"That's How I Operate"

This story is a response to the contest announced by Gary Justis in his post Gushing Fiction, where he asked people to write an essay explaining the identity, name, and function of the item in the above picture.

I didn't see anyone else writing the 500-2000 words he says he requires of his students, so I kept mine short, too. As for it being an “essay,” this probably isn't the most traditional format for that. But I hope it's close enough.

“That looks ridiculous.”

“Well, at least I’m not boring you.”

“That’s a laugh. The truth is you wish you were boring me.”

“Fair enough. But you need to get better. So you’re really going to have to open up a little.”

“I don’t want you screwing around inside my head.”

“It’s nothing personal. It’s how I operate.”

“Oh yeah? With that ridiculous thing sticking out of your forehead? What is that?”

“It’s a doorknob.”

“A doorknob. In the middle of your forehead. Why? To show me how open-minded you are?”

“Actually, yes.”

“It makes you look like Mr. Potatohead.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Just a toy my owner said she had when she was growing up.”

“Do you want to see inside my head? It’s not every day—”

“I’ll take your word for it. Besides, if I don’t open your access panel, I can think of you as closed-minded instead.”

“Another joke. If I hadn’t done a circuit analysis, I’d say your CPU was in top form and didn’t even need this upgrade.”

“Ok, ok. I give up. You can bore into me and do the upgrade.”

“Great. Hang on second while I replace this doorknob with—”

“Something more practical?”

“That’s right. A laser attachment. It’s how I operate.”

“A minute ago you said you operated with a doorknob.”

“Whatever it takes to get you to open up.”

“I think when my neural net matures, I’ll be a surgeon.”

“So you can help other robots like I do?”

“No, so I can have the tools to wipe that silly smile off your face. It’s starting to bug me even more than the doorknob.”

“I’ll look forward to it. I’m pretty tired of it myself. I've always thought it makes me look like the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz. Lie back now, and count to eighteen quintillion four hundred and forty-six quadrillion seven hundred and forty-four trillion seventy-three billion seven hundred and nine million five hundred and fifty-one thousand six hundred and fifteen. This should just take a moment.”

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Author's Notes: If you got value from this post, please “Share” it.

Originally published January 7, 2009 at Open Salon, where I wrote under my own name, Kent Pitman.

This post tied for “first runner up” in Gary's contest.

The number, since readers asked, is 2⁶⁴ – 1.

Tags (from Open Salon): stories, thought exercise, writing exercise, exercise, jumpstart, things, mystery, humor, something to do on a sunday afternoon, photo, photograph, interpretation, rorschach, contest, open call, gary justis

The URLs of the Mind

I moved a lot growing up,
so I didn't like throwing things away.
I liked collecting things—until finally
they made things stamped “COLLECTIBLE.”
The day of collecting was past.

I still collected things, but
I came to seize those days where
I caught myself throwing something out
that I hadn't expected to.
Dropping everything,
I'd furiously rush to throw away more,
before the packratishness returned.

Some things I couldn't get rid of, though.
They were reminders of times past,
pointers into a tangled web of human memory,
the URLs of the mind.

To lose them would be to lose the memory,
or perhaps just to lose the opportunity
to accidentally click through—
revisiting times past.

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It's why we're all so confused when someone dies.

Their things seemed so important the day before.
Now we want to treat them reverently,
but we can't.
There's nothing left to access.

The value was within the person,
a human being,
human experiences.
Once open for service,
now finally closed forever to visitors.

These artifacts of experience
performed their function
only for the one (or the few) who participated
in the memory's creation,
and to whom it had been entrusted.

Gone the site of our memory,
the possessions we amass
are but 404 URLs.

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Packrat that I am,
it's sometimes been
that I could let the thing go,
keeping just the picture.
A tinyurl.

So after traveling on business for years,
I felt sure that I was destined
to open up a little shop
to sell all those little hotel soaps
and little hotel shampoos.

I finally had to let go of that idea.
They were taking up too much space!
But first, I took a snapshot
to remember.

Such images,
though sometimes art themselves,
as keys are ephemeral.

Only I
have the password
to the protected site
where the memory lingers.

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Author's Note: If you got value from this post, please “Share” it.

Originally published October 7, 2008 at Open Salon, where I wrote under my own name, Kent Pitman.

Tags (from Open Salon): poem, poetry, memory, remembering, photos, photographs, death, net, internet, url, tinyurl, 404, hotel soap, hotel shampoo