Memory Lane
The moment I walked into the Memory Den, the overwhelming combination of old cigarette smoke, incense, and stale perfume nearly knocked me over. My first instinct was to turn right back around and go anywhere else, except that I was pretty sure the Neighborhood Watch guys hadn't disposed of their doppelgänger friend out in the street yet in the two-point-five seconds I had last been out there. I didn’t want to bother them, and they made it damn clear they didn’t want me bothering them, either. So I squared my shoulders and bravely carried on into the plush, velvety interior.
I braced myself for any number of terrible things I’d see...sex, drugs, virgin sacrifices...the usual fare you find around Scollay Square. Fortunately, it wasn't any of those.
For a second, I thought I’d walked into an eccentric car rental. Three mini-car sized bubble-domed pods lined the room. Each had a seat for one person with a small monitor that hung right in front the end-user's face. Some shabby-looking guy looked like he was sleeping in one of the bubbles, and then it dawned on me what this was.
Virtual Porn.
Civilization has lost the ability to refine raw materials, to manufacture a combustible engine, to build structures sturdier than a house of cards, and yet we’ve apparently made great strides in porn technology. Good for us. At least we know our priorities.
I know I'm not exactly pure white driven snow, but if ever I was NOT in the mood...
"I think you've stepped into the wrong place, sweetheart. You don't look like you need the Memory Den. Do you even know what we do here?"
One Word: PLASTICS.
"Er...does it involve a back room and a handful of singles?" I said.
"Oh, no. You have the wrong idea, honey. I don't sell skin. I sell memories."
"...Ohhh-kaaay. Sure. That absolutely makes sense..." I looked around at the nearest open pod and briefly cringed when I wondered how many times a day they have to clean the glass. "Just to be clear, do you mean your memories, or someone else's?"
She smiled, white teeth against dark red lipstick. So, people do still practice dental hygiene. That's nice. "Oh, no, not my memories. Not many people could handle that."
A "Good" Witch...I hope?
"I meant the, uh...royal 'your,'" I said, lamely.
She chuckled. "No, we're not a peep show, either. We sell your own memories. And let me tell you, reliving an experience? The right experience? It's far more intense than anything else. But it's not for everyone."
"Oh? Why's that?"
"It's no secret that reliving a memory can be about having a good time, or helpful in remembering something you've forgotten or lost. But like anything worth doing in life, honey, it's got a kick to it. And the first time can be a little...disorienting. So I keep the client list very small. People I trust. It helps us avoid a lot of...unpleasantness."
I should have dropped it there, but I still wasn't ready to head back out in the street. Besides, my inner nerd was piqued. "How does it, um...how does it work?"
"Oh, I just run the show," she said. "The doctor back there is responsible for lifting the curtain, so to speak."
Ah, the Great and Powerful...wait, who are you?
The woman in the back typing on a terminal spoke without looking up. "It does a surface scan of the hippocampus for the densest cluster of neurons and synapses then stimulates that area to intensify the memory imprint."
She'd said that all in practically one word. I’m sure she didn’t expect me to follow any of that, or have been the least bit interested. It was obvious she sure as hell didn’t expect any follow up questions. Well, I'm no brain surgeon, but I've seen more pictures of my innards than any one person should. You tend to pick up a thing or three. "Er...non-invasive, I hope?" I said. "Like an MRI scan?"
That got the doctor to look up from her console.
"Somewhat..." she said as she coolly evaluated me like something someone had spit into a test tube. She had an accent I couldn't quite place——German? Austrian? I wondered if it was fake. I imagine moving from another continent isn't exactly easy these days. "The imaging output relies on a special algorithm that decodes the image from the occipital lobe and projects it to the monitor. You don't really need the monitor, but it helps focus the experience."
"Neat. Kinda like a virtual aircraft simulator, then."
"A what?"
Oops. Too geeky. Save the archaic technobabble for the second date, kid. "So, does it change your memory?" I asked, changing my tack. "Can you control it, like lucid dreaming? Or experience it from another person's point of view? Or maybe even overwrite a...traumatic...memory?"
"Well... Like any piece of technology, people have found uses for it that it wasn't strictly designed for," said the bombshell back on the chaise lounge. "Some clients have been able to do some very...creative things. We don't encourage that, though. It's meant to be more observational." She smiled, dropping her aloof Madame Guru schtick for a moment. "You are a curious one, aren't you," she said, amused.
I shrugged. "Yeah, I'm a bit of a technophile."
"Not what I meant, but we'll go with that." I'm sure she didn't mean that in a predatory way, but I felt my face start to heat up, nonetheless.
"I don't suppose you'd let me take one apart to see what's inside, would ya?" I said, trying to flash her my most charming boy-next-door grin. Nora always said I looked like Alfred E. Neuman when I did that. Of course, she'd said that, but it had worked on her more than once, too. After all, she'd married me, right? "You can trust me. I'm great at taking things apart."
