Clean Slate, Page 3

I grasped the latch and hauled the door open.

  The vestibule smelled of diesel oil and turpentine, but there was no trace of construction. The ancient marble art deco floor was covered with dirt and trash. Flies buzzed. Heaps of cardboard lay in the corners, evidence that derelicts crashed there at night. An elevator at the far end was enclosed in an ornate metal armature. I waved my hand across the call panel and heard a distant motor whine. After a long time, the elevator arrived. I pulled the scissors door aside and entered the elevator, which was glass walled, ceilinged, and floored, all with opaque glass of muted colors. It was like being inside an ancient cathedral with dirty stained-glass windows.

  I didn’t touch any buttons, but the doors closed on their own and the elevator started up. I noticed that while the exterior of the elevator was filthy, the inside was perfectly clean.

  After what I took to be about ten floors, the elevator stopped and the doors opened. I pushed the scissor doors aside and stepped out onto a green marble floor. The walls were paneled in wood, stained dark and intricately worked. There were a number of old-fashioned chairs scattered around, and a large desk at the far end, behind which sat a beautiful young woman, her hands neatly folded on the desk, and her eyes on me.

  “Welcome,” she said as I approached.

  “Is this Clean Slate?”

  She nodded.

  “Not easy to find,” I said, looking around.

  She nodded again.

  “That’s on purpose, I suppose,” I continued.

  “Yes sir,” she said.

  “I have some questions,” I said. I work at CrossTalk, out in Santa Monica. A co-worker—two of them, in fact—came here to be treated, I guess. If this is your only facility.”

  “It is,” said the woman, opening a drawer and reaching into it.

  “They had their memories erased. An unsatisfying relationship.”

  She was placing a number of sheets of paper on an old clipboard, which fascinated me. Where was the ubiquitous tablet?

  She held the clipboard out to me. A pencil dangled from a string.

  “I have some questions,” I repeated, taking the clipboard. “Do you erase dr—?”

  “We have some questions, too,” she said, nodding. “Please.”

  I looked down at the questionnaire, then back at her.

  “Please fill out the paperwork and then we’ll try to answer your questions.”

  I sat in an overstuffed chair and picked up the pencil. I wondered why they didn’t just scan me; all my biometrics were burned into my wrist chip. But the pencil felt good as I scratched block capitals into the blanks on the paper. As I worked, I remembered Steve had tapped his computer screen with a pencil. It hadn’t registered much then, but it did now. I looked at the pencil, imagining tiny silicon chips inside it, registering my heart rate, body temperature, even scanning my DNA.

  Or not. Freud said, “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”

  When I finished, I took the clipboard back to the receptionist. She had done nothing during my time there other than sit quietly, her hands laced in front of her on the desk, looking into space. I wondered if she was perhaps an automaton.

  “Here,” I said, handing the clipboard to her, looking closely her skin for any tell-tale giveaways. Her skin was flawless, as was the blue of her eyes and her brilliant smile. She was perfect and, thus, human. No one would make an android that perfect. No one would dare.

  “Now,” I said, “I was wondering if you can erase a dream.”

  She smiled. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m new here and I don’t really know what they do back there.” She nodded at the double doors behind her. “I’ve only been here a few days, I think.”

  “You think?” I asked.

  “Well,” she said, “they do erase memories, don’t they? Maybe I’ve always worked here and I just don’t remember.” She smiled as if to say, No big deal.

  I suddenly felt an urge to leave. I looked behind me. The elevator was right where I’d left it, the door was still open. No one had entered the building since I had almost thirty minutes before. As far as I knew, the receptionist and I were the only ones here, and she wasn’t so certain about herself.

  I was about to take a step toward the elevator when a white-coated man came brusquely through the doors behind the receptionist. His dark hair was slicked straight back. He was of medium build and had enormous hands. He took the clipboard from the girl and looked me up and down, then extended his large hand and pumped mine. “Welcome to Clean Slate, Mr . . . ” He looked down at the clipboard. “Osborn.” He smiled. “Come this way.”

  I looked back at the receptionist, who was also smiling too broadly. I would have turned and sprinted to the elevator, but the big-handed doctor had me by the elbow and was guiding me through the double doors.

  On the other side, we walked down a long hallway, passing several small offices furnished only with two chairs facing each other across a tiny, round table. We entered the third room on our right. Why this one? I thought as he steered me to a chair. Why not one of the first three rooms? What’s so special about this one?

  He sat down opposite me and began reading the clipboard. I sat there, hands clenched, trying to locate the source of my anxiety. The room was nondescript, with tan walls and a suspended ceiling. The floor was polished cement. The chairs and the table were smooth lime-green plastic. On the table between us was a pitcher of water and two plastic tumblers. Condensation dripped down the pitcher; someone had just put it there; there was no water ring at the base.

  What is wrong with you? I shouted silently at myself. Forget the damn water! What have you gotten yourself into? This place is obviously military and they’re looking for volunteers! Are you a volunteer?

  “Mr. Osborn?” the doctor was saying.

  “Doctor?” I said.

  He smiled and tapped his knee with the clipboard. “I’m not a doctor. I’m the intake specialist. The doctor will be along in a moment. I’m here to answer your questions, if you have any.”

  “A couple,” I managed. I was terrified. The presence of two doorways between me and the elevator was making me panic. “I’m not really sure you can help me. I might have made a mistake. You see, a co-worker—”

  “Yes, he’s here,” said the intake specialist, holding up the clipboard, which seemed toy-like encased in his large hand. “That’s how you learned about us. Word gets out.” He smiled. “We’re in beta now,” he continued. “We’ve hired a marketing firm to introduce us to the world. You may have already seen some ads.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “They are subtle,” said the intake specialist. “Very subtle. So subtle, in fact, that I’d be willing to bet you’re here because of one, though you may not realize it.”

