Short Story: Reminder
“At 7:30am on a Monday morning, the man awoke with absolutely no idea who he was.”
At 7:30am on a Monday morning (according to his smartphone), the man awoke with absolutely no idea who he was.
It wasn’t an immediate realization; first he turned off his alarm. But the vacuum that followed, between dreams and the waking world, which would usually be filled with the morning’s first thought, remained empty — and even though drowsy haziness still clouded his brain, the man knew he must think something, except he had no thoughts, because he had no idea who he was, and for that matter, who the house he seemed to be in belonged to.
Correction: the apartment, he thought, looking at a firescape outside the window, past which he saw the distant outline of New York City. He almost thought he didn’t live in New York City, only to realize he didn’t know where he lived, so it might’ve been New York City after all. Was he dreaming? Could one completely forget one’s identity in a dream? Not that he could recall — and in trying to recall he noticed he did still possess a general knowledge of the world (“New York City is a city in the United States, and it’s not the capital of New York State”). Only his sense of self was gone.
He should panic, he thought, from feeling depersonalized like that — but to panic about the loss of his personality, he would need to know what he had lost, otherwise the panic seemed unjustified. Instead, he felt as if someone was telling him about global catastrophes, bombings and earthquakes happening far away that were objectively bad and sad, but to which he couldn’t dedicate a personal upset.
His phone chimed, alerting him to a longer than usual commute due to a rerouting of the N subway line, suggesting he get on with his day. The Daily started playing on a speaker outside his room (he knew what The Daily was but he didn’t know who he was — maybe this was Hell?)
Should he get up? Start the day, as the phone and the speaker were nudging him to? It was a daunting prospect, to do so with no concept of his identity. But it wouldn’t hurt, he reasoned, to explore the apartment. And his memory might come back at the sight of something familiar.
He got up and walked out into what looked like a living room/kitchen. On the table, there was an empty bowl, a spoon, and a napkin next to a box of cereal. On the counter, an empty mug stood next to a closed container and the coffee maker, which already had a filter inside. Whoever he was, the man thought, he seemed to plan his days meticulously. He decided to have breakfast, again hoping a familiar routine would reestablish his identity. As Michael Barbaro talked about vaccination rates (for what he didn’t know — the flu, probably), the man opened the closed container, which popped as the vacuum seal was broken and the smell of coffee filled the room.
He noticed something else on the counter, an empty box of macaroni, and before he could puzzle over its apparently senseless presence in a kitchen that was otherwise optimized for breakfast, he recalled its meaning: “take out the trash.” How strange, he thought, that he couldn’t remember putting the empty box on the counter, but he knew why he had done it.
* * *
On the bathroom mirror, he saw his naked self, the sparse clusters of body hair, his flat nipples, deep belly button, and droopy penis. He wondered if he indeed identified as a man; if he had sex and with whom. The apartment seemed to indicate he was single. He didn’t have a ring on his finger. He didn’t look like he worked out, at least not too much.
How bizarre, to look at a body that by the mere fact that it was reflected in a mirror meant it was his, but felt completely foreign. He didn’t like the chest, which seemed unfinished somehow. His legs, on the other hand, were strong, and he admired the way they tensed from his ass to his heels. Maybe he was a runner?
His shampoo was also a conditioner, and there was a body scrub that was positioned awkwardly, jutting forward between the shaving foam and the soap. Again, he instantly devised the meaning of this sign: “today is body scrub day.” The bottle confirmed it, discouraging daily use so as not to overdry the skin.
He showered, using the body scrub, which left his arms pleasantly soft.
* * *
By the time he came back to his bedroom, he had decided to go on with his day. From what he had devised, the alarm-setting, commute-planning person he seemed to be might not appreciate finding himself at home in the middle of a workday if and when this fog lifted.
His closet provided enough choices that dressing for work (at least that’s what he assumed the phone’s commute referred to) would be a challenge. Then he noticed, on top of the dresser, a neat pile of clothes, starting with socks and ending with a shirt — he had picked his outfit already; all he had to do was wear it.
