Remember.
I’m thirteen. I’ve just seen a Gallagher show for the first time. I’m overjoyed and covered in bits of pink goo. I had no idea I was allergic to bees.
Don’t remember.
I’m twenty one. I’m sitting under a dart board holding an empty bottle of Watermelon Pucker. Later that night I’m dry heaving until I eventually curl into a ball and cry. Ashleigh–or maybe it was Kæighlee?–drives me home at three in the morning. The glare of a Seven Eleven sign dominates my vision. I Hitchcock-zoom to Slurpee Mecca — a wall of flavor with neither rhyme nor reason, yet all-appealing. I am a reasonable person. Even intoxicated and dehydrated, I’m able to limit myself to two flavors. The only two acceptable flavors that evening. I begin with Mountain Dew as a base, and finish the night strong with an unhealthy topping of Watermelon Blast. Mixing Straw. Cashier. Door. Only one pit stop between there and my apartment spent regurgitating pink.
Remember.
I’m sixteen. I’m sweating bullets inside this costume. Parents look on, expecting a line that won’t come. I’m frozen in a caffeine-induced memory crash. Mountain Dew was a bad choice before going on stage. What’s my line? What to say? What to do? When was the last time I went to the bathroom? What’s my line? What to say? What to do?
Don’t remember.
I’m seventeen. “Feed me Seymour!” is shouted from across the cafeteria as Chase Motorson motions toward an imaginary wet-spot on his crotch. People laugh. My cheeks burn. A man in camouflage watches stone-faced from the Army Recruitment table. He motions me over. “You alright, son?”
Remember.
I’m twenty nine. The woman at the bougie coffee shop down the street asks me if I’m okay. She can tell something is off. I look pale. Desaturated. Jittery. “I just need my morning usual,” I assure her–myself. “French press, triple shot of espresso?” she asks, but she’s already making it. She doesn’t even need to look at what she’s doing as she continues. “Haven’t seen you around much lately.”
Don’t remember.
I’m twenty two. “Get f***ed f****t!” rings out at full blast in my cheap Sony headset. The shrill and satisfied tone of a pre-pubescent boy continues, “Headshot, motherf***er!” They say the gates to hell are just a mirror, and I can’t stop myself from remembering what it was like to gaze in.
Don’t remember. Please.
I’m thirty one. Remember. I’m still trying to piece it together, but the clues are all there. They always have been. Etched in the recesses of my neurons. Remember. Watermelon Blast. Mountain Dew. The flavor isn’t unique, and yet even the concentrated amount of sugar in a Slurpee didn’t prepare me for what I’ve just tasted. Remember. It’s like my skin is concentrated electricity. I reach a quivering hand and turn the bottle to read the ingredients. Did somebody slip something into the batch, or are the lights really this yellow, magenta, and cyan at the same time? Did I invent Major Melon or has he been following me my entire life? Questions with no answers. Remember. A blast of flavor jolts my memory. I try to forget.
I remember.
I’m nineteen. My body is sweating and dehydrated in the desert sun, while my mind is desperately trying to replace it with the cool summer of home. The Porcupine Mountains are probably the least-known mountain range in the United States. People don’t think mountains when they think Michigan, not even people from Michigan. I want to be home. I lick my cracked lips, unable to wet them with a dry tongue. Christ. I’d do anything for a drink right now. Any drink. Even goddamn Watermelon Pucker. Anything to demand my attention, refocus my vision, steady my hands. Get me out of here. I try desperately not to look at the little boy carrying a watermelon with exposed wires, yet that’s all that exists in the small, green world of my scope. Sgt. Major Thompson is shouting something. Take the shot.
Don’t remember.
