Memory Inventory Specialist

I’m what I like to call, a Memory Inventory Specialist. Picture a neat row of filing cabinets in my brain, each with its own little memory tab that I’ve categorized, alphabetized, colour-coded, the whole nine yards. Keep in mind, I have a knack for compartmentalization, so that’s the easy part; you sort the nostalgia, the romance, the life achievements, it’s all pretty simple. But every job has it’s catch-- its annoying boss, its difficult-to-work-with cubicle neighbor.

For me, the catch is an old rusted cabinet, thick with dust (I’m talking inches thick), that’s padlocked and tucked away in a back corner. Apparently, industrial locks weren’t in the budget, ‘cause it’s locked with this pathetic, flimsy thing, easy to pick if you have a few minutes and a couple bobby pins. But I guess it’s mostly there to serve as a reminder: do not open.

Now, what’s in there, you ask? What kind of memories need to be forgotten and locked away? Well, you probably have a similar padlock on yours-- in it, thick, detailed files of the moments you’d love to forget: all of your most regrettable, lamentable, embarrassing memories.

And as you know, every so often, the lock is inevitably chipped open, whether because someone brings up the cabinet’s contents, or your own mind betrays you. This time around, I got comfortable with my cabinet’s lock. Cocky, even. But one night, the lock just snapped, like bent celery. A memory I hadn’t thought about in years popped into my mind out of nowhere-- it was suddenly just there, replaying in my mind like a movie stuck on loop, projected onto the insides of my eyelids. It was three AM, and for the first time in years, I was remembering that night.

But why not shove the memory back where it came from? Add a quick zero to the “__ days without an incident” sign, invest in a better lock, act like it never happened? Take my word for it; you wanna clean your cabinet out before it gets too full. Could I technically shove the file down and pretend it doesn’t exist? Sure. But eventually, one sleepless night down the line, even the strongest lock will burst, exploding with dozens of files of every horrifying, embarrassing thing you’ve encountered. Anything from pronouncing a word wrong in high school chemistry, to accidentally sending a spicy text to your aunt that was meant for your boyfriend. So, while cabinet cleaning is tedious and dreadful, you can see why I’d rather get it over with.

So... let’s get this over with.

My rusty cabinet’s files currently contain excruciating details and images of a night where prank calls were a rib-tickling success. That is, until I nearly broke up a relationship, permanently memorializing the moment with a photo so embarrassing, I shiver at its memory.

Setting the scene is embarrassing in itself. When you hear “prank calls” your mind probably goes to a slumber party; preteens sat in a circle over board games and junk food, adolescent at most, but even that’s pushing it. I wish I could tell you I was a silly twelve year old when this happened, but I’ll just be candid: I was twenty-one.

Okay, twenty-two.

Are prank calls immature? Yes. Childish? Absolutely. Is twenty-two way too old to be calling other adults, using silly accents and nonsensical narratives purely for the pleasure of rolling in fits of laughter once you’ve hung up? Probably. But in my defense, bored, boisterous university students sharing cocktails could be getting into a lot worse on a Saturday night.

At least, that’s what I thought.

We decided the best system was to swap cells, calling randos and people we hadn’t talked to in years. The key to this juvenile operation, was to block our numbers from each call. You punch in *67 before dialling, and voila, you’re a ghost; a “Private” caller. The only flaw, being, people don’t really feel like answering calls from an unknown number on a Saturday night. More on that, later.

Let me preface by saying, none of the calls were made with malicious… intent. In fact, all around, it was a wholesome bonding experience, my friends and I giving in to the nostalgia of tomfoolery. But unlike our childhood sleepovers, alcohol was involved. And maybe that’s partially why we didn’t foresee the consequential buffoonery.

The first call, was to a guy we all went to high school with. He answered, we fought giggles, and the designated speaker gave herself an outrageous name and backstory. Something like,

“Hey [insert name], this is Anastasia. We met last week at that club? What do you mean you don’t remember me?” And it would go on, him playing along, the room a whirl of young women laughing into arms and pillows. He was a good sport, clearly aware he was being razzed, repeatedly asking “Who is this?!”

