Strobes

Strobes
© 2004 T. Marcus Christian
You’re in the world of power ties and power lunches. It’s the world where shoulder pads create dominance and equality. Your world is filled with clicking keyboards and windowless, timeless offices. It’s a world of endless phone calls and cell phone rings when you’re in the bathroom. In this world, every project is a priority and every job is a rush.
You’re in the world where nothing really matters and where nothing really happens. And you hate it.
Work wouldn’t be so bad if you could go home and forget it all. Forgetting it all would be a dream come true. But in fact the nightmare is that you dream about work.
If you were to do something different, something to help someone else, maybe something would change. Maybe there would be purpose. But purpose might mean extra projects.
So, you work. You mind your own business. Nothing changes.
The world you live in goes on. Everything stays the same. The project you stayed late to rush to completion put another dollar in the pocket of a greedy, indifferent corporation. You know this because you heard it on the morning news. You always have to follow your stocks.
In this world you always park crooked. Two spaces are barely enough to prevent dents in your nice new car. You check each door for a mark. There were none today but there might be one tomorrow. That’s your excitement.
But you want more.
You sit and stare at a screen or a pile of papers. You pray, hoping the boss won’t give you more to do. But your prayers are unanswered. Your boss is a hard driving choleric. He’s a high-strung heart attack waiting to happen. He always gives you more.
You get home at night and ask where the time has gone. The next morning you look down at the pile of unprocessed papers at the corner of your desk. You sit and stare and know.
It’s not that the work will never be done. It will. Sometime, somewhere, someone will pick up the pile. Someone will do the work.
Maybe it will be you. Maybe it will be the person you sit next to in the weekly meetings. But reality tells you it will probably be left to you.
You try to save gas and some money so you start a carpool. You put an ad on the company message board. You only got one response.
The next Monday you drive down a familiar street and stop at an unfamiliar address. Someone you’ve never seen before makes an awkward wave, opens the door and steps in.
In the carpool lane both of you stare out the window ahead, afraid to talk. It’s the awkward silence of new meetings.
You’ve heard of the recent layoffs. A close friend was let go last Friday. You’re afraid you might be the next one let go, so you don’t say anything to the guy with the extra gas money. You can’t get too close to someone if they just ride with you.
You just sit and stare out the front window of the car. Every day is the same.
You can’t get too close.
He might be gone in a week. Then you’d be stuck, alone. You can’t worry about that now. You have to worry about number one.
But who cares? You don’t like this job. Sometimes you don’t know why you stay. Then it hits you, you know why you work here, you have to pay for your stuff. Especially that nice new car with the ding in the door that your car pool friend pointed out last week. Today there’s one on yours. You have to start parking crooked again, you think. You thanked him in as few words as possible.
You can’t get too close.
Time passed. He was let go and you were spared. There was a feeling of superiority, yet angst.
You wanted your friend to stay. You wanted him to be there on the long lonesome drives. But he was fired, or freed; you aren’t sure which.
You didn’t want to get too close, but you did. You knew this would happen sooner or later. Now you miss the company.
You were the one who did a little extra work so he wouldn’t have to. It was a small act of friendship, a small stack of paper from the corner of his desk. It was an impersonal way of saying thanks.
Maybe a boss saw it. Maybe he thought you were picking up his slack. You weren’t, you were just being a friend and you didn’t have much to do. Besides, you owed him, he found that ding.
Then there’s the ride home. Long. Boring. You call your girlfriend to tell her you’ll be a little late. She blah blah blahs for about fifteen minutes about a new purse. She talks until her voice is just a constant whirr of white noise.
And you want out. You just wish there was a way. If only you could forget.
The white divider lines flash beside the car. The oncoming traffic flashes past, their lights strobe through the guardrail into your eyes.
You think of a club. Dancing. Your mind wanders to the time last Wednesday night when you and a few guys from work, minus your car pool friend, went out for drinks.
