current

Yesterday and Today

by Dale Phillips

Corman awoke with a clear head and no confusion, all ghosts of the past in their proper places. It was heady and frightening to be this lucid again. Corman lay on the bed, carefully sorting memories, pleased when none dragged him down another tributary of the past. He lay in an unfamiliar room that had no reminders, no traps to lead him into the shifting maze of times before. The room had an odd, musty smell, but not one that triggered any memories.

Corman was therefore not surprised to find himself alone in the bed. Unlike so many other mornings, he didn’t expect any wives or lovers he had once known. Naked, he sat up and swung his feet to the floor. The cool surface felt good. Corman stood and stretched, his 200 years feeling light on his healthy, muscular body. His bladder alerted him with pressure, and he went to relieve himself. The disposal unit wasn’t working, but he used the imitation porcelain out of habit.

Returning to the bedside, he looked around the room. There were no loose items, other than his clothing and knapsack. He checked the Autostore unit by habit; it was of course not functioning. Corman rummaged in his pack and came up with a container of food. The preservatives left his mouth dusty and dry, but there was no liquid to wash it down with. His trip to the relieving room had been disappointing; water had not flowed through to these rooms for years.

Corman tried to open the window. The mechanism was unfamiliar and fairly ancient, but with determination he created an opening. The sky was an ugly, pallid gray. Corman couldn’t remember the last time he had seen a blue sky. There were so many things he couldn’t remember. He could see the street, but detected no movement. He judged himself five stories up, and wondered what had possessed him the previous evening to climb five flights. Corman pulled on his jumpsuit, shouldered the knapsack, and left the room.

Despite the leaden sky, Corman felt good. In the open air, he pondered what to do. He had no idea how long he had before the random access of PreSen deposited him in some hole of times gone by. Finding he recognized this part of the city, he began walking toward the park.

There were no people about, which disturbed Corman. Despite PreSen, this had been a populous city; somebody should be visible. He noted the dismal decay, the weeds poking up through the streets. The wind blew cold, vengefully biting Corman through the jumpsuit’s insulation. It was late autumn; winter was not far away. More people died in winter. Some were suicides, others just wandered out into the cold. These bodies, seemingly forever young, could still be halted by neglect.

Corman looked around, and realized with a start that he was near to where he had met Linda. He wondered if she was still in the old place. It was dangerous, thinking like this. She had been so important in his life that seeing her or the old place might flood his precariously balanced mind with overwhelming memories. He probed his own thoughts delicately. The blessed sense of the present was still with him. He shrugged, and decided to check if she was still around.

The old place, the place he and Linda had shared for so many years, was in a once-fashionable area. Even this district suffered from the decay infecting the rest of the city.

Several blocks from the old place, he saw a husky man standing in the street. The man looked down one street, then slowly turned to look in the opposite direction, his expression that of a child. Corman knew he was lost, in both time and place, and walked over to him.

“Hello,” he said.

The man peered back at Corman, looking puzzled. “Where am I?”

“South side of the city, by the causeway. Do you know where you live?”

The man thought a moment. His hands, thick and strong-looking, fluttered aimlessly. The movement looked out of place on him. He seemed about to cry.

“I … I don’t know.” He jammed his hands into his pockets, seeming to be ashamed at forgetting.

“It’s okay,” said Corman softly. “The only way I remember is with my Card.” Corman pulled the metal rectangle from his own pocket and held it up for the man to see.

“You don’t happen to have yours on you, do you?”

The man frowned at the piece of metal in Corman’s hand. He searched his pockets, scowling. His face lit up as he brought forth the shiny Card and proffered it to Corman. Corman took the Card and read it.

“George Martin,” he announced. “Hi, George. My name’s Corman.” He stuck out his hand.

“How ya doin’?” George pumped Corman’s hand and grinned, eager and friendly, like a big dog.

“Good, George, good. Your Card says you live not too far from here. I happen to be going that way.” The lie came easily. “Why don’t I walk with you?”

“That’d be great.” The big man looked vastly relieved. He took his Card back and followed Corman, chatting happily. He spoke of owning a car, back before they were banned. He made it sound like a very short time ago, but Corman hadn’t seen a car in over seventy years. He couldn’t recall the last time he had been in one. He didn’t try too hard, for fear of slipping back. He was glad the man still had his Card on him; a stroke of luck these days, really. The Cards had been issued when Premature Senility, or PreSen, was finally acknowledged as a legitimate illness.

Corman remembered getting his Card, which emitted a beep if he got more than two meters away from it. In spite of this, some people still lost theirs. At first, the Caretakers would patiently find the person and return the Card, but eventually they lost control of their own memories, and drifted away like the rest. Even the Card could not remind people strongly enough about the present.