And that’s another thing, right? At that point, we figured no one would believe the charade. It was less of a well-acted performance to make them believe us, and more of a silly attempt at causing momentary confusion. We didn’t expect people to believe us, nor did we want them to. So after the success of the first call, we pretty much had a working template: Hey there, we met a while back, here’s an improbable name and scenario, what do you mean you don’t remember me, here’s even weirder, improbable details. We made several of these calls, each more ridiculous than the last. Then, we got to my phone.

My friends scrolled through my contact list, offering suggestions of our next victim. I had an excuse for every option, reasons we couldn’t annoy my acquaintances and old flames. But finally, I agreed to let them call an unnamed contact; the number was unfamiliar, we hadn’t exchanged any texts, and I had no recollection of who this person was, or why I had their number. We may as well have closed our eyes and picked someone from a phonebook.

My friend (let’s call her J) dialled, and to our annoyance, no one picked up. It was our fifth bust in a row, and it had become apparent that people were in no mood to be bothered by whatever telemarketer or spam caller they expected. That’s when we brilliantly decided to deviate from the formula we’d mastered.

“Leave a message!”

I can’t remember whose idea it was, only that we all collectively agreed it was fantastic. So far, we’d only talked to people, we hadn’t tested the waters of leaving them a wonderful surprise in their voicemail box. And so, J did just that.

“Hey there, [insert name], it’s Cherry? From [insert ridiculously fake name of bar] last week? I hope you remember me, I had a great time hanging out. If you wanna give me a call back, my number is [insert fake number]”.

Whoever we’d called, their outgoing voicemail message didn’t give us any clues, just a robotic voice telling us to leave a message. It was a little anticlimactic, not nearly as fun as a live reaction, but the idea was that hopefully, whoever was on the other end, would call the number we left. We wouldn’t get the gratification of witnessing their confusion, but the mere idea was apparently enough for us to laugh our asses off, offering hypothetical reactions and scenarios.

But then, my phone rang.

The room went silent, giggles muffled and hushed by my raised hand.

“It’s the number we just called!” I shrieked playfully.

“Wait, they can call us back?!”

“But we blocked your number!”

“Just ignore it!”

So we did, the final ring overlapped with our laughter.

I was mid-cackle when my face became cartoonishly somber, all traces of humour leaving my body like an exorcized spirit. My screen read: You Have One Voicemail.

“Oh shi--”

“What’s wrong?”

“They left a message!”

They found this hilarious, but my stomach had twisted itself into a mall booth pretzel.

“Play it on speaker!”

I realized our mistake. I shakily entered my four-digit voicemail password, impatiently listening to the menu instructions before finally playing the message for the room.

“Hey Cherry.” My friends giggled, the man’s voice husky and wet with a lisp. “Or sorry, should I say, Mina.” My friends squealed at my real name, my mouth agape. “I have a girlfriend threatening to dump me because she thinks I slept with some girl named Cherry--I don’t even know a Cherry--” I ended the voicemail, ignoring the protests of my friends, burying my face in my hands. I recognized the man, having only known one person with that specific, prominent lisp on the “CH”.

“I swear Mina, I blocked your number!” J exclaimed, noticing my dismay. I was redder than a rhubarb pie, my cheeks and chest, splotchy.

“He got it from my outgoing voicemail,” I explained, groaning. We were all too booze-brained to think of this, when we’d rejected his call. I rubbed my temples, breathing in rhythm with the small circles. Our innocent, humorous passtime had somehow instantly become far too real; the idea that I was possibly at fault for ending a relationship made me nauseous. I considered running to puke.

“What’re you gonna do?” someone asked, gently.

I looked up. My friends were calm, teeth clenched into awkward smiles of support. I could tell they were secretly grateful they weren’t in my position, and I didn’t blame them. I wanted to crawl into bed and pretend this had never happened. Maybe down a couple shots to really forget what happened.