  “I’m here because of a bad dream I keep having,” I blurted out.

  “Dream?”

  “Yes, a recurring dream where I wake up feeling guilty about accidentally killing someone. I’m wondering if you can help me erase the dream.”

  “We don’t really deal with dreams . . . just memories.”

  I jumped to my feet. “Oh well! Then I’ll just be going—”

  Just then, a tall man with close-cropped gray hair entered the room. He was studying a tablet intently, but had his right hand out in a beckoning gesture. The intake specialist got to his feet and placed the clipboard into the older man’s outstretched hand. I sat down, outnumbered.

  The man studied the clipboard and a strange look passed across his features. He looked at me for the first time. A small smile appeared on his thin lips. “Well,” he said, extending his hand to me, “Mr. Osborn. How nice to see you . . . again.”

  About the Author

  Kenny Kemp is an award-winning and best-selling author and filmmaker, whose memoir Dad Was a Carpenter won the Grand Prize in the National Self-Published Book Awards sponsored by Writers’ Digest magazine. Shortly thereafter, he was signed by HarperCollins to write a multi-volume historical fictio
n series set in Judea at the time of Christ. In addition, he continues to self-publish and speak at writers’ conferences, encouraging new writers to find a way to get published. When not writing, he works as a contractor, practices law, and flies his private plane.

  Website: www.kennykemp.com

  Blog: https://commonsensewithkennykemp.blogspot.com

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/kenny.kemp

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/KennyKemp

  Selected Works by Kenny Kemp

  DAD WAS A CARPENTER

  A father, a son, and the blueprints for a meaningful life

  In his poignant, and award-winning memoir, Kenny remembers his father as a “great man who never knew he was.” When O.C. Kemp dies of Lou Gehrig’s Disease, Kenny is concerned about his mother, who is shaken and dismayed at the loss of her life-long companion. In an attempt to help her start the healing process of grief, Kenny determines to clean out the garage his father spent forty years filling up. What he finds there changes the way he remembers his father . . . and will change the way you think about yours.

  “An astoundingly touching memoir.” — Publisher’s Weekly

  I HATED HEAVEN

  To keep a promise he made on Earth

  he had to break every rule in Heaven

  Tom Waring has died and gone to Heaven, but it doesn’t feel like it. Before he died, he promised his wife April that if there really was an afterlife, he’d come back from the dead and tell her. But Heaven isn’t all angelic choruses, harps, and halos—it’s more like a cross between IBM and the DMV; more graduate school than Sunday School. And when his request to return to Earth is routinely denied, Tom must risk everything—even his very soul—to keep his promise to April.

  “An original, comic novel.” — Booklist

  THE WELCOMING DOOR

  Parables of the Carpenter, Volume One

  The parables are some of the most influential and well-known stories in history, and the books of Kenny Kemp illuminate these timeless tales with an entirely new approach. In this book, with a style as simple and elegant as the parables themselves, he reintroduces the most famous of these celebrated stories: the prodigal son, setting it as part of the formative experiences of the young man Jeshua bar Joseph, whom we know today as Jesus of Nazareth.

  “Opens a door into the life and message of Jesus.”

  — Philip Gulley, Home to Harmony

  LIVING WATERS

  Parables of the Carpenter, Volume Two

  In this, the second volume of the series, Kenny Kemp places young carpenter Jeshua in the famous story of the talents, where three servants are given a sum of money by their employer and commanded to multiply it. The least of them squanders his boon and faces his master’s lash, but then receives a priceless gift from Jeshua: “perfect love, which casteth out all fear.”

  “1Of all the books I have read about Jesus’ life and his stories, this one is unique.” — Joseph Girzone, Joshua

  THE MONEY POUCH

  Parables of the Carpenter, Volume Three

  The third entry in the “Parables” series finds Jeshua far from Galilee, working at a caravansary on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho. There he meets a Samaritan merchant who brings a traveler to the inn who was waylaid and left for dead. He also encounters the very robber who attacked the man, and in his inimitable way, fills the man’s empty soul.

  “An effective and engaging illustration of Christian theology.” — Publishers Weekly

  CITY ON A HILL

  Parables of the Carpenter, Volume Four

  This fourth book in the series combines two of Jesus' most profound teachings: The Unjust Judge and The Importunate Widow. Jeshua is laboring in Sepphoris, capital of Galilee, and is caught up in labor disputes, political intrigue and religious strife, and faces his most dangerous nemesis: the murderous king Herod Antipas. A gripping and illuminating continuation of this popular series.

  “This unusual take on the life of Jesus should have wide appeal to readers of faith.” — Publishers Weekly

  LIGHTLAND

  Destiny awaits

  K’tanu lived six thousand years ago in ancient Africa. Since then his spirit has been in the afterlife—Lightland. Here on present-day earth, scientists are trying to find a cure for a virus that is threatening all life. When a mummy is found to be immune to the virus, they use its DNA to create a clone. Suddenly, K’tanu finds himself back on earth, a bawling newborn with no recollection of his true identity. But as he grows, memories of his former life return. He remembers who he is and what he must do: he must find a way back to Lightland. He is joined on his quest by two scientists who come to believe in the existence of the soul. They are pursued by those who see him as mankind’s last hope, and those who help him as traitors; ruthless people who will stop at nothing to prevent his return to Lightland. He is K’tanu—a man with two pasts, but just one future.

  "Masterful!" — David Farland, The Runelords

  Print versions of Kenny's books are available online at www.kennykemp.com and www.amazon.com

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