Note to Self

This feeling… it’s like when you fall asleep in the backseat of the family car during a road trip, waking up in the familiar and uncomfortably warm interior of the old automobile while, at the same time, surrounded by an unfamiliar city’s streets and storefronts. Interludes of unfamiliarity weaving in and out, numbed somewhat by feelings deep inside of comfort and safety assuring you that you’re right where you’re supposed to be.

He (name unknown) woke up to that familiar feeling of unfamiliarity. Light slipped in through a crack in the blinds, softly painting the ceiling with the pale blue-yellow of early morning. He got up slowly and stayed there for a moment, legs warm underneath a thin blanket, head hanging, half-conscious. He shook his head a bit to shake off any residual sleep and got out of bed— and nearly slipped, as if he stepped on a loose tile. The near-fall woke him up with a jolt, and he looked down to see that what he slipped on wasn’t a loose tile but a notebook. Or, rather, a short stack of them— three, to be exact, all with black covers, and each numbered with what looked like thick white sharpie. The first two (“1” and “2”) resembled clams the way books do when other materials/papers are attached to the notebook’s original pages. To the right of the notebooks (and to the right of the right foot that slipped off them) was an encyclopedia-sized brick of bundled cash.

He bent over to pick up the first book, a big white “1” bisecting the soft, leather cover. He flipped it open:

“March 29th, XXXX. I think I’m losing my memory. I keep misplacing things and forgetting names… but it’s also more than that. I keep forgetting what month it is. What I do at work… I came in yesterday and the brief I got set to work on was already finished— by me. Even after I saw it, no recollection. It’s becoming difficult to keep track without writing everything down, and just writing things that ‘regular’ people don’t have to write— 'your apartment number is ###, wear a tie and dress shirt to work, the one with the glasses is David' scares me. So, just in case, I’m writing in this notebook here. I feel like I’m in Memento, that Chris Nolan film. God knows I’m confused. Afraid, even? I don’t know, I don’t know.” He wondered if this was his writing.

“[no date, but found directly under the March 29th entry but in a different colour pen. Notable time gap between this entry and the next, which is April 15th.] anterograde amnesia— what the guy in memento had? why do I remember that movie but not my name?”

Written in purple ink and underlined furiously: “April 15th, XXXX. I can’t work the same jobs anymore.” There’s more, a lot more, a whole two pages straight, but it’s scribbled out.

Receipts covered with black scuffs invoices, other official-looking documents with boring drywall-colour of old office paper. Little handwritten statements of jobs carried out: fast food deliveries for fried chicken establishments, some Asian restaurants (whatever script that came before “—‘s House of Chinese Food” was unfamiliar to him), messily-written notations that were as short as “twenty dollars for cleaning out men’s bathroom, St. John’s Halfway House” with what was either a signature or a drunk attempt at writing “Rabent” in cursive. There’s at least one of these documents on nearly every page, contributing to the bulk, clam-shape of the first two notebooks.

He stopped reading for a moment. When he thought about it, he had no recollection of his past. Or any past, for that matter— not yesterday, not twenty years ago. Maybe he would’ve been more unsettled by that if it weren’t for the books, which were clearly used as some kind of journal or log. It wasn’t until he began flipping through the second book (large, white sharpied “2” on the cover) that he started to ask questions: what was his name? Where was he?

“March 1st, XXXX [but judging from the number of repeated months he’s flipped through, he estimates this is several years after the first entry]. Potentially serious question: do I still have to pay the debts if I’m psychologically no longer the same person that incurred the debt? Not a superficial 'Oh, I’ve changed' type of transformation… like why should I have to pay for my student loans when I actually remember nothing from that era— literally, nothing. Can’t work in that field anymore, haven’t worked in that field for years. I’m out here scrubbing toilets and delivering food to college students in the middle of the night. Where are these debt notices coming from? Can I get out of anything?”

An arrow at the end of this entry traces along the edge of the bottom of the page to several pages later in the book. A short note from July 14th circled in bold red pen: “I guess not”

He flipped through more receipts, more rote entries simply detailing where the next job was, and how to report to work the next morning. Some contained random notes, presumably written for himself to read the next day.

“September 18th, XXXX. Stop looking in the mirror, it freaks you out.” And right under that: “Got rid of mirror. Try to avoid reflections when outside.”

“September 19th, 20XX [most dates unrecognizable and scribbled out except here, although the information is hardly valuable]. Special request delivery @ work today. Student, Noa. Apparently he knows about my situation, gave a great tip.”

