Week 17 - I Can't Recall

I Can’t Recall

Matthew Ryan Fischer

What happened here, I don’t remember.

What happened here, I can’t recall.

What happened here was hardly famous,

And meant nothing to those not involved.

What happened here shall easily be forgotten.

But what happened here,

made the world grow very, very small.

                                (N. Gates, The Wastes of Youth)

The grass was worn away and the ground carved out – the impressions left behind over time, where thousands of feet had pushed off for speed, or skid their toes in order to stop or be slowed. Mitch could remember when his feet barely touched the ground. Now his feet rested firmly on the ground. He leisurely rocked back and forth, letting his weight push himself ever so slightly. There was a little bit of perpetual motion in every swing set, or at least that was the way it seemed. Just enough weight, and just the right leaning, and the swing would do the rest. Even now as an adult, Mitch loved the gentle rocking.

He was a strange sight to see – a grown man with suit and tie, sitting on a children’s swing.

Mitch always like swing sets made with metal. Even if they were clunky and loud sometimes. Even if the links in the chain got stuck and one side of the seat hung lower than the other. He didn’t like rope swing sets or the rope burns he got on his hands. Of course that only happened when he was young and was swinging as high as he could possibly swing and he would grip the ropes too tightly. He knew better now. But still, he liked what he liked. Probably only because it had been his favorite so many years prior.

It used to feel like flying. It used to feel like he was losing control. Higher and higher. Faster and faster. He never went so high, so fast that the swing completed a full loop over the top support beam, but he had told that lie many times as a child. He also never leaped off into the air like so many other kids had. Mitch had never been a daredevil, even if he knew how to act like one. Even as a child he knew the value of big words and strong talk. People believed in confidence. They wanted to believe the story. Believe the person. He just had to seem like that person. He always knew how to tell it and he always knew how to make the other kids believe. The swing set antics were a long long time ago, but his communication skills had served him well through the years.

Mitch kissed his first girl on this playground. When he was too young for such things to really matter. He and a girl named Amber something – he couldn’t remember her name. They were in grade school together and they were curious about the things that adults seemed to do. So they kissed. It meant nothing, except that he still remembered it. Amber something. Somewhere in the 5^th grade and already thinking they were just like the adults. He should try and find a yearbook or class photo or something. Amber something deserved a last name. He would try to remember to do it this time. He told himself he would anyway.

Years later he kissed many girls on this playground. Kids needed places to go at night. Parks and playgrounds were great places in the middle of the night. He had several dates that consisted of nothing but swinging on this swing set. Sure maybe they had modernized the playground equipment since he was a kid, but it was basically still the same place and the same playground, so in his mind it was basically the same swing. Even if it wasn’t. That didn’t matter too much to his memory. He still had good feelings sitting here, rocking back and forth.  

Swing sets used to be magic. Time lasted forever. Just him and the air. The wind in his face. The world didn’t matter. The world didn’t exist. Time just stretched out, on and on.

It was getting late and Mitch was a little intoxicated. It felt like this night might stretch on forever and ever too. Swing sets were still magic.

“This seat taken?”

Mitch looked back over his shoulder. “Cindy McGill, as I live and breathe.”

“You always have to say it like that?”

“I don’t. But I do.”

“It’s not even my name anymore.”

Cynthia Palmer – Cynthia who would forever be known to Mitch as Cindy.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t really matter to me.”

“That’s neither cute nor charming.”

“No, probably not. But nobody calls you Cindy like that anymore, so if I do it, then I get to be the only one. It’s like I’m special. It’s like I’m giving myself a little gift.”

“Jesus, you never change.”

“I try not to.”

Cindy sat down on the swing next to Mitch.

“The great Mitch Richards. Here and in the flesh. I’m surprised you came. I didn’t think you were coming. No one heard from you.”

“Well that’s just not true at all. You hadn’t from me. You and all your little gossip hounds. But plenty of people knew I was going to be here.”

“But I didn’t.”

“No... No, I guess that’s true. You didn’t.”

“I heard Jason got a promotion?”

“Well, he got a job title. I don’t know what you’d really call it. It’s nothing really. No money.”

