Capitulism
by Evan Witmer
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 2
I questioned why I instinctively defended the person inside me, one I barely knew. My brain may have done so automatically simply because she resided near the cherished ideas and beliefs I held close. Whatever the reason, I countered my instincts and adopted a healthy dose of Ron’s apprehension. To get my peace of mind, I decided to ask Jenny out for a cup of coffee. I didn’t give her much of a chance to say no.
Sitting down at the Cobweb Cafe, I considered the best means to draw her out of my headspace. The simplest way seemed to be knocking. I tapped at the bony plate over my eyebrow, softly at first but then harder. I didn’t want to give myself a concussion, but no one was answering. As I banged on my temple with a clenched fist, a server behind the counter stared concernedly.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m not unwell, I swear.”
“I can vouch for him.” Jenny stepped in out of nowhere as though some doorway had opened just out of sight. She popped down in the chair across from me. “For future reference, you don’t have to beat yourself to get my attention. You can just ring the doorbell.”
My fingertips felt around my cheek. “And where’s the doorbell?”
“It’s wherever you think it is,” said Jenny. “Yank your ear. Tap your nose. Whatever you do, just imagine it makes a ding-dong, and it will.”
“I see.” My finger brushed against the tip of my nose.
Jenny looked over her shoulder at the people behind her. Then, her head scanned the rest of the room. “Is this about the late rent?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“I haven’t given you any check for this month. Did you bring me here to deliver a warning?”
“Oh... no. Delaware’s been on schedule with their portion, and that’s enough,” I replied. “Honestly, take your time.”
“Then why did you call for me?” asked Jenny. Her gaze lifted towards the light fixture above us, where an eerie lampshade cleverly mimicked the appearance of a patchwork of human skin. “Is this a horror-themed coffee shop?”
“Thought maybe you’d enjoy that sort of thing given your last name.”
“I have seen all the Nightmare on Elm Street movies... and Freddy vs. Jason. I guess I approve.” Jenny gazed through the menu from the bottom to the top, then kept rising till her eyes met mine. “So, is this a date?”
“No! Nothing like it,” I exclaimed. “I just realized I rushed into this whole giving-you-my-brain thing without getting to know you. I realize now I have a lot of questions.”
“To be honest, I was surprised how quickly you said yes,” replied Jenny. “Thought maybe you were desperate.”
“I am.”
“Fair enough.” Jenny scooted her chair forward and rested her elbows on the counter. “So, what would you like to know?”
“Can you hear me in there?” I poked my temple. “When I’m just, like, talking to friends?”
“Not when you’re talking to friends, no. No offense, but your skull’s pretty thick.”
“None taken. I like the privacy.”
“Well then, let me clarify: when you think to yourself, sometimes I can hear you.”
I felt a warmth rising in my cheeks. “You can hear my inner monologue?”
“Not all the time, usually never. You ramble in a whole other part of your brain. It’s normally inaudible except, well, sometimes you get nervous, kind of like now.” Jenny goggled at the redness in my face. “When you’re anxious, you yell.”
“I’m scared to ask, but what have I yelled?”
“Girls don’t date broke boys!” Jenny lowered her voice to imitate me. “I’m stuck like this forever! I did this to myself!”
My butt scooted forward, and my body slid halfway under the table.
“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. You didn’t know.” I was overly familiar with the look of ruth on Jenny’s face. “Look, I’m sure I’m loud too! We can both work at being quieter.”
“I haven’t noticed any noises... unless...” I remembered the strange musical pattern that urged me to hum in life’s awkward silences. Thinking about it, I could make out vague lyrics. “Hm-hm-hm-hm hmm hmmmm... Then we get closer.”
“Tegan and Sarah?”
“You tell me.”
“I’ve been playing one of their songs on repeat,” Jenny confessed. “Didn’t mean to get it stuck in your head.”
“It’s quite catchy.” I absentmindedly scratched the sideburn growing around my ear. “Is that your favorite band?”
“It was during my younger days,” Jenny reminisced. “Their music brings back comforting memories.”
“Oh, I miss that.” My face reflected a touch of sorrow. “Nostalgia eludes me when there’s nothing to look back on.”
Jenny mirrored my expression. “I’ll lower the volume,” she replied. “If you can work on not screaming in your head so much.”
“Thank you,” I said with a nod. “I’m glad we can help each other.”
Jenny stood up from her seat. “Let me treat you to a coffee,” she said. “It’s the least I can do if you give me another week to sort out the rent.”
A smile brightened my face as I responded, “Deal.”
“What can I get you?” asked Jenny.
“I’ll have a Pumpkinhead Latte,” I replied, “and some Cenobite Cinnabites for the table.”
* * *
Months would go by without seeing much of Jenny. According to her, she barely leaves, but when she would come and go, it wasn’t noticeable.
