The Memory Machine

He’s slipping. Oh my fuck, he puzzles, where are my glasses?? I chuckle, thinking of how my grandmother used to wonder the same thing using fewer expletives: They’re on top of your head. He seems to have only a dimming notion of who I am, and I’m not even sure why I’m here. But here we sit, as he forgets. Like a broken record, he asks: Did we order pizza yet?

Me, I’m starting to remember. I remember him as my roommate all those years ago, when he got his first pair of glasses. I remember how his saggy face used to be boyish, how his crooked fingers used to play Mario Kart so nimbly, how his carious brain was once champion of the Memory Machine. I remember his favourite pizza toppings, and I remember when he could remember mine.

Most of all, I remember our falling out. I was a hotshot social scientist, on the brink of a major musicological breakthrough. My research led me to Scotland. It was just four months. I didn’t think he’d take it so hard.

When I got back, he was cold, distant. You’ve changed, he’d tell me. It took some time before I realized what he meant.

In Scotland, I’d gotten really into riding a bicycle and kept it up when I returned home. As a result, our friendship suffered. You know I can’t ride a bike, he’d snarl. I told him over and over: I can teach you.

Thing is, he didn’t want to learn: No way. It’s too dangerous, man. You’re gonna fall or get hit by a car or something -– either way, you’re gonna crack your skull. He was afraid of biking. I pushed him too hard, and it took its toll.

The last straw came on his birthday of that year. I blindfolded him and led him around back to our garage, where his present was waiting: a bicycle built for two. I thought it was a nice gesture. This way he didn’t have to learn to ride but could come biking with me. We’d be able to spend more time together.

He didn’t see it that way. He was afraid of biking and that was never going to change. Choking on fury and spit and tears he cursed me, packed up his stuff and left.

This morning when the nurse called about paying him a visit, I wasn’t exactly eager. How much time does he have left? Hard to say, she said. Not much. After a few pensive sips of tea, I decided I should see him. I got on my bike and headed over.

So here we sit, as I remember and he forgets. Eventually, the nurse pokes her head in the room: Visiting hours are over, Mr Devine. Can we go for a quick walk to work off some of this pizza? I ask. Sure. But make sure he does up his coat. I smirk: He never does up his coat, not even in the dead of winter.

Just as we step out the door, my old friend stops suddenly. He has this look in his eyes -– the kind of look a person gives when they recognize you but can’t quite place your face. My heart sinks. I know exactly what he is looking at. I’m speechless at my thoughtlessness. The bike that I rode to the nursing home, that I’d been riding everywhere for all those years, was that same bicycle built for two that ruined our friendship in the first place.

Is that your bike? he asks. Hesitantly, I answer –- Um, yes -– and begin preparing myself for the spate of rage and unimaginable hurt that will be unleashed as all his fears of biking and memories of my pushiness flood back into his corroded callosum.

Instead, with the strange beauty of his disease shining through, obliterating any notion that bittersweetness could ever be reduced to a mere cliché, Jamie asks: Can we go for a ride?