The Memory Market
by Howard Marsee
Artie James didn’t have to look for the place. The garish sign on Kendall Boulevard shouted out Miami Memory Market. It reminded Artie James of an automobile dealership with three salesmen hovering near the door. One was reading a book, one was playing on his phone and one was eating a candy bar.
The first to extend his hand was the man with the candy. He was a short, fat man with a yellow shirt, red tie and no jacket. He had a bushy moustache and oversized, black-rimmed glasses. “Hello, to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” It was the same saccharine greeting Artie had heard a thousand times, in its many variations, in his fifty-two years on earth. The man handed Artie his business card as if it were a gift from God.
“Artie James.”
“Well, Mr. James, what brings you in today? Maybe a custom memory, a new standard memory, or one of our pre-owned models?” He smiled, and his moustache contorted into a crooked caterpillar above his lip. There was a bit of chocolate between his two front teeth.
Three people, whom Artie assumed to be customers, were talking with salesmen while sitting at desks in glass cubicles on either side of the lobby.
“I’ve not shopped for memories before,” said Artie.
Indeed, until eight months ago, Artie didn’t know he needed a new memory but, when his wife left with a local real estate broker, it left a hole in his wallet, his condo and his life. He didn’t exactly have any spectacular memories anyway. He was a bookkeeper for a small clothing company and, when Artie really thought about it, his entire life had been a screaming bore.
“Well, you’ve come to the right place. You’ve probably seen our TV ads. We specialize in only the very best. Our custom memories and new memories are AI generated by the very largest computers available. You’ll find that we’re the best dealer in the Southeast.”
Artie wanted to get right to the point: “How much are your custom memories?”
“Well, that depends on what you’re looking for. How much were you looking to spend?”
Artie had purchased enough cars to realize this was a trap. He had negotiated car deals before. “Just give me some idea of what you have available.”
The salesman shrugged. “A lot depends on what type and how long a memory you want... You understand that you’ll have to trade in an equal segment of old memory? We can’t just squeeze a new memory into a bunch of old ones without making room for it. We just splice in a new one to replace the old one. We can’t have overlapping memories.” He seemed proud of his rote explanation and smiled again.
“Let’s just say I want a one-week, custom memory,” said Artie.
“Depending on the type and how complicated it is, I’d say that would cost somewhere between $15,000 and $50,000.”
“That seems awful pricey,” said Artie. He was shifting into negotiation mode.
The salesman looked deflated but quickly regained his happy face. “Of course, we do have a wide variety of standard, new models, created by the very best AI memory designers. You can choose from any standard model we have available. It’s possible you may run across a few people who have purchased the same model, but that’s not common.” He shrugged.
“How much for a new standard model?”
“Those run from $7,000 to $15,000.”
Artie looked dispirited.
“We do have financing available for zero percent interest this month.”
“Do you take old memories in trade?”
“We do, but we can’t tell you how much until our appraiser looks at them. As you might suspect, some pre-owned memories are, well, not in very good condition. Do you have a trade that you want to get rid of?”
Artie had a load of memories he’d like to dump, but he suspected they might not be worth much. There was the day his wife told him she’d met another man and then the following eight months dealing with lawyers. There was the day he was fired from his job and the two weeks it took him to find another. There was the income tax audit that turned out bad. Artie realized he had more than a few trade-ins. “I have to think about it.”
“If price is a problem, I can show you some of our pre-owned models. Of course, we sell those as as is.” There was a snobbish undertone in his statement. “No warranty with those, I’m sorry to say. I think you understand that, even when we recondition them, they might have defects we don’t know about.”
“How much for a standard eight-month model?”
The salesman stroked his chin, “That is a very long memory... I’m afraid that would cost well over $100,000.” He was sizing up Artie to determine if he could even remotely afford such a memory. “We had one customer who insisted on a lifetime memory. That cost over a million dollars.”
“I’ll go home and think about it,” said Artie, concluding the interaction. The salesman shoved another business card in his hand, emphasizing that Artie would do best by dealing with him.