Looking at himself in the closet mirror, he tried to guess his profession. Advertising? Data science? Publishing? There were no overt clues, just a sock hanging out of the hamper to let him know that this weekend was laundry weekend.
A wallet and keys in a little tray seemed like obvious things to take, and he looked around for a bag or backpack he might also carry. He found one on a chair in the living room, next to a desk; a sort of cross between laptop case and messenger bag. It had a Macbook and a Moleskine inside it, and a hydroflask in a side pocket. He filled the hydroflask with water just in case.
As he left, he noticed something written on a little whiteboard on the fridge: “Love you!”
This sign he could not decipher.
* * *
As he entered the subway station, a woman inside the booth screamed at him: “SIR, YOU NEED A MASK!” He wondered what she meant, and stupidly thought it might be Halloween and she was talking about some city-wide parade or something. But she was holding a surgical mask (and wearing one herself). Her tone, like that of all public officials, was trained to submit — and submit he did, taking the mask from her and putting it on. Maybe there was too much smog in the air today? Like those pictures from Beijing. It must have been in the news, as the majority of people waiting for the train were wearing masks too, some plain like his, some colorful and stylish.
Once he boarded, he saw people inside the car were also masked, and there was a lot of sitting space. He had expected the subway to be crowded on a Monday morning, and he felt strange about taking a seat. Stored in his brain and unaffected by his self-amnesia was an unspoken rule regarding space that seemed readily available in the subway. An empty car, an open seat: something bad had happened to it, otherwise it wouldn’t be open. More likely than not, someone had taken a shit there.
* * *
He got off at the station his phone marked as the end of the commute, in the heart of Midtown Manhattan. There was a short walk up 8th avenue. The phone pointed to the address, and even though he didn’t know where he was going, he knew the way, at one point leaving the sidewalk to walk on the street and avoid the entrance to a McDonald’s where he knew, instinctively, that the homeless people around it would ask him to buy them breakfast.
The building where his phone told him to stop was nondescript, and like his outfit, did not shed any light on his profession. He entered and saw people swiping IDs, some of them just pressing their wallets against the scanner. He tried it with his own wallet, and it worked, so once on the other side of the turnstiles, he took out his ID, which confirmed his name (his phone had already used it when telling him about his commute) and the name of his company. He looked it up in the directory next to the elevators to find the floor.
This place, the man thought on the way up, had given him a piece of plastic with “his” picture next to “his” name and “his” place of work. It knew more about who he was than he did.
* * *
The company seemed to be, from its name and from some of the posters on the wall, dedicated to children’s education; a non-profit, judging from its graphic identity. There were eight desks, three of them occupied, and he puzzled over how to determine which desk was his without admitting to the three people present that he had no idea who he was, or who they were. Announcing his situation struck him as risky; it pointed to possibly serious psychological problems that he wasn’t sure his usual self would want disclaimed to coworkers.
“Good morning!” said one of the three, a woman with some curly hair escaping her bun. “I thought you might not come in today.”
Oh no! So he could have stayed in bed and slept it off. But then again, he had laid himself a pretty clear path to having breakfast and dressing for work, so maybe not?
Or maybe he had something else planned for himself, a job interview somewhere else, and he had completely blown it? But his phone would’ve said something, an appointment in his calendar.
“Why?” he asked, growing tense at the fact that he was still carrying his bag, wondering if it looked unnatural that he hadn’t set it down yet.
“Sam said it was a real rager,” Bun said, and he assumed she meant some party the man had attended the night prior. One of the other two employees, a man in a vest, was now looking at him too, as if wanting to see whether he’d confirm it had, in fact, been a real rager. Was the man in a vest Sam?
He pondered how to answer: his laying out clothes for the next day did not suggest a party animal, but perhaps that was him planning for a hungover morning? Maybe this was all it was, a really bad hangover, some drug high that had not yet worn off. He decided to lean into it.
“I can’t even remember who I am, so I’d say ‘rager’ sounds right,” he said, and both Bun and Vest laughed. Was the man usually a funny guy? And if he was, why was the third employee, a woman squinting at her screen in spite of wearing glasses, not amused?