That’s where you met that girl. Well, not actually met, you just looked because you were too scared to go over and talk to her. You were in a committed relationship; the only problem was that you were the committed one.
Then your car is in the next lane of traffic. It’s advancing on the rumble strips but you’re still in the club. There’s a low rumble, then it’s gone. Sounded like a little of the music you danced to. Just some bass back at the club.
Then another tire meets another rumble strip. That one was right on beat. Then the car is down the side of the embankment and you’re in the trees.
You wake up. The club is gone. The music is gone. Your memory is gone.
You’re in the world of …
You’re just there. But you know you shouldn’t be. And you got your wish. But you can’t remember ever wishing.
That’s when the wandering took place. They found you walking down the highway. At least that’s what they said. That’s illegal and you would have known it had you remembered all those rules you learned in traffic school the second time you had to take it.
You open you’re eyes in a stale, white room. Everything is so white and so bright it just amplifies the pain in your spinning head. You look around and remember… nothing.
Your headaches soon stop. But the ringing doesn’t. The ringing calls you to remember. It’s trying to coax you back into the carpool lane before your friend was fired. Before the trees, before the spinning down the embankment, before, when you had all the answers.
If only you hadn’t done that extra work. If only you hadn’t “picked up the slack.” But you don’t know that. All you know is you’re in a hospital room. They told you that when they wheeled you in.
They told you as the lights were passing before your eyes. It was the strobes again. Black, white, black, white. That girl.
What girl? You know she’s important, but you can’t remember.
Then you’re sitting up in bed. The doctors, those men in white, you know this only because they said so, are looking at your pupils. What good can that do? Do you find memories behind the pupils?
More lights and more strobes. They brought you here in the first place. The endless cycle of on off on off. Nothing is tangible, and nothing is concrete or solid, just pieces and flashes too short to grab.
A woman comes in claiming to be your friend from work. You don’t know where work is and you can’t even remember what work is.
“You fell asleep at the wheel,” she says. “You’re lucky to be alive.” You just nod with the endless up and down of a dizzy head. But the answers won’t come.
Your memory only strobes before you in short bursts of light. The light is only bright enough for one second. You can’t get a full image, it keeps changing.
You see… you see… black.
You’re awake now. The woman from work is gone and the first thing you see is the white ceiling above with small holes in the tiles. They are called acoustical tiles. They told you that too. They told you everything. They answered every question. They told you the name of the city outside the window. They even pointed out the building you used to work in.
They answered every question. Every single one. Except the most important one, who are you? Sure they gave you a name but a name is just a label. What good is labeling an empty jar?
If only you had been sick more, the doctors would know you. If only you had been more charitable. If you had only gone to more blood drives. If only…you would have known this man or this woman tending to all your needs. But you didn’t and they don’t. You’re stuck in this cold dark room. Nothing makes sense and it seems nothing ever will.
There are only the strobes.
One morning you wake up with a sense of remembering. There was a face in your dream last night. A face kept repeating. It was moving in and out of the light. The music played.
You get up and walk on tiptoes over a cold floor. You walk into the bathroom and click the light on. This light stays on. But the light here and now doesn’t help. It would help if the strobes in your head would stay on.
You want to look into the mirror. You haven’t had the courage till now. You were afraid you would see someone you didn’t know. Someone you didn’t know from the inside. That frightened you. When you look up you find your eyes gazing into the blank stare ahead. The eyes meet as if for the first time. You know this person is you, nothing more.
You follow a scar across your cheek and down the side of your face until it disappears into the neckline of the smock with the open back. The breeze is familiar. The scar is not. You don’t know where the scar came from. It’s not new. And it isn’t very noticeable. But you’re trying to notice everything. You want every detail. You want to know and be known. At least by you.
But the memory of the scar is gone. Not gone, you tell yourself again, that’s what the doctors said at least. Your memories will never be gone, they are just locked inside. In your case, deep inside, but you don’t have the key your doctor keeps talking about.
You look around and feel trapped. You need to get out of here.
This isn’t the place you should be.
You need to be home.