* * *
That evening, Artie settled into his recliner with a snifter and a bottle of brandy. There were so many things to consider. He’d already decided to replace only one memory at a time, just to see how it worked. So, there were the questions of what memory he wanted to replace and what new memory he thought he’d like.
Of course, there was also price to consider. He had saved a little in the bank, but he wasn’t sure he could afford a custom model or an eight-month model and, with his bad credit, financing might not be an option.
Halfway through the bottle of brandy, Artie came to a decision. He would trade in his memory of being fired and the two weeks it took him to find a new job. Of course, unless there was a masochist out there somewhere, it probably wasn’t worth much as a trade-in.
A two-week model shouldn’t cost much. He’d always dreamed of meeting a gorgeous, uninhibited, woman in some exotic place and having a two-week, no strings attached fling with her. That was it. That was the new memory. He was sure there was a new, standard model for that.
The next day, the fat salesman was effusive. “We’re so glad you’ve decided on a new model.”
Artie explained in detail what he wanted while the salesman took notes.
“Follow me.” The salesman led Artie to a cubicle near the back of the lobby, handed Artie a bottle of water, opened a large computer monitor and began to scroll through a descriptive catalogue of new memories... wrong locale, wrong woman, wrong time duration...
Finally, he found one that very nearly matched what Artie wanted, only the place was Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, and the woman was a brunette. Artie would have preferred somewhere in the Mediterranean and a blonde, but he figured this was close enough. Anyway, the price was a new memory model he could afford.
The used-memory appraiser came into the cubicle and adopted his most sympathetic voice: “I’m afraid we can only give you $500 in trade for your old memories. They’re going to be hard for us to market.”
Artie wrote a check for $8,500. “When can I take delivery?” asked Artie.
“This afternoon if you like. I’ll schedule a transfer room for, say, three o’clock this afternoon?”
That was fine with Artie, and he went to lunch to drink and kill time until three. He was in the mood to celebrate. He was dumping an old memory and replacing it with one he would enjoy for years. Could it get any better than that? He ordered a porterhouse steak and a bottle of Merlot. He tipped the waitress fifty dollars.
* * *
Back at Memory Market, the transfer process was slow but painless. The operator placed him in a quiet room, put him in a recliner, gave him a mild sedative, placed a mask over his eyes and placed electrodes on his head.
“You need to concentrate very hard on the old memory,” said the operator. “Try to block out all other thoughts. Concentrate on the beginning and the end of the old memory. That’s important.”
The wine from lunch had slowed Artie down, and he had to work on concentrating, but he finally got it. As soon as the transfer was complete, Artie remembered a brunette in Mexico, a real knockout with eyes and a smile that melted his heart.
At home that evening, Artie leaned back in a chaise lounge beside his swimming pool, brandy in his hand. He closed his eyes, and he was in Puerto Vallarta, in a beach lounge chair with a daiquiri. He remembered the woman running toward him, her dark hair streaming on the ocean breeze and her small, bare feet kicking up little puffs of sand. She tripped and almost fell into his arms.
“Looks like you’re in a hurry,” said Artie.
She smiled. “I was headed to the cabana for a drink.”
“Mind if I join you? I’m Artie James.”
“I’d love that. I’m Ellen Waring.”
Artie remembered how she looked into his eyes and smiled when she spoke. He remembered her bikini and how lively she bounced on the way to the cabana. He remembered the smell of her perfume.
They sat side by side in lounge chairs, with their drinks, under a blue umbrella and spent the day talking. Artie remembered how she drew little figures in the sand with her toes. Ellen was a legal secretary for a large Los Angeles law firm that specialized in corporate mergers. She listened enthusiastically while Artie told her about his job with the clothing company. After an hour or so, she reached for his hand.
“Are you here for long?” she asked.
“A couple of weeks. How about you?”
“About the same. Then, I have to go back to work.”
“Would you like to swim?”
“I’d like that.”
They swam out to a sand bar and half-sat, half-floated on it. “Are you married?” asked Ellen.
“No. Are you?”
She laughed, “No.”
That night, they had dinner, then in the resort’s hotel suite made love, Ellen pressing her firm body to his, her black hair falling across his shoulders. Day after day, they explored Puerto Vallarta, the markets, the small cafes and tourist attractions. Ellen bought a straw hat for him and laughed when she placed it on his head.