The appearances of this “Noa” character became more frequent in the ensuing pages. From what he could gather, Noa was the one who either owned this building himself or knew who did. Rent waived in exchange for special delivery preference to Noa— mention of a cellphone particular for this purpose (but nowhere in sight right now) and a postcard taped to the bathroom door with all of the info needed to remember who Noa was and how to reach him/how to react when he reached out first. First impressions of Noa were interesting to compare— some were overwhelmingly positive, mostly because of whatever the tip was (sometimes as exorbitant as 200%), and other times somewhat conveying an air of disappointment, again a function of the tip (measly 5%’s) although Noa seemed effusively apologetic in these circumstances, and “if it weren’t for what I’ve written down about him, I’d think I’m being scammed” (May 5th, XXXX).

“November 12th, XXXX. student loans.”

“December 4th, XXXX. bank loan (not sure why I had it in the first place).”

“February 26th, XXXX. misc. debts and loans”

The next two pages were each dedicated to one word each:

“DEBT”

“FREE”

This seemed like a deeply significant day, in large part because of the one-and-nearly-two notebooks full of receipts preceding it.

“August 31st, XXXX. Met a stranger on the boardwalk today that swore he recognized me. His name was Noa, claimed to know me. Apparently started a business and it’s doing well. Wants to catch up properly some other time, said he’d come find me. ?”

“Just checked— it’s probably the same Noa from earlier entries. Which means he’ll know how to find me, I can stop worrying about how to reach him.”

“September 1st, XXXX. Noa has a son, also expecting a second kid this year. I don’t know how long it’s been since we first met— he won’t tell me, either. Apparently I asked him never to say anything that’ll give away my age (smart). He bought dinner (burgers) and said I should come by the house tomorrow, he’ll pick me up. Is used to having to re-meet me all the time, too.”

The handwriting of the next entry was in all capital letters of slightly varying sizes, akin to that of a child. Either the handwriting had gotten worse, or someone else entirely was writing.

“Oct 5. Left hospital, Noa paid. Memory worsening, barel-y lasting 1 day now. Maybe harder to work?”

“Oct 9. Emptied bank accounts of any card I had in the wallet. Impressive savings!!!” The underline was shaky and jagged. “~20,000” The second book ended there.

When he bent down to pick up the third book, a single sheet of white paper slipped out, folded in half. He picked it up and say that there was something typed in it:

“I don’t think we’ll need to use the third book. It’s getting harder to write, and there’s too much to figure out with typing, so this will be a one-time thing. Speech is also starting to get weird… there’s a chance things get a lot more confusing.

Here is what I’ve done: emptied our bank accounts with all the money we own— it should be on the floor or something, I’ll make sure you (I) can’t miss it. This is your money. I know it looks unfamiliar, that this all looks unfamiliar… that weird feeling of like unfamiliarity that’s strangely familiar? Hard to explain, but I’m sure you get it. Rest assured, this is your money.

I’ve also pulled out the first notebook, which we initially tucked away to avoid confusion (I won’t go into unnecessary details, but I’ve also destroyed the big poster-board with all the basic information that made the waking up/relearning process a lot less disorienting. This was done also to avoid confusion). I think it’s important that everything is read, so if you haven’t read the notebooks yet, definitely go through those. I’ll number them. These notebooks contain my (our?) life, and even though it doesn’t feel like it, even if reading the entries doesn’t ring any bells (trust me, I know, because I literally had to read those notebooks too), each tiring day after tiring day was lived. By me. By you. I don’t know why we didn’t do this before, but I guess I’m glad we did, because this makes sense: Noa is now my medical emergency contact, and he also said he’d check in every couple of days. Apartment still rent-free. Might need to enter some kind of home later, but he said he’d take care of that. I already offered him the $20k but he refused and insisted that I keep it— his business is doing really well, apparently, and is about to be bought out for a nice sum.

When I read through the notebooks, I was particularly interested in that one entry about whether or not one should be liable for a debt they can’t remember taking… like what was happening to me, I guess. It looks like I paid the debt over the years of Sisphyus-like work and now, well, I guess we can reap the rewards? I mean, if we paid the debt we might as well, right?

I thought it would be important for you to have these notebooks so that this money and freedom don’t feel as arbitrary or undeserved. Whether you remember it or not, it’s rightfully yours. I’m sure the journaling was originally just a way to survive and keep track of everything. But what it became is some kinda, like, vessel, for our life… it’s our story. Is it weird to use ‘our’ here? It feels right, though. There’s human life in those pages.

Anyway, do what you will with the money. It’d be nice if you could keep some kinda record. I’m currently asking a kind librarian to type this out as I dictate (“hi!” – Katherine L.), so maybe you could keep doing that? I’ll leave it up to you, though. All I ask is that you keep the notebooks handy, keep them somewhere safe. These notebooks are worth more than the money— they give the money value. They give the money purpose. The human aspect of it all. Keep them, and this note, by the money so that its true value is known.

Oh, and maybe pick up some kinda gift for Noa’s baby? I’m sure diapers are expensive.

All the best.”