“Ah.” He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t have much to say. That was the way the world seemed to be working more and more often. He was trying to think of something nice to say or something that wasn’t cruel or insensitive, but for the life of him, Mitch couldn’t. He tried hard to ask a polite question instead of something he really wanted to ask, and yet that had somehow sparked a stressful response. The world was shitty sometimes and Mitch knew that all too well. But he also knew he was doing better than most of the people at the reunion and he knew he should keep his mouth shut about money and jobs and such things. He hadn’t meant to say anything about Jason at all, but he was searching for something to say that wasn’t just about her.

Mitch decided to keep his mouth shut for the moment. She had come to see him. She had sat next to him. It wasn’t his job to instigate conversation. She had sought him out.

“Why did you come back?”

“I don’t know. You know how they say you’re going to end up missing things when they’re gone?”

“I don’t think anyone says that.”

“Well not like that. Not like that’s the saying. But there are sayings. People say stuff like that. ‘You can never go home,’ ‘the grass isn’t always greener.’”

“‘You end up missing things when they’re gone.’”

“Exactly. But now you’re just making fun of me.”

“Poor Mitch. You got nostalgic. And you came to a high school reunion. You turned out to be the cliché you never wanted to be. But you did play high school football, so maybe that’s not such a surprise.”

“Wow. Glad to know you’re as sympathetic as ever.”

“I can be a bitch to you.”

“Yes you can.”

“I can. And you used to have thicker skin.”

“Well go easy on me. Just a little bit. I’m trying to be nicer. Means I can’t dish it out like I used to, but also can’t take it as much.”

“There are so many things I want to say to that. Soooo so many. And you deserve them all.”

“I probably do.”

“It’s okay. I’ll be nice. Just a little. Little bit. I’ll still be a little bitch to you. That’s what you get.”

“I thought...”

“What? What did you think?”

“Nothing. Nothing.”

“You know it’s crazy.”

“What is?”

“This. All this. This is my grade school playground. Over there was my middle school, and that’s our high school. All of this is basically on the same block.”

“Cheap land.”

“Yeah. Sure. But... all of it? I started in preschool here. We spent half our lives here.”

“Not me. I transferred in 8^th grade.”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t remember?”

“No, I guess so. Still. A long time. I spent half my life on this street. Add in preschool and that’s like fourteen years. Five days a week. This was the most important street in my entire life.”

“At least you’re not Max – he teaches Algebra now.”

“Really? That guy became a teacher?”

“I know right? Who would ever trust him with their kid? But he did it.”

“How do you know all that?”

“I talk to him. He lives like twenty minutes from my place.”

“You were really good that way. I... I don’t talk to anybody.”

“All I do is pick up the phone.”

“Algebra? That guy was an idiot in high school.”

“Yeah, teaches math and helps out with the theater department. For the plays and stuff.”

“Damn. He’s a lifer.”

“See? Yeah. It could be worse. Much much worse.”

They laughed. Together. It felt nice. Spontaneous but natural. Mitch liked it.

He was about to say that maybe being a lifer wouldn’t have been so bad, but he noticed she had turned cold. He wasn’t sure what was wrong, but he had a guess. He thought it best to keep his mouth shut. As soon as Mitch had that thought, Cindy must have had a similar one, because her demeanor changed and she grew serious. She turned pensive and spoke quieter.

“At least you got out.”

“Cindy—“

“Don’t...”

“I... I didn’t get anything. I just left. That’s all. I left. I wanted to do things. I wanted to—“

Cindy smiled at him. It was a sad and painful smile as she held something in, deep inside her. She didn’t speak for a moment, but Mitch stayed quiet, understanding. She opened her mouth, but all she did was breathe in and sigh a little. Her eyes filled and her lip trembled. If she had to speak she might cry. If he said anything, she certainly would.

After a moment, she muttered, “I know you did. I know.”

Then Cindy and Mitch sat in silence.

Eventually Mitch stood up and stepped behind her. He leaned in close and she looked up at him. It felt natural. She had looked up at him like this so many times before. She liked feeling his warmth near her. He stared down and their eyes locked. She knew his face so well. He looked nice tonight. He had such kind eyes. Even when he tried to hide them. He had kind eyes.

“Mitch—“

“Shh…”

Mitch pushed the swing and Cindy flew through the air. She got to be a kid again. They both did.