George talked about his family, who lived with him in the suburbs. He told how they had to take care of his mother, apparently an early victim of PreSen. A cloud passed over the man’s features as the mention of PreSen shuffled his memory.

“That was a long time ago,” he said apologetically. “Sorry, I forget sometimes.”

“We all do now, George,” Corman said.

George turned quiet. Corman knew he was trying to get back into the present, treading carefully, like Theseus through a maze.

They rounded a corner onto a broad boulevard, passing empty skeletons of skyscrapers. With everything so quiet, the sky could have been a comforting blanket, but Corman saw it as a shroud. Depressed, he looked out over the collapsed causeway and saw several birds flying over the water. The sight gladdened him.

They turned twice more. Corman checked the numbers to find the correct one on an old brownstone. He stopped. George stumbled, looking up at the broken windows and the crumbling steps. He turned and peered at Corman suspiciously.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Just someone passing by,” Corman replied sadly. “You live here, don’t you?”

The man flinched as if struck. He looked up again at the faded building.

“Yeah, I guess I do.” He started up the steps, pausing before going in.

“Hey!” he called. Corman had started to leave, but turned back at the man’s call.

“You helped me, didn’t you?” George said.

“Just walked with you, that’s all.”

“No, you helped me. Thank you for that.” The man’s frame sagged as he opened the door and went inside. Corman shivered and walked away.

He walked back to Linda’s neighborhood. The streets remained chill and quiet, with no one about. Corman navigated the emptiness, wondering where all the people had gone. Surely things hadn’t got this bad?

On a corner, Corman recognized a restaurant where he and Linda used to go. He looked at it for a moment, the memory of it washing over him, but not taking him away. He shrugged and looked for a way in. There was little chance of actually finding food in the abandoned building, but he wanted to check it out.

The windows and front of the building were covered over. Corman saw no way to pry anything loose. He went down the narrow alley alongside the place. Several feet over his head, a window looked promising. Corman searched for something to stand on. He found a door off its hinges and dragged it over. It was missing several central panels, but had a sound frame and looked sturdy enough. Corman propped it up with the base against the other wall of the alley. He put his foot on the frame and boosted himself up. The door sagged threateningly, but held. Using the frame in the middle, he was just high enough to get at the window.

Corman spent several minutes cleaning the filth from the sill so he could get at the window. It opened inward when Corman pushed against it, then something snapped and it swung wide. He swung his legs up and hung suspended on the ledge, peering inside.

Part of the ceiling had given way. Muted gray daylight seeped into the place, allowing Corman to see. It was an easy drop to the floor, with no obstacles. Corman hung onto the ledge, easing the lower part of his body down the inside wall. He stretched full length and let go, landing without problem.

His eyes adjusted to the gloom. This had been the kitchen. A good place to start, he thought. Methodically he searched for food. Although the place was bare, someone might have left something behind. Corman opened doors, checked under shelves and equipment, and found the big walk-in coolers. Of course they no longer worked, and none yielded so much as a scrap of food.

Corman walked through a swinging door to an empty dining room. He tried to remember what it had been like with tables, chairs, and decorations. He shook himself, recalling how dangerous such reminisces were. The sound of dripping water filled him with hope. He hunted for the source.

The water came from the collapsed portion of the roof, which left a large hole over the former bar area. The heavy wood partition still stood, but the bottles and paraphernalia were long gone. Corman saw the water fall, heard the splash. He looked behind the bar. One of the sinks was full. Corman ran to it, hardly believing his luck.

The sink had been clogged with filth, but that had settled to the bottom. The roof must have only recently given way, or there would have been more damage. The sink overflowed with inviting rainwater bounty. Corman cupped his hands and scooped some to his mouth. It was brackish and metallic-tasting, but seemed drinkable. Corman bent and greedily slurped from the surface. When he had his fill, he remembered a container in his knapsack. He took it out and filled it. There was plenty of water left, but it was full of debris that he had been stirred up. He decided to enjoy the rest and quickly got out of his jumpsuit. He washed his face, and was able to get most of his body wet as well. The water felt good on his skin. Still wet, he pulled his jumpsuit on and continued his search.

Corman found no food or useful supplies. The place had been stripped clean. He took a last look, remembering when it had once been a busy, entertaining place. Now it was just another monument. Corman went back to the kitchen and pulled a steel worktable to the window. He scrambled up and out, and used the door on the other side to step back down into the alley. The air was fresher outside, and Corman took a deep breath, savoring it.