“Sam said he’d bring donuts for the staff meeting, so you’ll get some of your charcoal,” said Bun, turning back to her computer. The man didn’t know what she meant by “charcoal,” but he assumed it was something related to being hungover, and was glad the interaction was over.
He looked at the empty desks, hoping for a sign of recognition, something that matched something else in his apartment, or a framed picture that featured him. The only thing that called out to him was a mug with a mousepad on top of it, a sign whose meaning was again instantly clear: “this mug needs to be washed before being used again.”
He put his bag next to it and picked it up, roaming the floor until he found a kitchen with a sink.
* * *
A tall man walked in with a box of donuts — must be Sam. Maybe he would know what had happened? How to ask, without seeming like the man had drank too much, or abused some other substance? Sam was a coworker, and the man didn’t want to come across as unprofessional.
“Dude,” said Sam as they locked eyes, “you missed the best part!”
“Did he?” asked Bun, biting into a Boston cream. “He said he can’t even remember his name.”
The man felt panic at being found out, but the conversation was interrupted by Glasses, who announced they should go to the conference room for the staff meeting. Something about her demeanor told the man she had not been invited to Sam’s rager.
“Aren’t you bringing your little notepad?” asked Vest as the man took a seat, so he feigned a “oh, that’s right” eyebrow raise and went back to his desk. There was, indeed, a notepad. Was the man famous for taking it to staff meetings?
The team idly chatted about “The Crown Season Four,” which he inferred was a TV show now in its fourth season — it sounded vaguely familiar, but not like The Daily had been. People glanced at him a couple of times, clearly expecting him to have an opinion, but all he could offer were nods and shrugs. Had he told them he was watching The Crown Season Four? Was his silence raising suspicion? He hoped Glasses would stop the conversation, but she seemed to be watching it too (not a fan, however).
“Okay,” she said eventually, “let’s go around. Today’s name game is,” she read from a piece of paper, “which Power Ranger would you be and why?”
The man had no idea what a name game was, but he did know the Power Rangers, so at first he was relieved. Then he realized he’d need to justify his choice with something that matched his personality to that of the Power Ranger he’d be. And to add to that, people prefaced their answer by talking about what they were working on as they “went around,” and he obviously had no idea what he was working on.
Looking at his notepad, he noticed each page had a list, with most of the items in it crossed off — those that weren’t would usually appear again in the next list. He got to the most recent one, hoping the notes would make sense without context. Some of them, like “Greenwood: more funding,” seem manageable. Others, like “Sam collab,” he had no clue as to what they meant.
“I’m working on getting more funding for Greenwood,” the man said when his turn was up, and people nodded. Good.
He tried another one: “also the Instagram follower count.”
“Where are we now?” asked Glasses.
Shit. He’d gotten too cocky. Then the obvious response hit him, and he took out his phone: “Let me check, I’m not sure what the updated number is.”
Giving her the exact response after looking up the company, he wondered what to say next. Risk getting into another pickle, or seem like he wasn’t working on enough things?
He tried another one of the uncrossed items: “And getting a W9 from Carol.”
“YES!” interjected Bun. “THANK YOU. Guys, I’m still getting check requests without W9s. Please PLEASE ask the writers for them BEFORE they teach the class.”
The man felt pleased with himself — he was the poster boy for check requests! Even though he didn’t know what a W9 was (and somehow he doubted his usual self knew either).
He decided to quit while he was ahead and not to mention whatever the “Sam collab” was.
“And the Power Ranger?” asked Glasses. She couldn’t let him have his win. It was The Crown Season Four all over again.
Then it hit him: “I think I’m the robot, when they fuse? A little bit of each.”
His answer fell flat, and there was a silence. Then Sam interjected: “No, man, you’re the green one.”
They all laughed, agreeing that the man was 100% the green one.
* * *
Emailing Carol (whose full name he quickly found in his inbox) to ask her for a W9 was easy. And he located several emails where he had asked different funders to focus on the Greenwood Public School, which he followed up on with renewed pleas. The to-do list was soon almost depleted. Should he talk to Sam about their “collab?”