Week 16 - Souls Mates

Souls Mates

Matthew Ryan Fischer

A month later, a different city, a different group of stories, but they were all the same… Jeremiah had heard them all before, and he would hear them all again. That’s how these support groups went, they were all alike. The same repetition of events and the same people repeating them.

Until then she walked into the room. Late, but right on time.

Jeremiah reacted to her presence as soon as she arrived. He didn’t know her, but he sure knew her. He was sure of that. There was a certain style of confidence he recognized. She carried herself with a strength and demeanor that only came from truly knowing oneself – not like the other people in the room. The other people in the room were desperate, weak, willing to believe anything, wanting to believe anything. She didn’t act like that. She knew who she was and who she wanted to be. She wasn’t there to whine and cry and pretend. She was there to watch the show. Just like him. She, for all he knew, was exactly like him.

Jeremiah wanted to smile. He wanted to look right at her. To wink at their shared secret. And he was pretty sure she would smile and wink right back. But what if she didn’t? What if she wasn’t who he thought she was? What if she hadn’t felt what he had felt? What if the smile she wore wasn’t any sort of admission to him and him alone, but it was the smile she wore to let the world around her know she was genuinely a happy person? That he wasn’t sure about. That he couldn’t relate to. There was still that small chance that she was absolutely nothing like him at all.

He was pretty sure she caught him looking her way. He looked down and then across the room at the rest of the vacant baggage that filled the room. He tried to stay calm. He had been in situations like this before. He didn’t want to overplay his hand. He didn’t know what she knew. What she was ready to know. He couldn’t speak first, for that could be disastrous. Maybe he would seem like one of them, the others in the room, pretending, trying to be something he wasn’t. That was a best case scenario. Worse would be the look of pity or disdain, or perhaps mockery. She might think he was mad or pathetic or dull. Seeming dull seemed far worse than seeming mad. Jeremiah had never considered himself ordinary or average. He didn’t want others to start seeing him that way either.

Jeremiah had always considered himself to be special. Ever since he was a young boy and started to figure out about his past and his past lives. He had always known he was special, but then life showed him the proof.

Jeremiah was a man that could see into the past of the people around him. He could see who they were connected to and how. He could find a lost soul or a missing link or a combination of spirits and specters. Jeremiah was born as mostly one man, but he was able to see what he could become if he put his mind to it. He could see the lost souls floating around after someone died. Later, as he got older, he could collected those souls and put them to good use.

Jeremiah had been busy building a better life. Not for himself. He was building a better life for a future version of himself. He took a piece here and a piece there and locked them away inside himself. All those little bits of souls swimming about. It was like he was the sperm donor and he was the egg. And judge, jury and executioner. He could take just what he wanted and leave all the other parts behind. He wasn’t rebuilding a lost soul or a former life. Jeremiah was making his own new world. Not that he’d get to enjoy it. He was making plans for the future he would never know. Building the bricks and mortar that would allow a future reincarnation to have all the advantages and the race already half won. He would make a spiritual successor that was not just the best he could be, but the best that anyone could be.

So Jeremiah went to these self-help group sorts of things. He was on the lookout for any little part that could make him a better man.

Everyone in the room was there for a connection. They all believed they were somebody in a former life, and they were there to find out just who they were. Jeremiah could have told them which ones were wrong and which ones were right. But most any of them didn’t have anything to offer him. Most didn’t have what Jeremiah was looking for.

There were the “FLGS,” those with Former-Life Greatness Syndrome. They were the ones that thought they were someone special in a past life. They went to séances, mystics and Cassandras, hoping to find what their former glories really were. Everybody always thought they were something special. No one ever wanted to be one of the losers of history. Too bad for everyone in the room. The math didn’t add up. Basically everyone in the history of mankind was a loser. None of these people were the fraction of a fraction of a fraction. But no one was going to tell them that. Especially not Jeremiah. It never did any good anyway. No one believed him. No one wanted to hear him.

It didn’t help that Jeremiah was basically one of them. He had his own plans to get out, but for now, he was basically part of their swirling mass of plain and ordinary.

There were usually some that actually had something to say, with something special inside them. Jeremiah could usually talk to them. They were more comfortable in their own skin. They usually had a personality of some sort, even if it wasn’t that good. But they were a step above the normal riffraff.