You need to get home.
You don’t know where that is.
The first step is leaving. It’s a trip down the hall and then down those steps. But you don’t know where those steps lead. They go where you’ve only been on a stretcher looking up at the strobing of the fluorescent lights above.
All you can remember is the most recent days. You remember a woman yelled your name as though you were deaf.
She asked if you remembered her. You said, “No.”
She yelled, “You have to.”
She yelled her name like you wouldn’t understand if she talked normal. You forgot her name on purpose. You knew you were not supposed to like her.
You should have told her you weren’t deaf. But you didn’t care. She was gone soon anyway. She left frustrated. What right did she have? You were the one missing it all.
You could tell by the way the nurses were looking at her. They had a look of disdain. They knew something about her. And even if you don’t like her, you can still go to her. She might help you. She seemed to like you. But could you stand the annoyance?
You want out.
Decide.
There is a long hallway to your left with a door at the end. You walk to the door and push it open. No one noticed and you’re happy. At least this is what happy will mean from now on. You look down the dimly lit stairs.
You step down each one. The unsteady gait. A spinning head. The meds always came in steady doses through your arm. You didn’t know that, you thought that was something else. You were caught in the strobe of conscious, unconscious, conscious.
When you finally woke for good you still got your meds through a tube. It was an order that was never changed after you woke up. They should have given you pills. If they had given you pills you wouldn’t be leaving a trail of blood down the hall.
Somehow you made it to the landing without too much falling. But the door you opened never led anywhere. Just into the arms of an orderly caught off guard. He put you in a wheelchair and said a name that wasn’t familiar enough to be you, but it was.
You’re taken back to the room you just left. A guard is put on duty. You’ve never had a guard before.
In a few days someone claiming to be a friend drops by. You don’t know him. He can’t prove you ever did. He brought cake. Who wants cake when all you want is your memory? Who wants to eat off a paper plate with rabbits? Who wants to use flimsy plastic forks? Who can use them? The only thing you want out of this unknown friend’s visit is a memory. Just one thing that would bump the strobe flashing in your mind and make it stay on.
He pulls out a yearbook. And you can smile. And you know what happiness is. Before it was escape but that only led to incarceration, this is tangible. These are memories.
You ask him where he got it. He tells you about the class reunion you were so excited to go to. He tells you how you were looking through the yearbook every day remembering. He thought it might help now. The reunion was three weeks ago. Too bad.
You look down at the book. It sounds like a promising idea. The cover says “Memories.” The sub heading says “…for tomorrow.” Ironic.
An outline of 1996 is behind the Memories. You didn’t know it was after 1996. Knowing the year never would have helped.
You trace the path of the nine on the cover. Then the six.
So far this hasn’t triggered anything. You remember when that woman, the one you forgot, kissed you on the forehead when she yelled goodbye. Before that it’s only strobes. No light would stay on.
The man that gave you the book was named Steve. You remembered Steve because he was the one that delivered. He was the one who was trying. He never sat at your bedside yelling at you, screaming slowly through each word. He was worth remembering.
The cover is opened. Signatures line the inside front cover. You pass them. Signatures without faces are pointless. If you can’t remember who signed it then who cares if they wished you a great summer?
You turn the pages. No memories from the book promising them on the cover. The only advantage to having Memories placed in front of you is that they are tangible. But only the pictures are tangible today.
Mixed within a collage of students goofing off there are a few pictures of the man who stares at you in the mirror. A caption above the collage reads, “These are days we will never forget.” Very funny.
You turn the pages. You discover that you played football. You were number 70. You were just the same size as the others on the team. You weren’t smiling.
You wouldn’t have known it was you unless Steve had pointed you out. He left soon after you opened to the football picture. He left when the doctor pushed him out. The doctor didn’t even ask you if this was ok. He didn’t care if you wanted him there to help you through the pages. He didn’t care.
You decide that the signatures might be a good idea. They could lead you to a picture of someone you remember. The only task is deciphering the signatures alone. Sometimes second opinions help.
