my “control.” I would imbibe more alcohol on a more daily basis. I had time on my hands to experiment and the right vehicle. I would travel back in time.

****

Living in New York City gives one the rare opportunity to experiment with time travel on an almost daily basis. Alcohol is ever present; it’s splattered on the spray-painted walls, sleeping in dark alleyways that smell like piss, nestling in men’s rooms that quote numbers for blowjobs like Bible proverbs. It’s no wonder there’s time travelers like me everywhere.

****

Saturday October 24, 2009

Experiment #3

I get to the bar in good spirits. There is a sprite in my step and my usual assistants are on hand to make sure all goes well. We frequent the usual spots and I ensure that alcohol is imbibed in tremendous amounts. There is no time for standard drinking; every beer must be followed with a shot, every shot with another. I focus my inner energy on an exact date-March 13^th, 1997. The day before my story-telling contest final in New York City. I imagined myself as a favorite but I spent the night awake while my mother drunkenly screamed and caroused around the house. I wound up in fourth.

I tell people of my ambitions. Most scoff, others watch from a distant, while brave others encourage, buying shots for me, kissing me drunkenly on the neck and lips, propelling me forward. The mood was right for exploration. Was this the night for me to make history?

Soon the lights in my head begin to flicker. The colors swoon and swirl together like a Pollack painting. The first signs of time travel. I feel the rush come over my body like an ice bath. I try to grab onto a railing or chair but my body flounders about like a fish out of water. My body was being transported into the next dimension. McFly watch out, here I come!

****

I wake up in a bloody sweat. I’m screaming, chained to a hospital bed, sheets soiled, bleeding profusely. Where was I? I look around and see the vanilla walls of an emergency room. There is chatter, some crackhead outside screams bloody murder. Devices BEEP BEEP BEEP incessantly in my ear. An IV is inserted in my arm. My balls hang out of a pink hospital gown that is ill fitting. The room is chilled like a meat locker. Think, man, think. How did I wind up here?

I had traveled too far! That was it! I woke up in 1992, a hospital room, head split open from when I tried to kamikaze jump off my roof. I set my sights for 1997 but my mind must of mistaken the seven for a two, a common mistake. My mental handwriting has always been an issue.

I must get back to the present. I knew that the only way to travel back into the future was to escape out of the hospital prison and drink. But how was I to escape the clamps they had fastened upon me? I try to bite at the Velcro but the lint gets stuck in my throat. Maybe I could slink my way out. Sliding down the sheets like a wet eel, I kick and kick and try to position myself into a position of power.

It isn’t long till a towering shadow is looming over me.

“Just what in the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

She’s big, frazzled, worn about the eyes. Her scrubs are bloodied and her arms settle on her chest like twin pythons in hibernation. She’s the Nurse Ratched of my nightmares.

“There seems to be some mistake. I seem to have wound up in 1992 when I needed to wind up in 1997. See, I’m a time traveler and I had my eyes set on traveling into the past….”

“Just lay down and relax, buddy. You’ve been a real nightmare since you’ve come in. Kicking and shouting, screaming about time travel. Just relax. You’d think you’d done enough damage to yourself.”

My head pounds and blood oozes it way down from my skull into my mouth.

“What the….oh God, I’m bleeding!”

“No shit you’re bleeding. Doctor Roberts! Doctor Roberts!! His staples opened up and he’s bleeding all over the place again. Hurry! Will someone help me restrain him?!”

A couple of nurses rush over to my bed. Confusion and hysteria sets in. I try to kick and fight my way out of the melee. Just let me go! One nurse elbows me in the crouch. The other pushes all of her weight on my legs. God damn it! Let me go! I’m a fucking academic for Christ sake! I’m doing this for the benefit of all of you!

Doctor Roberts pushes in the curtains briskly and grabs me under my armpits, bringing me to a sitting position. In one hand he holds a syringe, the other a rudimentary stapler. Hold still, he orders. I oblige for the moment. He is obviously in a position of power and I have to surrender. He uncaps the syringe with his teeth while the nurses hold my torso in place. Plugging the syringe into the top of my head, the gel enters my scalp. My brain twitters. Eyes dilate. This is to make sure you relax, the doctor says, to ensure that the next part doesn’t hurt as much as it could. His voice is soothing. I find myself falling backwards into the bed. My eyes close.

****

I wake up in a different room. I’m still wearing the same ridiculous pink nightie but the IV is gone. There are no restraints around my arms.

I try to get up but my head feels like a ton of bricks. There is blood caked in my fingernails and splashed all over my arms. A weird obstruction protrudes out of my head. What the hell is this? I poke at the top of my skull. Is that staples in my head? Why are there staples in my head?

My mind races back to the night before. I was trying to time travel, I remember. We were at some bar, it was dark, and I stepped outside to get some light, a breather, and then….darkness. Blood. People shouting over me. You’re going to be all right. Sirens. Body stiff. Being carted off into the back of a hearse. An orange hearse. Strapped around my arms and neck. Body stiff. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

“You’re really lucky to be moving around. Quite a mark you got on your head.”

Sunshine in the form of blue scrubs. Blond hair, blue eyes, an angel walks into my room. I’m sure she probably smells of lilacs.

“What year is it?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. What year is it?”

“Well, umm, it’s 2009. It’s a Sunday. October 25^th. Are you experiencing any pain? How is your eyesight? Are you able to see clearly?”

“No, I’m fine. How did I……how did I get back to the present? How did I wind up here? Where am I? I….I was trying to time-travel and it went wrong and I….”

“Just relax. Breathe. You’re fine.” She shines a flashlight in my eyes. “Nothing is wrong with you. We ran a Cat scan this morning and their isn’t any brain damage. You’re quite lucky. No harm done up there.”

“Where are my clothes? Are they under the bed?”

“What?”

“Are my clothes under the bed? Are they there? Are my shoes there? And did anyone find my underwear?”

“All of your belongings are in this bag next to your bed. I’m going to have to get you some new clothes from downstairs before you can go. You’re free to leave after that.”

I feebly move my head to the side of the bed and see the white bag containing what use to be my belongings. I say what use to be because they are literally ripped and shattered and bloodied beyond recognition. My cigarettes are the only things not damaged.

“Just relax right here and I’ll be right back with some clothes and your sign out sheets. Your free to go after that.”

The angel leaves my room. I never even got her name.

The man next to me complains about the inconvenience of quail bones and how they can easily get stuck in one’s throat. I lay my head against my bloodied pillow.

Time traveling sucks.