“I have to call back and clear things up,” I said firmly, more to convince myself, than them. I dialled quickly, knowing if I didn’t do it now, I’d chicken. He answered almost immediately.

“Yeah?”

My mouth was dry, my head pounding. “Hey. It’s Mina.” I hadn’t talked to him in years.

“Yeah, you need to clear things up with my girlfriend. Like, now.” I could hear the girlfriend’s angry chatter in the background, her profuse swearing (in my opinion) warranted.

“Of course, and I’m so sorry, it was just a dumb prank, I didn’t mean--”

“Hello?” He’d put her on the phone. Her voice was nasally and dripping with angry.

“Hey...girl, I’m so, so sorry, I’m with my friends and we’ve had a bit to drink--” My friends offered chirps of agreement and I switched the phone to speaker mode. “I swear to god, the message was just a dumb prank, we literally haven’t talked in years. I didn’t even have his name saved in my phone--”

“Who are you?” she interrupted.

“We had a class together a couple years back,” I explained, carefully. We’d exchanged numbers for a group project, and although we hadn’t texted, he’d called me several times-- not always for school related topics. I decided to leave this part out, unwilling to poke the bear.

“Babe, I don’t even know why she still has my number, she’s like, obsessed or something,” I heard him whisper, loudly. My eyebrows furrowed. I opted for damage control.

“Like I said,” I said cooly, my friends making faces at the phone, muttering profanities. “His number was saved without a name, I didn’t even know it was his when we decided to call. On my grandma’s grave, this was just a dumb prank. I can send a group pic of us right now, if you want proof that we're just messing around.”

“Immediately,” she demanded, almost in a hiss. “And like, do something so I know it’s not an old pic. Everyone like, touch your nose.”

The four of us posed for the photo, finger to nose, smiling awkwardly, apologetic. I sent the photo. “Okay, so… we good?” I asked lamely, almost entirely sober at this point. The silence was unbearable, my shoulders tensed, the rest of my body equally agitated. I listened to Dave and the woman laugh about something. Finally,the woman scoffed.

“You look exactly how I expected you to.”

“Bitch!” J screamed, reaching for the phone. But they’d already hung up.

I threw my phone to the couch, elbows to knees, cheeks to palms. My friends surrounded me, cautious, offering kind words as my back bobbed up and down, in what they assumed were silent sobs.

I unfolded, face flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and relief. “This doesn’t leave this room!” I exclaimed, laughter building and erupting from my throat. I reached for the vodka bottle, untwisting the cap, my friends relieved and brightened.

“Phones off for the rest of the night, ladies!” J quipped, lining the shot glasses for me. I poured to their brims.

“God, you think they’ll show people that photo?”

“Let ‘em. We look hot!”

I downed two shots, deleting his number with my free hand. The photo-- I hadn’t even thought about the photo. I took another shot for good measure.

* * *

The photo is what popped into my head that night at three AM.

Tossing and turning, intrusive thoughts popping in my head like fireworks, it was the grand finale, the pick to cabinet lock: memory of that damn picture, my awkward, forced smile, eyes moist with the threat of tears, chubby finger pressed to nose. You look exactly how I expected you to.

Tell me that wouldn’t make you shiver and cringe.

But like I said: I take my job seriously. The best lesson I’ve learned as a Memory Inventory Specialist, is that in order to clear out that old, dusty filing cabinet, you have to make room for new files. It’s a matter of letting yourself relive the memory at its worst; the way your stomach drops to your toes, the overwhelming “what the hell have I done” thoughts flooding your mind, intermingled with those unhelpful “what if’s”.

The truth is, you can’t keep shoving new files in, and expect that lock to hold. Eventually, when you’re ready to clean, you read your files over, cringe, and add it to the clean, shiny cabinets, wherever it fits. A lot of my old locked up memories end up under “F”, for friends. But regardless of where it ends up, these are the stories your friends love most-- and usually, they're the memories you come to find the most laughter in.