This is chapter two of an unpublished story I’m working on. I thought it would be fun to post a short chapter every week or so. I’d like to know what you think.
CH 2 – Both Sides
Once, Doug and I were in his garage apartment, and I put the bong down to ask him how he could tell the future.
“Dude, you know what’s going to happen before it happens. How? And do you have any Doritos?”
“I ate all the Nacho Cheese Doritos. I think I might have Funyuns.”
“I hate Funyuns!”
Then we watched Cartoon Network.
Another time when I was a little less high, I asked him again. Here is what he said:
“There once was this guy with a mental disorder that only allowed him to remember things he saw on the right side, but anything he might have seen on the left side, he was oblivious and couldn’t recall.
He went to a psychiatrist, and the psychiatrist said, ‘Close your eyes. Imagine you are standing at the South end of Main Street, a street you know well. Tell me all the shops on the right side and then tell me all the shops on the left side.’
The guy listed off the names of each shop on the right side, one after the other, but when it came to the left side, he couldn’t remember any of them.
Then the psychologist said, ‘Imagine you are standing at the other end of Main Street, the North end, facing back at the same rows of shops. Now, tell me the shops on your right and then the shops on your left.’
The guy banged out the shops on the right side, what was the left side the first time, and couldn’t recall any of the shops on the left side, which was the side he previously remembered.”
“Well, that’s messed up. Obviously, the guy has a memory of both sides of the street. He just can’t access both sides of the memories at the same time.” I felt brilliant.
Doug leaned back, reached for the bong and lighter, and said, “I don’t know what happened to that guy, but the point is that, well, it’s like everyone has a mental disorder when it comes to seeing the whole picture, everything that’s around them. Everyone except me. I can see both sides of the street.”
“Yeah, man, but, like, how?” I eloquently asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. Probably the whole thing when I became unalive.”
Unalive is the word Doug uses for his state of not actually having a heartbeat but still being like alive. He doesn’t like the word “undead.” That’s for zombies and vampires, and he’s not either of those. I don’t think he is, anyway.
© 2020, Mitch Lavender