Photographic



  PHOTOGRAPHIC

  A short story by Hickory Cole

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  PUBLISHED BY:

  Photographic

  Copyright © 2012 by Hickory Cole

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

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  Most people have had that experience when they meet someone in a social or professional setting, where they recognize the person as they greet them, only to realize too late that the other person has no shared recollection. Those that haven’t are likely one of the few often on the other end of that uncomfortable exchange. For those few, I wonder if they have ever noticed the subtle cues from the people they have met before, the eyes widening just slightly, the facial muscles forcing an involuntary smile; very subtle cues but almost always there.

  The smile of recognition comes immediately as the memory is retrieved from the vast number of images stored in their brain. The eyes widen as the brain does its work, flashing quickly back to the time and place if it too can be recalled, along with the face. Then they see their counterpart’s eyes on the other side of the handshake. They see no reciprocal processing behind those dead wandering eyes. The corners of their smile are quickly forced down into a reduced smile, the one that would have been seen the first time the two met; the polite smile. Of course, sometimes the smile is eliminated all the way. Those are the people who are more sensitive to the insult just dealt them. They could be people who had met that same person more than once. Or maybe they had shared more than a brief conversation on a topic of common interest. They may have felt they had previously connected with that person somehow, and just learned that, in fact, they did not. They did just learn that they have just been reacquainted with an ass.

  I never forget a face. I’m not bragging, or exaggerating. I have a photographic memory, a true photographic memory. If I see it, I remember it. It may seem a bit self-serving that I just described the antithesis of myself as an ass. I don’t mean to pretend that I am perfect. I’m not. I’d love to forget many of those faces. I just can’t. It’s amazing how many people I run across in a single day. I, myself, am easy to spot. I’m the guy whose eyes widen just slightly as he sees everyone walk by. I’m not genuinely excited to see those nameless faces that pass by. I just haven’t learned to control the involuntary fluctuations of my face, induced by the inner workings of my brain. I am better at controlling it than I used to be. Maybe I’m not so easy to spot. It’s probably barely noticeable anymore.

  There is one specific memory trapped in my dysfunctional brain that I desperately want to purge. It is a disturbing image, one that most people would require professional help to deal with. No one could actually forget this image, but a normal mind would be able to modify it, perhaps soften it; remove the hard and cruel edges of it. Of course I can’t. It’s going nowhere. It is a memory that has framed my entire life. It consumes me, defines me. It stares at me constantly, mocking me. I try to divert my mind to other matters, but it is of no use. It is my cross to bear.

  I have tried for years to purge this horrible memory to no avail, so today I am trying something new. I am going to try to revise the memory. The image is from an incident that ended very unsatisfactorily from my point of view. I am not certain if this will help me to cleanse the memory, but I believe I can add to it, write the final chapter. This is my hope. By adding to the memory I can change it, from a horrible, terrifying memory, to one that is not as bad, possibly even neutral, even if it now must span thirty years from inception to conclusion. But first I must find a man, a tall slender man with a sunken face. I know his face well. His skin is rough and leathery, his eyes dark and cold, cheeks high and angled, his upper lip almost imperceptible as thin as it is. I know his ears, his widow’s peak, his protruding Adam’s apple. This is the face that haunts me in the middle of the night. Of course the face will have aged thirty years since I saw it the first time.

  I have seen the face six times since the incident. The man lives in the same general area as I live. Based on the locations he has appeared, I have pinpointed the general neighborhood where I believe he lives. And so I sit and wait. I am at a local café sitting outside on a busy sidewalk as hundreds of people pass by. I have a copy of today’s paper, but I only pretend to read it. I cannot miss his face when he walks by, if he walks by. I wait here for as long as I can before the waitress finds my presence too suspicious, and draws unwanted attention to me. There is no sign of him.

  I do know his name, his given name. He does not use that name anymore and for good reason. I know the name well. It rings in my head when I lie awake at night unable to fall asleep. I see his face, I hear his name. Why did he have to be there that night?

  I begin walking slowly. I recall the images I have seen over the years, mentally scanning them for details I may have dismissed as meaningless before. I retrieve an image thirteen years old, the second image of the man. The man has a wedding band on his finger. The tips of his fingers are stained from tobacco. He is a smoker. I move forward two years. This image shows the man in an arm cast, and he walks with a slight limp. He’s grown a moustache to hide his thin upper lip.

  Next is an image from eight years ago. He’s smiling. It’s the first time I see his teeth. They are yellow from tobacco. He is definitely a smoker. His limp is gone, or at least almost imperceptible. We are on the midway at the state fair. He’s holding the hand of a young girl of Asian descent. She is smiling as well. He squats down and points to the Ferris wheel across the midway. The girl nods and they hurry off.

  Everything seems so innocuous. There are no details revealing any information I don’t already know. Again I move forward through the images in my mind. He’s wearing a wife beater t-shirt. He stands inside a Laundromat, waiting for a load to finish the spin cycle as I drive by. I only catch a momentary image of him in a quick glance, before I pass by. He has a distinctive tattoo on his upper arm. It’s a Chinese dragon but it’s inscribed with letters of some sort. No matter how much I study the image, he’s too far away for me to see any more detail on the tattoo. He smokes as he waits. His hair is graying in the temples. I can’t find any meaningful details, so I move on to the next image, just three years ago. He’s at a grocery store. I stop in a store that is well beyond the boundaries of my own neighborhood, on the way over to a friend’s house. I walk right by him. He doesn’t recognize me. I study him closely as I walk by, because of who he is. He is wearing a short sleeve shirt. I focus on the image of his arm. The tattoo partially extends beyond the sleeve. I read the words. Mei-Xing. Meaningless. His cart contains three jugs of cranberry juice. Either someone has a female urinary tract infection, or he has gout. I rewind the image. There is no longer a wedding ring on his left hand. He has gout. That explains the limp.

  That may be a good lead. He may need the services of a rheumatologist. I stop and plug in rheumatologist into my iPhone. Two names pop up within two miles of my current location. A third name is listed eight miles out. It has to be one of the two. The first is Donald Ruthers, and his office is a few blocks from where I now stand. I head that way.

  I pull up the next image in my mind as I walk. This image is from just six months ago. I don’t recognize the man at first as I approach from behind him. He is bent over as he slowly walks along the sidewalk in the rain. I hear him sobbing as I pass by hurrying to get out of the downpour. I glance back and see that it is him. His jacket is pulled up, but he has no umbrella. His hands are shoved deep into his pants pockets. He mumbles something inaudible, m
aybe a name. He pulls his right hand out of his pocket. He’s holding something in his hand. It’s a small bunch of wildflowers, crushed from being stuffed in his pants pocket. He sobs loudly as he looks at the flowers clutched tightly in his grip. I turn away before I draw attention to myself.

  I arrive at the office of Donald Ruthers MD and associates. I have no plan. I enter the building and find the suite of Dr. Ruthers. I approach the reception desk and wing it.

  “Hi, I’m Derrick Calloway. I have an appointment with Dr. Ruthers at 2:30.” I glance down at my watch to check. It’s 2:25. The receptionist looks confused. She has never seen my face before, well, not in this setting. She actually lives