His instinct was to drop it, but again he wondered: what if he came to, and the whole collab project had fallen way behind schedule, all because of some temporary memory loss? He must have put it on the to-do list for a reason.
Plus, maybe Sam could shed some more light about the party, which the man felt was tied to his memory loss.
“Hey, Sam,” he approached. “Do you have a moment to talk about our collaboration?”
“Sure, man!” Sam got up holding a mug. “Let’s go to the kitchen?”
On the way, Sam offered some platitudes about the party, but before they had even reached the coffee maker, he became emotional: “Sandy dumped me yesterday.”
The man, of course, had no idea who Sandy was, but judging by Sam’s face, she had caused a lot of damage by dumping him. “Oh, no!” he answered, not sure what else to say. Sam and Sandy, he thought — it sounded like an 80s movie. (He knew what the 80s sounded like!)
“Yeah, it was pretty brutal,” Sam admitted, seemingly choking back tears. “These past few months I’ve been crashing with her and we’ve been fighting a lot, and I think we just reached a boiling point. It was the stupidest thing, I cracked a joke about her wiping a cup before drinking and she just BLEW UP, and before I knew it—”
The story was long, and the man felt the exhaustion that Sam and Sandy must have felt while living it, the same exhaustion that apparently had led Sandy to dump Sam and kick him out. The man wondered if he and Sam were close enough friends that he should offer Sam a place to stay, though the fact that Sam had been so chipper and donut-y earlier and was now crying by the communal sink suggested that perhaps he had trouble regulating his emotions, and would open up to whoever would listen. They had, after all, come to the kitchen to discuss a work collaboration, which remained unmentioned.
The man offered some encouragement (“if you guys are meant to be together, you’ll find your way back to each other”) and, coming back to his desk, noticed that he still remained in the dark about whatever might have caused his current depersonalization. Sam had at no point inquired how the man was doing, and the tears had drowned any possibility of shifting the conversation away from the breakup.
* * *
The man wondered if he had a Sandy of his own (pre-breakup, that is). Someone he could talk to about his situation without fear of spoiling life for his regular, memory-having self. He searched his text messages, looking for signs of a partner. There were some affectionate exchanges, but nothing that suggested romance. Who had written “Love you!” on his fridge whiteboard?
He had no dating apps installed on his phone. He wondered about trying one out. It seemed daunting, but he had nothing left on his to-do list besides the Sam collab, so he downloaded one.
Creating a profile proved challenging, and at first he just emulated what he saw on other people’s: “Swipe left if you’re a racist, a smoker, hate dogs…” But he had no way of guaranteeing he wasn’t any of those things, and feared someone might ask him to talk more about whatever position he took, so he deleted it all and just wrote: “looking for someone I can talk openly with.”
Before he left work, he had already accrued a couple of matches. He spent his commute back home talking to a girl who lived in his neighborhood and was also watching The Crown Season Four. He repeated some of the opinions he had heard from his coworkers, and she agreed with them. They talked about her painting career, which had been impacted by the “pandemic” (which was probably the reason he had to wear a mask on the subway!) but which was looking up now that “vaccination was widespread.” The man wondered if he was vaccinated, and said he was when the girl implied it’d be the only way they could meet. She asked what he did and he told her about the education non-profit, and how he had spent the day trying to secure funding for a public school, which she said “turned her on.”
Back home, he took pictures of himself naked, twisting the angles so it’d make his chest look buffer and emphasize his legs. He discovered his dick was impressively thick when hard, which Painter liked. They brought each other to orgasm during a heated text exchange (or so she claimed — he could only be sure of his).
After, feeling both pleasantly close to her and achingly in need of affection, he confessed: “I think I’m having some sort of breakdown. I don’t really know who I am. Literally. It’s been happening since at least this morning, and maybe longer?”
She didn’t respond. Half an hour later, he found he couldn’t even message her, as they were no longer matched.
* * *
He cooked dinner, heating up one of the meals that was already prepared and packed in a tupperware in the fridge. He didn’t know what he normally did while eating, so he tried The Crown Season Four, which he found a little boring, but which he was excited about because he recognized one of the actresses, Gillian Anderson — the first person he had seen all day whom he actually remembered. She looked different, under all her heavy makeup and wig, but it still gave him a pang that for a moment made him feel normal. He realized he knew some of the events mentioned in the show, probably from studying or watching the news at some point in the past. Good show, he decided. Watching it had been his favorite activity so far.