On rare occasions, I’ll hear footsteps suddenly sound off behind me, and I’ll catch her going out. While we weren’t close friends, we exchanged greetings and sometimes engaged in brief conversations. During one of these interactions, Jenny praised the noticeable reduction in noise levels. I hadn’t woken her up with a self-deprecating soliloquy in weeks. When she asked how I learned to manage my stress, I subtly revealed a small joint in my hand.
Without a job, I was no longer burdened by drug testing. I was free to smoke weed whenever I pleased. This, combined with other lifestyle adjustments, helped alleviate the anxieties that once dominated me. Instead of a cacophony of insecurities, I now channeled my energy into jogging on my new treadmill or savoring a black bean salad.
Yet, as with any significant changes, there were repercussions to consider. With bud in my system, my sleep attained unprecedented depths, and the usual bedtime panic seemed to dissipate. However, undeniably, the marijuana acted as a catalyst for my imagination, fueling intensely vivid dreams that unfolded within my mind.
Science has found several factors that determine whether or not we recall a dream. We’re more likely to remember when we don’t use an alarm, when we wake up during the REM stage, or if we dream something particularly emotional. It’s also more likely when you have direct interaction with a visiting capitulist.
During a particularly sound slumber, my dream emasculated me, placing me into an avatar half my height. The grocery store around me felt huge in comparison. I tried to make out the exact part of the store, but the aisle was ambiguous. Pink and green boxes lined the shelves without advertising, and pyramids of red cans were stacked toward the ceiling. I reached the end of the aisle, stuck my neck out, and looked both ways. The corner of the store to my left was basked in glowing white light, and to my right was a monster waiting to chase me.
The gray funnel stood to the ceiling and growled like a car shredder. It was a twister straight out of a Hollywood blockbuster, but it somehow didn’t affect its immediate surroundings. I could feel the beast’s pull drawing me in. The tornado was ravenous, and it was hungry only for me.
I dashed to my left into the fluorescent dairy aisle. Child-like panic urged me to seek out my parents, but everybody I passed was just a faceless stranger. My legs tried to sprint, but it felt like trudging through knee-high mud. The screams I made were practically inaudible, airless gasps disregarded by the fuzzy-faced shoppers.
Every time I looked over my shoulder, the distance between myself and the tornado halved, so I kept my eyes forward as I rounded another corner into the bakery. As the smell of fresh bread lifted into my nostrils, some force grabbed my shirt and pulled me down beneath a plastic table curtain. Passing under the shroud, I caught sight of the surreal blur of letters on the front meant to be the store’s logo: ___mœ’s. A hand went over my mouth, and a voice whispered, “I don’t know if we have to be quiet. It doesn’t have ears.”
I pulled the palm off my mouth and turned around to see the first face in my dream with actual features. The dim light that seeped under the foot of the curtain lit the smiling visage of Jenny.
“What are you doing in here?” I asked. My tone was harsh; I was still terrified.
“I heard tornado sirens and ran to the grocery store that spontaneously appeared in the distance. I hoped to snuff out the storm before it reached my home.”
Fear turned to guilt as I realized my unconscious phobia put my tenant’s belongings at risk. A sharp pain struck my tiny heart, and tears flooded the sides of my face.
“Oh, Tyler! It’s okay. You don’t need to cry.”
“I can’t help it! This dream’s got me in the body of a child,” I sobbed. “I don’t wanna be responsible for destroying your home.”
“Well, we just need to ensure it doesn’t escape the market,” said Jenny. “How does this dream usually end?”
“It catches me.” My eyes shut solemnly, and my head dipped. “I give you permission: toss me to it.”
“We’re not doing child sacrifices!” exclaimed Jenny. “We’re in a dream; we can fight back.”
“Nothing stands a chance against a tornado.”
“Says who?”
“Says hundreds of failed attempts by scientists,” I replied. “After they petrified me as a kid, my therapist suggested I learn all about tornadoes to demystify them. The best ideas to destroy them are completely unfeasible.”
“It doesn’t need to be feasible. We’re dealing with dream logic,” said Jenny. “What exactly do you need?”
“A bazooka full of silver iodide,” I said. “Do I just dream it up?”
“That usually requires a certain level of skill,” said Jenny. “Do you have experience in lucid dreaming?”
“Uh, no.”
“Any acid trips?”
“I doubt it.”
“Have you written speculative fiction?”
“I prefer historical accounts.”
Jenny pinched her brows together. “Your imagination seems a bit too unnourished. A better option might be stealing something from a memory.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have a memory of a bazooka.”
“Then, we need another plan.”
If I learned anything about recall from my therapy sessions, it was to always begin with the most prominent recollection and branch from there into the more niche memoirs. The panic of being stalked by a weather system undoubtedly hindered my concentration. Still, I eventually managed to find the perfect weapon against tornadoes stuffed in a fond remembrance from early adolescence.
Suddenly, the darkness under the table was illuminated by a bright light coming from the curtain behind us. I lifted the edge of the drape and revealed a small portal to a sunny day in the park. Immediately, we crawled off the dusty supermarket floor onto the warm, grassy field.