The blonde laughed. "It's not taking it apart that's the problem. I'm pretty sure even I could do that. But, I must admit, you're the first person who's ever been more interested in how they work than what sort of kicks it'll give you. I guess there's no harm in giving you a trial run if you'd like to experience it for yourself. It's not as if I have a line at the door right now, anyway."
That really hadn't been my goal. It was clear this was old, pre-nuke tech with some significant modifications, and I couldn't help wonder what it had been designed for. My guess was they didn't know, either. I was genuinely curious about the technology——or rather, what was inside it. I'm that guy who'd rather visit the control room for the roller coaster than be subjected to ride it. But if she was offering...
I looked back at the pod again, then back at her. "I'm not gonna have a seizure or stroke or anything, am I?"
She arched a thin, exquisitely groomed eyebrow. "Have you ever had a seizure or stroke?"
"Not yet."
"Then you should be fine."
I sighed. "Oh, all right. You talked me into it." If someone offers you a seat, or food, or a gift, or a ride in their virtual memory ripper, you take it. It's just the polite thing to do.
"Hardest sell I've ever had," she said, rolling her eyes coyly. "And I'm not even charging you."
She——Irma——suggested I get comfortable and remove my armor and anything that might otherwise distract me from "the experience."
I gave her a look before I started unbuckling my armor. "How comfortable?" I said.
She fought back a little smile. "You can keep the suit on." She thought for a second, then shrugged, "Or not. It's up to you. But if I have to put you in a private room, I will charge you."
I laughed and stepped over to a couch pushed to the side of the wall and de-shelled myself, trying not to feel too self-conscious.
When I was done, she glanced down at my waist. I was alarmed for half a second, afraid I had inadvertently ripped my Vault-suit running, or being shot, clawed, or acid-spit at and was exposing more of myself than I'd intended to before I realized she was looking at my wrist. The Pip-Boy. I hadn't realized until then that I barely feel it anymore. I take it off to shower and sleep, because the few times I didn't I woke up with the logo branded backward onto my face for the day. Otherwise, I don't go anywhere without it.
I inwardly cringed at the thought of leaving it out in the open for someone else to find. It didn't occur to me until later that I wasn't thinking about the biometric data the Pip-Boy has been collecting on me, or settlements I've surveyed, or map markers I've saved, or my contact list, or to-do lists, or the growing list of locations I've broken into (and how), or conversations I've recorded——I only thought of this journal. My own little private therapist. I shook my head and told her it stays with me.
I've become a 13-year old girl fiercely protecting my diary. Just add unicorns and glitter.
"Memories involving other people are easiest," she said. "Recent events involving loved ones. Does anything come to mind?"
I thought of all the memories I'd had with Nora——the day we met, the day I proposed, that time I surprised her by showing up for her graduation...
Our wedding day... She was so beautiful. At least until I "accidentally" dropped cake down her cleavage... Clumsy me. (Best. Cake. Ever.)
Or that one time we went to the lighthouse. Or that other time at the lighthouse. Or that other, other time at the lighthouse... God, I loved that lighthouse...
Or something a little more family-friendly and wholesome. Like when Shaun was born...
Well, I don't know if "wholesome" describes it. More like a comedy. But I thought, what the hell?, I could use a good laugh. And perhaps a little...motivation. The very first moment I saw her holding our tiny, newborn son... I'd give anything to feel that again.
I wasn't sure how much detail I had to go into. I figured she didn't want to hear my life story, so I gave her the very, very, very abridged version. "My... wife died recently. If I could just see her one last time..."
"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry. It's never easy losing someone that close to you. But I think we can help. Have a seat in the lounger and we'll see what we can find."
I walked over to the bubble-domed clown car and gave it a skeptical looksee.
Well, there's your problem, right there...
"Any suggestions on how to get in this thing?"
The grin in her voice was obvious. "You're young and fit. You'll figure it out. Don't worry, we won't laugh at you."
Yeah right. At least not out loud. I got the feeling that I has just become her entertainment for the day.
I awkwardly climbed in and shifted around to get comfortable, triangulating the most comfortable position between my ass, feet, and head, while Irma gave a couple commands to the Doctor still typing away on her terminal in the back.
Say, 'AHHHHHHH!!!'
The bubble dome came down over me, soundproofing the interior, and the monitor hovered in front of my face. The only sounds I could hear were the static from the test pattern on the screen and my own heartbeat thudding in my ears. I tried to force myself to relax. As the pod hummed to life and the picture came into view, a sudden paralyzing chill and feeling of familiar dread washed through me...
Even in an economy based on rubbish, the old saying is still true.
You get what you pay for.