The first one might read Suzy. You need to know who Suzy was. You want to know which Suzy it was. You need to know if that scribble even is Suzy. No last name. No initials. No help.
Eric Lampton. That one is written in clear lettering. Looks just like it was written with a ruler placed under the words. OCD it looks like. Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. You only know this because they gave you a stack of papers to read all about your condition and what happened before and during the unguided tour down the embankment.
You read through every page as if each word were a precious metal. You didn’t want to miss a thing. You read through a whole page discussing OCD before tossing it aside. You couldn’t have known it was useless until you read the whole thing.
The page discussed the cause and effects of OCD. You threw the paper out. It didn’t explain anything. You weren’t OCD. But now you can see that Lampton was. You’d lost your memory. And that’s all you cared about.
Within the pages there were a few references to the accident you don’t remember, including a walk down a highway you thought was from a dream.
You remember the stretcher, the lights passing overhead, the strobes.
And nothing.
Now you have something tangible.
Eric Lampton’s picture is on page 78 right next to Patricia Lampton. They look related.
Eric has his hair parted down the left side, your right. His glasses are askew off his crooked nose. His ugly face doesn’t ring any bells. Just the incessant ringing of your thoughts. The constant noise of nothing.
You’re at the back cover now. In illegible teenage-girl-bubble-letters you decipher “Sara Wright.” She’s on page 89. You know this because she wrote it next to her name. She wanted you to know just where she was “all the time.” “My smile is just for you,” she wrote.
Page 89.
Sara Wright.
She isn’t smiling.
Where was the smile she promised? Must be a joke between friends.
The idea came from nowhere. You should look yourself up and see what goofy suit your mother made you wear. Why didn’t you think of that earlier?
Page 71. Third row. Second one in.
“Sorry, picture not available.”
The story of your life right now. Even the editor of this book didn’t know who you were. Even they screwed it up.
You close the book. You want to throw it but you’re afraid they might take it away from you and you don’t want the only memories you can grasp gone.
You lay the book down. You’re too tired to continue. Your bag with those meds in it was changed between searches.
The meds cause that haze again.
Then you sleep.
The dark twisting mass of green before you. The trees. Then the strobes.
Blue.
White.
Red.
Blue.
White.
Red.
Then the strobes of the lights on the ceiling of the hospital pass above you.
You sit up in the scared wetness of a sweaty bad dream. Your heart is pounding and you can’t be here now. You can’t be in the dark. You know where the switch is in the bathroom all it needs is a simple click. And you need a light to stay on. You can’t stand the strobing anymore. The floor is a familiar cold you’ve become used to. The bathroom door is a darkened silhouette against the white wall. You step inside to be blinded by the white light. Right now, the light is brighter than any morning light would be. You squint until your eyes adjust. But the light stays on.
Your friend in the mirror squints back.
Cold water seems like the best solution. You run a washcloth you found hanging in the shower under the cold jet of water and wring it out. The cloth is cold on your neck.
It calms you. It brings you back to now. It reminds you that this light will stay on no matter how long you stay in here.
Then you’re walking down the hall again. The guard at the door was asleep. The patter past his station didn’t even stir him. This time you try the elevator.
You hold a tissue on the blood oozing from the hole in your arm. They won’t be able to follow a trail of blood this time.
The receptionist doesn’t look up from her magazine as you walk past. The elevator arrives and you’re on it. “One please.” But you’re the only one riding.
Why did you say, “One please”? Rich people said that when the man in the elevator held the door for them and their groceries. You knew you weren’t rich. They would have treated you differently if you were. Maybe you were and they didn’t know it.
On the first floor you stand out like a nail hole in a white wall. Cold air blows into the slit in the back of your smock. You don’t make eye contact and you don’t look around. It isn’t far to the exit. You sense that someone is following. You hear running footsteps. They sound like they are coming from behind. They’re coming for you.