“I’ve been to this park before,” said Jenny. “It’s out by the Canal.”
“That’s the one, just a block away from my old orphanage.” Straightening up, I began jogging towards a commemorative bench where a child sat shaded under a red oak. “I came here in the morning to read my new book. I couldn’t stop till the sun had set.”
“It must have been a captivating read to remember it after all these years.”
“It’s what sparked my entire career!”
“What was it? A biography of Edison?” Jenny leaped over the bench and sat across from the young Tyler. She squinted curiously at the book’s cover. “A History of Electric Chairs?” she said surprised. “That was your inspiration?”
“I was thirteen!” I chuckled. “I craved something morbid, but it did much more than disturb me.”
“So your idea is to fry the tornado like a criminal?”
“No, the book’s not important,” I said. “We just need the sun.” I closed one eye and looked up at our mother star. Pinching my fingers around it, I plucked the sun off the firmament like a pale white berry from its branch. The sun fit in the pocket of my children’s overalls, gently warming my hip.
We traveled back through the portal and stood bravely out in the open. A quick toss of the sun to the ceiling of the ___mœ’s promptly cleared its nasty weather. As sunbeams touched down on the linoleum, they brought the scent of spring freshness throughout every aisle. The tornado’s incompatibility with the sunny day manifested as blurring vibrations up and down its length. Promptly, it shriveled up and died like a worm on the sidewalk.
With the monster slain, I was invited to spend the rest of my dream hanging out at Jenny’s abode. The walk away from the market was eerie. As we left behind the hazy metal blocks parked outside the grocery store, the once indistinct world became distinctly black. Jenny was leading me forward into a cold, uninviting void. Some invisible force acted as the ground beneath our feet, and as we came closer to Jenny’s house, each step was met with the cushiony sensation of grass.
Jenny’s house was faintly recognizable: the slate roofing, the orange walls, and an A-frame so tiny one might call it lowercase. “Why do you have Ron’s tiny home?”
“Ron, is it? Is he a friend of yours?”
“He’s like a brother to me.”
“Well, his house was just close by. I didn’t want to go marching too far into your memories; that’s none of my business.”
“I respect that,” I replied, “but is this why I can never remember his address?”
“Maybe, or maybe you’re bad at directions.”
“Could be.”
I followed Jenny through the front door and was absolutely floored by the decor. Seeing the same space reinterpreted through another person’s preferences was surreal. Ron’s kitchen-lounge had been replaced with a single-minded living room decorated in string lights, pink rugs, and Mandala tapestry.
This new configuration outshone Ron’s previous setup in every aspect, notably the wall-mounted television. The bulky tube stood in stark contrast to our sleek modern smart TVs, yet there was a charming quality about it that brought a smile to my face.
“I thought you didn’t go into my memories.” I patted the side, making a sound like a metallic drum. “This TV is one of mine. I can’t recall when I had it, though.”
“That wasn’t in your memories. That was here in the void.” She pointed to a fake unicorn head made from taxidermy hung above her entry. “I found that, too. For the most part, it’s a big, empty vesicle out there. However, occasionally, I chance upon some arbitrary object resting on the ground.”
I looked above Jenny’s door frame and locked eyes with the unicorn’s pink irises.
“Maybe these things are like leftovers,” I said, nodding towards the outdoors. “When I lost that chunk of my twenties, it wasn’t a clean break. These are scraps of neurons still crackling with leftover energy-shards of memory cut off from their context.”
Leaning back in my seat, I started flipping through the streaming services on the TV. “You’ve really made the most out of my old junk, Jenny. Your place has such a cool vibe.” My expression darkened as a troubling thought hit me like a ton of bricks. I let out a heavy sigh. “I can’t believe I almost tore it all apart.”
“It wasn’t on purpose,” said Jenny. “Don’t worry so much; we dealt with it.”
“Until next time,” I replied bleakly. “It always comes back as long as I’m afraid of twisters.”
“Yeah, so what’s with that?” Jenny asked sharply. “Was the Helen Hunt movie too scary for your little boy brain?”
“Uhm... no.” The doughy couch suddenly felt scratchy and uncomfortable. “It’s got a lot to do with my parents.”
“Uh... oh?” Jenny struggled to find words, realizing she had stumbled into something overly personal. “Amanda mentioned you were a foster kid; I just assumed they gave you up.” She looked out her window at the market, still standing in the distance. “I guess this is much worse.”
“It’s my greatest fear, and we tackled it head-on,” I said sincerely. “We were a great team.” I flicked on some weird cartoons on YouTube. “I might have been a little unsure at first, but I like having you along for the ride, Jenny. Not just because of the money, but it’s nice having someone to help me navigate this labyrinth inside my head.”
Jenny plopped down beside me and snickered. “Isn’t that what therapy is for?”
“I go to therapy, too,” I said. A shy grin tugged at the corners of my mouth. “Yet, it never worked so well till you became a part of the equation.”
* * *
Copyright © 2023 by Evan Witmer