What were the chances of finding Linda at home in the old place? You never knew. People kept returning to places they hadn’t lived in for years. Since he wasn’t far away, he would at least try.

He made his way through rubble and weeds to the apartment building. Once housing the rich and privileged, it had gone to seed in a shocking way. The front door was smashed. Corman pushed his way in. Refuse choked the hallway, and he had to climb over decayed garbage to reach the stairs. His apartment had been nine flights up, but at the top he wasn’t even winded.

Corman tried to remember the last time he had seen Linda. It was spring, and he had brought her flowers. That had been his last good, clear-minded day. He couldn’t recall, exactly, but knew that it had been years. Corman shook his head in disbelief. When a person was lost in the vast libraries of the mind, with two centuries to draw on, it was hard to find a way out.

Passing one door, Corman noticed a horrible stench. The door was open, so he went inside. In a chair by the window sat a woman. Her decayed body was the source of the smell. There were no signs of violence. She must have just sat down and waited for death to take her. Corman recalled finding many like her, and shed no tears. Instead, he made a thorough search of the place. He found three ancient packets of food, two of which were still good. An incredible find. Corman almost whistled, until he remembered the body. When he left, he cleared the trash from the jamb and closed the door tightly.

Corman came to the old, remembered door. He had lost his keys long ago. He thought he heard a noise within, and tried the doorplate. It was unlocked. He pushed and entered. Linda sat in a chair by the window, staring out. The resemblance to the dead woman’s position sent a shiver down his back. Linda turned and rose. He saw a moment of confusion before the past kicked in. She swooped upon him and they hugged.

She looked good. She had the face, body, and voice of a young woman, but was over a hundred and fifty years old. In times gone by, Corman would have been a mature man long before she was born. That changed when society succeeded in extending the lifespan by any and all means.

“How are you?” Corman asked.

“Fine. How was your trip?”

“Trip?” Corman’s hopes sank.

“Of course. Washington.”

Corman thought back. It had been an important business conference, back when they were married, before people started going into PreSen. They had been together almost forty years. More than most. He decided not to confuse her.

“Not much to tell, really. I’m just glad to be back. You look great.”

“Shall we eat out to celebrate your return?”

Corman thought of the deserted, wind-blown streets. She was in a good mood, and he didn’t want to spoil it.

“Why don’t we eat here? Just the two of us.”

“All right. I’ll fix something. Would you like a drink?”

“Sure,” Corman responded automatically, before he realized she didn’t have any liquor. He almost dared hope; his mouth ached for a highball glass with ice clinking merrily. As she checked the cabinet, he went to her.

“Never mind, I’m not really thirsty.” He hugged her again.

“That’s odd. I bought a bottle of scotch just the other day. It’s not here.”

Holding her tightly, Corman almost cried. No, my love, he thought, you haven’t bought scotch for decades, and the man who sold you that last bottle is probably dead.

“What’s wrong?” She said. “Honey, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing. It’s just so good to see you again.”

He kissed her, and she responded. The embrace felt more passionate; Corman felt himself stir with desire. He thought about fighting it, and gave in. She led him to the bedroom.

Afterward, Corman lay entwined with Linda, loving the feel of her next to him. They had drifted slowly apart, like continents, when the PreSen began. One or the other would forget and be gone for long periods of time. They had stayed together as long as they could, fighting and forgetting, until they were lost. In the past, death or divorce separated couples. Now PreSen did, slowly, insidiously.

How many others, Corman wondered? People were now ships cruising on oceans of memory, each individual a Flying Dutchman, sailing aimlessly through centuries. Was anyone left who wasn’t afflicted? He looked up at the window, closed and draped against the outside world. There wasn’t much to see anymore.

Corman awoke, and felt Linda’s absence from the bed. He sat up. She stood at the foot of the bed, in a red silk kimono he had given her years before. He knew there was a problem. Her stance was defensive, and she regarded him with a cool stare.

“So, Mr. Big Shot. Come waltzing in here and expect to pick up where you left off. I suppose you expect me to sit around here waiting until you decide you want to wander back for a quick one.” She snapped out the words, hard and angry.

Although Corman knew she was remembering a long time ago, when they were breaking up, her words cut him, and he blushed furiously. She turned her back on him.

“I think you’d better go now,” she said.

“Linda.” He tried.

“What? You’re going to tell me you’re sorry? That you forgot to come home again? How many times have I heard that one?”

“Yes, I forget!” he shouted. “We all forget now.”

“That’s a new one.”

His words had not cut into her frame of reference. Corman almost wept with frustration at not being able to defuse her anger.

Linda rifled through her dresser.