“Jack!” they yell, but that’s not you. It never has been. You can’t remember who Jack is. Somehow Jack is just a name. There are too many Jacks anyway. Maybe if you ever remembered you, you would change it.
Now you’re in the parking lot. But that’s as far as you get this time. They stop you before you get to the street. They stop you “before you hurt yourself.”
They stopped you.
Back at the room, Sleeping Arthur is awake. You hear muffled voices through the door. They’re harsh. Without being told you can tell this man is being reprimanded. Just like you could tell the nurse didn’t like that yelling woman. You just knew. But hearing muffled voices and remembering a kiss from an over perfumed woman don’t count in the long run. They are just nothings. You close your eyes to the mumbling through the door.
It’s dark. No strobes.
Someone is coaxing you from your sleep by talking to you. They say a name that isn’t yours. For all you know it wasn’t ever yours. When you open your eyes you see a mom on television calling her sons name. He wakes up.
Then a sudden question comes to mind. Where is your mom?
Where’s your dad?
Do you have any siblings? They will tell you anything. You remembered something. So you ask. “I don’t know how to tell you this… but your parents died.”
You can’t cry because you never knew them. You want to cry because you’re supposed to be sad when parents die. But you aren’t. It’s hard to be sad when you can’t be. It’s hard to mourn people you don’t know.
But being sad right now wouldn’t help anyway. It would take you away from your goal. You have to focus on it. Your goal today was to remember. It was to look through every page of that book with 1996 on the cover.
You open the book. Every page brings more frustration and no Memories.
You get to page 71 and pass by the empty block where your picture never was.
You hear the loud click of stiletto heels on tile.
Someone is screaming.
Someone is yelling.
“Can you hear me?”
“Hello?”
It’s her again. She’s in the corner of your eye. That perfume you remember before the face. The name you do not remember.
You keep looking at the book. On page 108 you pass by a picture of a dance. You dance. You almost remember. There was a strobe there. There was a mirrored ball. You know there was a mirrored ball. There are always mirrored balls at dances. But this wasn’t the dance on the page. This wasn’t your high school, polyester, old spice cologne dance. This wasn’t the captioned “Remember the ‘70’s” dance. This was the recent dance. The one where you “met” that woman. The one where you were afraid to talk to her. You would see her again. You would talk to her next time. You had planned on it. You remembered. You were caught in that strobe. You were on the dance floor. A fool danced in your place. She didn’t look your way. You went back to your seat dejected and wished you had just walked over instead of creating a fool by dancing horribly and off beat.
But then you were here. In this car. Bouncing over potholes in the pavement. The rumble strips singing with your left rear tire. You’re awake or revived. You swerve back onto the shoulder and stop the car. Your memory is back. Right then you wish you wouldn’t have done that little extra bit to get Steve fired. You wish it didn’t look like he was slacking off. You should try to get that taken care of.
You look down at your arm. No I.V. hole. You’re not wearing a breezy smock.
Then you realize you never left. At least you can’t remember leaving. Maybe you just got returned to now after you did all that living and trying to remember. Maybe you were returned here to fix every little problem.
Then you realize it doesn’t matter. You have now. You can remember. And you know that escape isn’t always the answer. And you don’t want it anymore. That kind of escape just isn’t worth it.
And then you remember your parents. And they are dead. You cry because they are not forgotten and they are loved. You dry your tears.
Your cell phone rings and that annoying voice with the kiss on the forehead is on the other end. She’s yelling just like at the hospital. She’s asking why you hung up on her. She’s asking you to bring home milk and you know where that is, but you just might decide to go over the edge and into the trees just so you don’t have to.
You liked not remembering her. You liked the new start you could have without her. You look over the edge again. Your foot almost moves from the break to the accelerator.
But it doesn’t. You look over your shoulder and get back into the flow of traffic. The lights of the oncoming cars still strobe into the guardrail reminding you of the club embarrassment. The flashing, passing, white lines on the road help you remember. They bring your goals to the here and now. And maybe, tomorrow or the next day, you’ll talk to that girl.