When he was done with dinner, however, the day ended — and his memory still had not returned. Should he do something about it? Seek medical help, which would probably result in him getting checked into an institution or sent to live with a guardian? It sounded scary, but was it too optimistic to keep banking on his identity coming back organically?
On the other hand: what is a day? What is a day when compared to a whole life? Was it really worth derailing whatever train had brought him to this life in New York, with a commendable job in the non-profit sector and an altogether pleasant and cozy apartment? A day just didn’t seem like enough time to make such a big call. A complete loss of identity was probably considered a serious mental issue, and to alert the world to it was to ring a bell that couldn’t be unrung.
Maybe a middle ground? Reaching out to Sam? After all, Sam had invited him to his party and had opened up to him about his breakup — maybe they were friends. But then again, Sam had not asked the man how he was doing. In fact, he had not mentioned the man once during their entire conversation, giving no evidence of knowing the man beyond his role of shoulder to cry on. The man had felt as depersonalized during his interaction with Sam as he had at any other moment of the day.
It might be more upsetting, he thought, to open up to Sam and hear back some empty words of support (the kind the man himself had given Sam about the breakup), than to carry on like this.
Tomorrow, he compromised. He’d make the decision tomorrow. Let the actual 24 hours go by.
Just in case he woke up “normal,” he pushed the body scrub back in line with the other items in the shower, left his mug and coffee out next to the coffeemaker (with a filter loaded), set the cereal implements on the table, and selected an outfit for work, which he folded and put on top of the dresser.
He had finished a bottle of soda during dinner, so he added “soda” to the Grocery list on his to-do app, and left the bottle next to (but not inside) the trash can, so he’d see it the next morning and remember to take down the trash.
* * *
While getting into bed, the man heard a strange noise. It sounded like something was crawling around and making vocalizations, maybe a rat? He felt fear, but also a certain daring, like he wanted the rat to be there so he could fight it off. Maybe his usual self was not afraid of rats?
He looked around his bedroom to identify the source, but couldn’t see anything. Giving up, he turned off the lamp on his bedside table, and the darkness inside allowed external light in, revealing the source of the noise: there was a raccoon on his fire escape! The animal seemed curious about the man’s apartment, and was pressing its paws and snout against the window, presumably mystified by the invisible wall that prevented it from coming in.
The man and the racoon stared at each other, in what felt like a primal acknowledgement that the other was alive. Should the window be open, the man thought, their relationship would be adversarial: the racoon would come in, hoping to find food to stay alive, and the man would have to defend his space, to prevent the racoon from becoming a pest. But, separated by the small glass pane, they were free to just be in each other’s presence peacefully.
In fact, there was something endearing about the racoon; the way it failed to comprehend the concept of a window and the inherent innocence in its small size (at least when compared to the man’s). The man pressed a finger to the glass, and the racoon tried and failed to grab it with its paws, after which it backed away, motioning to climb up the fire escape to the floor above.
The man felt sadness about the racoon leaving, but the racoon did not go too far: it seemed to find the steps that separated it from the next floor too distanced. It eventually retreated and attempted to climb down instead, to the ground where it had presumably come from, but whatever vertigo it had begun to feel had now completely taken hold of its brain.
The racoon looked back at the man, trapped, frozen, a helpless plea in its eyes. Should the man open his window (and risk whatever threat the racoon posed) to grab it and take it down to the safety of the ground? He gave it serious consideration.
Then his phone buzzed, alerting him that it was bedtime and that his alarm was set for the next morning at 7:30. The man needed to sleep.
Laying in bed, he looked the racoon in the eyes one last time before falling asleep.
“Love you,” he said, but the racoon didn’t seem to register it, too busy figuring out how to climb back down.
Curious to know more about this story and why I wrote it? Read my thoughts here!
Illustration by Deepti Sunder, revision by Lilly Camp.
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