Night after night they made love. Their conversations were intimate, each sharing their life stories with the other. They both liked old movies and football. They went to the resort’s movie theatre to watch Casablanca, and Ellen almost cried at the end. After two weeks, they departed at the airport, each promising to see one another again.
“I want to see you again,” said Artie.
Ellen looked wistful. “I’d like that. Maybe here at the airport a year from now.”
Artie looked at the digital calendar on the departure-and-arrival screen. It was 16 de Julio, July 16.
They kissed, and that was where the memory faded. He was now remembering his first day of work with the clothing company. An hour later and several more snifters of brandy, Artie was drunk, and he knew he had to find Ellen again. There was no reason to wait for next July.
* * *
Within two days, Artie was on a plane to Los Angeles. Ellen had given him the name of the law firm where she worked: Barton, Barton and Strunk. He found it online. It was on the forty-first floor of a high-rise downtown.
The receptionist was confused. “I’m sorry, sir, but no one by that name works here.”
“But this is the name she gave me.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t think an Ellen Waring works here.” She called human resources and after a few minutes said, “No Ellen Waring has ever worked here.”
There had to be some mistake. Maybe she was back at Puerto Vallarta. Artie caught a plane to Mexico. It was the same resort he remembered, even the same hotel suite, but no one remembered him or Ellen.
Artie spoke to the same concierge who had talked to Artie and Ellen every day on their way to breakfast, but he didn’t recognize Artie, and he’d never heard of Ellen Waring. There was a knot in Artie’s stomach that would not go away. He would have to wait until next July.
* * *
It had been a long year, and the screen on the wall at Puerto Vallarta airport said 16 de Julio. During the past months, Artie had spent most evenings remembering Ellen. Now, he roamed from concourse to concourse hoping to find her.
Finally, he went to the Delta Airlines counter. A man in front of him at the ticket counter was asking the agent whether he remembered an Ellen Waring. The agent smiled and called over a much older agent, an American probably in his seventies.
“Dalton, we have another man asking about Ellen Waring,” said the young agent.
“How many does that make this month?” asked Dalton.
“Four, I think.”
Dalton leaned forward, his elbows on the counter and spoke to the man in front of Artie. “Mister...” he paused to get the name off the ticket. “Watson, you don’t watch much television, do you?”
Mr. Watson looked confused. “No.”
“Ellen Waring was the partner of a murder victim in an old Perry Mason episode. She was suspected of the murder. I’ve watched them all. I think this was episode number one.”
“You think someone is spreading misinformation online?” asked the young agent, speaking to Dalton.
Dalton shrugged, “It’s a crazy world out there.”
As Mr. Watson walked away, Artie thought he saw tears in his eyes. Artie wanted to ask him questions, but he was afraid of the answers. He knew what he had to do.
It took a private investigator in Miami two days and $2,000 to tell Artie that he could find no trace of Ellen Waring. Artie was desperate.
* * *
At the Memory Market, the fat salesman listened solicitously to Artie’s story, nodding occasionally. “This sometimes happens,” he said. “It’s unavoidable.”
“You sold me a defective memory,” said Artie.
“Not at all. It was exactly the two weeks you wanted. I can show you the warranty. I explained that standard memories are sold to multiple customers.”
“But you told me it wasn’t likely someone else would have the same memory.”
“You seem to have purchased a popular model. If you like, I’m sure we can sell you a continuation, maybe another two or three weeks. We can give you a discount.”
“How much will that cost?” Artie sounded desperate.
“Continuations are harder to generate. I’d have to check with my manager, but I estimate it would be around $9,000.”
“Can I trade in the model I bought?” The thought of parting with Ellen was painful.
“Yes. Of course, but with so many of that model on the market now, we probably can’t give you much for the trade-in.”
“Can I get my old memory back?”
“Can you tell us what it was?”
Artie struggled. “No.”
“I’m so sorry but, in any event, if it wasn’t one we could market, we probably sold it for scrap.”
Copyright © 2026 by Howard Marsee