Most of them didn’t have anything real to offer though. Most of them he called the Red Flags – shining bright, showing off to the world the waste that was inside. He stayed away from them. They were the ones that had nothing to offer the future. Putrid, rotten souls, that were broken and weak. He could see them, waving about, calling out to him, begging to be noticed. Red Flags. He knew to stay away. He knew to keep clear of them all.

The rest of the room was full of the hopeful, the dreamers, the lost, and the never were. They had even less to offer Jeremiah than the Red Flags. They were fresh and new, but their souls had nothing to them. They were blank slates. And a blank slate wasn’t all that special, metaphysically speaking. Most everybody was a blank slate. Jeremiah was still mostly a blank slate, and he had past lives and was accumulating new soul fragments all the time. But he was still mostly a blank slate. Blank slates didn’t mean innocence or second chances or anything like that. They were just the empty. Jeremiah didn’t waste his time teaching the empty how to be filled.

Every once in a while, on that rare occasion, on that special night, there would be someone with something inside them, something that Jeremiah could actually use. Those were rare nights though. This was a rare night.

She entered the room late, entered the meeting late. She offered no explanation or apology. She just sat down.

Later she spoke.

She knew a thing or two that she shouldn’t have known. She talked about it like she had done it. Like she had really done it. Like she had been there. She knew. She was in touch.

Jeremiah wasn’t in touch. He didn’t speak to his past. He didn’t know who or what was floating around inside him from the past. All he knew was how to identify in the present that there was something there, inside him, inside others, and he was able to steal it for himself.

She could be interesting, he realized. She could be his filter. She could be the greatest thing that ever happened to him.

After the meeting, Jeremiah had to talk to her. He had to find out who was inside her, calling the shots. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was a fragment of a soul he could use someday. Perhaps there was something else entirely that was special about her.

“Who are you?”

She looked him up and down and smiled.

“My name is Mira.”

“Yes. But who are you really?”

Mira said nothing for a moment. She was letting him sweat. Letting him wonder if he had gotten things wrong. Again.

“I know you know what I mean,” he insisted.

“You don’t seem as sure as you want to seem.”

“That. That right there. The way you talk about it. You know exactly what I mean. So don’t mess with me.”

“If you know what you know, then you know that I can’t answer your question as is. You know I’m not just me, just like I know you’re not just you.”

Jeremiah smiled and nodded in agreement.

“So who were you? Do you even really know?”

“Maybe I’m nobody. Maybe I just like to make things up.”

“Nobody’s nobody. Besides, you wouldn’t be coming to these things if you thought you were nobody.”

“Maybe I come for the free coffee and pleasant conversations.”

“You’re somebody. I can tell. You have something going for you. You talk like you know. Like you really know. Everything you said... you’re really in touch with yourself.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Not...” he didn’t want to admit just how weak his connection was to the past. It was a little bit embarrassing when face-to-face with someone who knew so much. “Not like you apparently. You act like you were there.”

“I was there. Do you get flashbacks? I get flashbacks.”

“I don’t really work like that. I see it in others, see what they have inside. See where it’s been and if it’s dirty. But I don’t know me. Not like you know yours.”

“You were where you were too. You know it. You can. Even if you don’t see it yet.”

“No, I’m not like that. You were someone. I’m someones – bits and pieces from all over.”

“You’re new stew, simmering for the future? I like that. You looked at me when I came in the room. Why? Was it like déjà vu? Do you think we knew each other? From before?”

“I don’t think you and I knew each other...”

“But?”

“But I think maybe some small part of us knew the other small part of the other. Hell, some small part of one of your souls might have been mixed in with one of my previous souls.”

“Okay, you just flew off somewhere. I don’t know what any of that means.”

“Did you think we were all just reincarnations? I’m an amalgamation. Broken up little bits of souls handed down through the generations, mixed and matched and blended into something new.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“I’m not arguing with you. I’m telling you what I know. My soul, the majority of my soul, most of what’s inside this body – it’s going to die. It’s nothing special. There’s nothing great about it and the energy won’t last more than a few minutes before it begins to fade and slip away. Maybe a year if it’s lucky. But the other five or six percent? That’s the stuff these support group dreams are made of. I was born with a few fractions of scraps, leftover little bits and pieces from some pretty great and powerful souls. And ever since I knew I could, I’ve been going trying to find other little bits and pieces to collect. I’ve gotten pretty good at it. I’m slowly refilling myself with something that will last. And what I can’t use now, I’m tagging to watch for again in a later life.”