“I can’t even find my damn cigarettes!” she sounded close to tears. Corman knew the only place she could have found a cigarette now was in a museum.

She turned to look at him coolly. “Oh, are you still here?”

Resigned, Corman got up and dressed. On the kitchen table he left the two packets of food he had found. He said goodbye, but she didn’t answer. Corman left the apartment, his former wife a mad bird in a cage built by her own mind.

Corman walked the empty streets without purpose. He kicked at rubble aimlessly. He tried to remember when they had hunted for a cure, when people could retain their sense of time flow for more than a few hours.

PreSen, they called it. Young bodies with old minds going senile before their time. The fragile human brain, unable to stand more than a century and a half of stored memories before shuffling them all like a deck of cards. Where were the children? He remembered that people had stopped having them. Plenty of time for that later, with all of the biological advances. But when they got older, they couldn’t remember to have them.

He walked without pattern, thinking. Someone shouted to him. He looked around; no one on the street. He heard the voice again and looked up. Someone on a rooftop waved to him. He didn’t look familiar, but Corman decided he might like some company.

He found the fire escape still workable, and made his way to the roof. At the top, he saw the remains of a rooftop garden, and an old man who seemed to be planting seeds. Was it possible? Corman couldn’t remember the last time he had seen an old-looking person; everyone had gone to the rejuvenation clinics.

And seeds! Where had he found them? But the old man was wasting them by planting them now; they would die in the winter. Corman looked up at the cold gray sky, and felt an immense sadness. Maybe he could return later and dig the seeds up and save them for spring. If he remembered.

The old man was humming a tune. Watching him plant, Corman was reminded of a scene from a play, when live theater was still performed. The man worked on his knees beside an old wheelbarrow. He looked up, smiled at Corman, and rose, dusting off his knees. He walked over, pulling off the work glove from his right hand. He offered the hand to Corman, who shook it in surprise.

“Name’s Arnold Matheson,” the man said. “Pleased tameetcha.”

“Corman. What are you planting?”

“Everything.”

“Everything?”

“Yep. Beans, carrots, tomatoes, radishes, cucumbers, got some squash over there, even some corn.”

“Where did you find it all?”

“Been savin’ ‘em. Quite some time now. My own special project.”

“Why plant them now? Corman asked, careful of the reaction.

The old man looked at him. “You mean, on account of it’s already fall?”

“You mean you know winter’s coming? You’re wasting them deliberately?” Corman was aghast.

“That’s right.”

“But why?”

“Because I’m dying.” The old man walked to a crumbling edge of the roof and sat down.

“You can’t be serious. Nobody dies from disease anymore.”

“No, they don’t. They just roll up into little balls and waste away, or jump out of high buildings. I know. I’ve seen ‘em.” The old man shook his head.

“I don’t understand.”

“My mind, son. My mind’s going.”

“Well, mine too.” Corman said, after a pause. “But I’m not dying.”

“What do you call it, then?” The old man’s eyes were a watery blue. Corman had no reply. “What do you call it when everything people ever lived for is taken away? When they go through the day playing out pieces of their life like a jumbled-up movie? When they have no more life in them but to live out the past? What in hell do you call it?”

The old man was shouting in anger, but he was crying as well. Corman could say nothing. The old man went on.

“I have nothing left. I have no future, only scattered bits of the past. I kept these seeds and myself alive for years, while everything else fell apart. Now I’m falling apart. This is the last thing I can do to make myself happy, to take a real, conscious act in the present.”

He paused and looked at Corman squarely. “You take a person’s mind, son, you’ve taken everything he was. The rest is just a shell. Oh, you’ve all got real pretty shells, but there’s nothing inside. No reason to go on. Just keep playing those tapes until you slide into blessed darkness. We wanted to be gods; we just didn’t realize the gods are mad.”

Corman thought of the woman in the chair. He thought of Linda. He tried to reach back, to remember his boyhood, the golden summers, the smell of the sea. He realized the old man was shaking him.

“Do you see? There’s nothing left.”

The old man turned and walked away. Corman watched him go back to his knees, digging in the cold soil. Corman felt weary, and old, and afraid. He climbed back down the rusted fire escape.

The sea. He had always liked the sea; he would go there now, thinking about what the man had said. Rain pattered on him as he walked. Two streets away, a woman played in the rain like a child. The sight saddened him. Worse, however, was the knowledge that he would soon be lost again. He walked toward the sea, wondering how much time he had left.

Dale Phillips has written three novels, published a number of short stories, and has appeared on stage, television (Liberty News TV, contestant on Jeopardy and Think Twice) and in an independent feature film, Throg.