“You sound a little bit insane.”

“Says the woman who believes in reincarnation, just not my specific version of it. Tell me where the soul is? Are you religious? Do you believe in it? I like to believe it is in our DNA. Somewhere in that part of the codes we don’t understand. Like a side note. Can it transfer? Can other people tap into it? Find it? Exploit it? What if the past power of some soul were so great it shattered and split into a million pieces when the body died? It flowed around and found new hosts. But now that great soul is divided. What I do is identify them and bring the parts I want back together. I am crossing the spiritual ethos and building a better me.”

“What could have been and always should be.”

“Sort of.”

“You’re very dramatic, you know that? You’re making your very own soul mates. You’re like the Twin Flames.”

“I’m not aware of that.”

“For someone with so many mystical beliefs, I don’t think you’ve read nearly enough. Plato had a theory about the sexes and how all of humanity was basically looking for their twin flame – their other half. There were three sexes – men combined with men, men combined with women, and women combined with women. Then Zeus got pissy and split us all in half with a lightning bolt. So now we’re all lonely and looking for our lost Twin Flame. The flames can leap around, grow or go out. We try to rekindle them through sex or love, but what we’re really looking for is our missing soul mate.”

“I’m not looking for a soul mate. I have many many souls.”

“And therefore you shall have many many mates. Not bad when you think about it in those terms.”

“No, I guess not.”

“We are the Children of the Moon. The androgynous – men connected with women. We were strong enough to challenge the gods and we will be again. Once we rebuild.”

“In another life or two.”

“In another lifetime or two. Edgar Cayce thought—“

“Edgar Cayce?”

“Read. More. Cayce was a psychic and one of the things he—“

“You listen to psychics?”

“Presidents listened to Cayce. You and I are both here at this meeting. We both believe in the past. You can’t allow for the idea that maybe, just maybe, one or two psychics actually knew what they were talking about? Perhaps he was like us. Maybe he was soulfully full of soul too.”

“Alright. Maybe.”

“Basically he said a lot of what you’re saying. Souls are reincarnated and instinctually seek out their other halves so they can be whole someday. But where you’re talking DNA and fractions, he added a karmic twist.”

“Well I’m definitely not doing good things.”

“Then perhaps you can never be whole or happy.”

“So you think your soul mate is just hanging out waiting to reconnect with you because Zeus split you in half? And once you find him--”

“Or her.”

“Or her. You think then, you’ll finally be happy?”

“Why is my idea so farfetched? You’re the one talking about DNA gene splices that will rebuild some lost life. You think myth is that different? Maybe it was talking about the same thing but used different words.”

“I hate when people justify mystical paranoia of the past by saying the only difference is the words.”

“That’s good to know, because I’m very concerned about what you do and don’t approve of. So tell me what it is you do what you do? How are you building a better you?”

“I can usually see soul fragments in another person. I can’t tell who they are or what they’ve done, but I can see the valuable parts. It’s sort of a tagging process. I see what I want, mark it, and take it if I can.”

“Yeah, but how does that work?”

“Weak people can’t hold on to what they don’t deserve. Sometimes it’s a battle of willpower. Sometimes a little physical interaction helps. If they’re too strong, too attached, I leave my mark. I think when we die, those parts will come looking for my parts. And then future me reaps the benefits.”

“Some guys get all the luck.”

“They do. But that’s okay. I’m not doing this for me. I’m doing this for my future. I’m okay with him having what I can’t.”

“And these meetings?”

“These meetings usually suck. It’s a little like scavenging. Sometimes you get lucky and see something you want. Sometimes. Not often. Normally I just get tired of hearing everyone’s nonsense and end up killing them all and taking what I want.”

“You’re not going to kill me, are you?”

“Nah. Not yet. I thought maybe we could intermix our spirit DNA some other way.”

“Jesus Christ, are you serious? Has that line ever worked?”

“Not yet. But that’s okay. I have plenty of lives left to try.”