I
How much can a person trust himself? I don’t mean how we all trust ourselves to get up in the morning and go to work or school. I’m not talking about how we all have to trust that we won't offend others in social situations, or that we'll choose the right career or church or spouse. What I mean is, how far can someone trust his own judgment? If he were more sure of a decision than anything else in his entire life, would he be willing to bet his life on it? Most of us probably would. How about someone else’s life, then? Ten lives? If a man knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that his actions would save millions of lives, would he take those actions, even if being wrong meant he’d be taking those lives? I think about this question a lot, with all I’ve been through. I used to know a man who made that choice all the time. Maybe someday, I’ll finally understand him.
As for me, the answer to the question is simple: no way in hell. Ever since I was 15, I’ve had to second-guess my own judgment on a daily basis. I wouldn’t bet a dollar on myself, or anyone like me, for that matter. But I’d gotten used to it, you know? In my situation, you have to get used to it in order to function. I thought I’d finally found my equilibrium, made my way to a point where I could just roll with things and act like a nice, calm member of society. Then I walked into that house, and my entire life was turned upside-down all over again. I don’t know if any of it will make sense on paper, but I have to try. I’ve got to hold onto all the details, no matter how many times I have to write it.
August 8th, 2005: It was one of those mild summer days when it was hot in the sun, yet chilly in the shade. There was a crispness in the air, probably wind blowing in from Lake Michigan. The weather reminded people of how nice fresh air can be and brought them outdoors simply to walk. The group of people walking up and down Chicago Avenue that early in the afternoon was a nice mix of professionals who’d taken the day off, tourists, and families. If it had been downtown Chicago, I would’ve been stared down by the dead eyes of smartly-dressed consultants whose jobs sucked the life out of them. Thankfully, downtown Evanston was much more relaxed. The suburbs were completely different worlds from that of the city, no matter how many ex-hipsters transplanted to the ‘burbs contended it’s all Chicago.
“Hey, give some change for Borokov’s Syndrome?” I caught the attention of a young couple walking by, but they smiled politely and shook their heads. The boyfriend unconsciously furrowed his brow, probably confused that a guy in his early twenties, some punk with spiky, sandy-blonde hair would be collecting for some disease he’s never heard of. I smiled back, giving the ever-important signal I am not judging you for refusing to give to my charity. If you tried to be aggressive with people, you’d wind up with pedestrians crossing the street just to avoid you. It was better to project an image that you were just hanging out, and if someone wanted to drop a few quarters into your can, then you’d be happy to take it and put it to good use.
The traffic light blinked to a happy, white stick figure. A trio of teenage girls laughed their way through the crosswalk. A sports car darted into the intersection, apparently very angry at having to deal with such things as traffic signals. Heavy bass permeated the intersection, to the point where I couldn’t even tell which vehicle it was coming from. In other words, it was slim pickings.
“What is Borokov’s Syndrome?”
I turned around to see a tall, burly old man with thick white hair and a full beard. It was far too warm out for a flannel shirt, but maybe when you got to be his age, you stopped worrying about things like that.
“I mean it. Never heard of Borokov’s Syndrome. This some kind of scam, you make up a disease to get people to give you money? I give to a lot of charities, you’d think I’d’ve heard of this one.” I realized I still hadn’t responded to him. Maybe he was an old crank, but after that comment about giving to “a lot of charities”, I knew I had to choose my words well.
“Yeah, it’s a real disease. It’s neurological...long-term memories get jumbled up. The older the memories, the more mixed up they get. You probably haven’t heard of it, because it’s pretty new. The first cases were reported just five years ago.”
“Hmph. Well, I’ve never heard of it,” he said. I know, you just said that, I wanted to snap back. “You sure it’s real? You ever meet someone with it?”
“Only every time I look in the mirror.”
The man twisted his entire face at me. “You don’t look mentally handicapped to me. Anyway, collecting money on a street corner is just pushing shit uphill. I’ll make you a deal. You come have a cup of tea with me and convince me this is a good cause, I’ll dig into my pockets. Deal?” I could tell this guy was enjoying the power trip, lording his money over me, but I had no room to complain. The self-satisfied ones always gave the most.
“Deal. You want to find a coffee shop?”
“Hell, I only live two blocks from here. And I’ve got real tea, not the mass-marketed crap they serve in those places.”
“All right. By the way, I’m Tyler,” I interjected before he could turn away to walk.
“Grover,” he said skeptically, then shook my hand.
We walked East in silence until we were almost at the beach, then turned on Sheridan. Before we got to the house, I had my lingering suspicions that Grover was a poor old man just looking for a bit of attention, but those suspicions disappeared the moment I saw his house. The enormous brick house with ionic columns out front would’ve been called a mansion if it wasn’t so tastefully restrained. Every bush, tree and blade of grass was immaculately choreographed. Grover walked up to the front door and unlocked it casually, as if everyone lived in a house like this.
“What kind of tea you drink?” he mumbled as he absentmindedly punched a few keys on a panel next to the door. So there was a high-end security system on this place, and Grover knew it like the back of his hand. To the left was a fancy dining room, complete with chandelier, high-backed chairs, and ornate rug. It struck me as a dining room in a model home, one that was never actually used. To the right, it looked like someone had sliced off a wing of a used book store and transported it here. What kind of person had enough books to reach the ceiling, especially one as high as this? Stacks of books and papers clearly marked Grover’s favorite chair in the library.
“Got any coffee?” I said, dodging the large staircase directly in front of the entryway to keep up with Grover. I had originally pegged him for 60’s, but he moved like a 30-year-old. Was he just one of those older people who were in excellent shape?
“Sure do. Go ahead and make yourself comfortable on the patio,” he said, and gestured down the long kitchen area at a string of glass doors.
While he busied himself intently with coffee grounds, I strolled past a roll-top desk piled with mail and, just out of his line of sight, I took the opportunity to snoop. I saw stacks of magazines like National Geographic, Smithsonian, and Popular Science, all addressed to Grover Hinton at the correct Sheridan address, which meant he wasn’t some crazy person breaking into someone else’s house. It also meant he wasn’t married, so I shouldn’t ask about his wife. There were unopened packets from charities like Doctors Without Borders and Greenpeace, which held up his story about giving to charities. A copy of the Wall Street Journal displayed the headline “President McCain Slams Carbon Emission Bill As ‘Anti-Business’”. It was looking more and more like I was going to get out of there with a big, fat donation. I heard more rattling around in the kitchen and decided Grover had moved on from making coffee to getting tea for himself. Swiftly, I rolled one of the patio doors open and took a seat.
A few minutes later, Grover appeared with an ornate silver tray holding coffee, tea, sugar and cream. “Tyler, you mind opening the umbrella?” I figured out pretty quickly how to untie the umbrella from the table’s central pole, then raised it and locked it into place. He watched me carefully during each step. When I sat down again, he said “You handled that rather well. Are you sure you’re mentally handicapped, or are you just remembering it wrong?”
I raised my eyebrows at him. “I’ve heard that one before.”
“I’m sure you have. Cream? Sugar?”
“Sugar, thanks.”
“So Tyler, tell me how a young man who looks and sounds completely functional can be considered mentally handicapped? You’re gonna need to sell me on it.”
He handed me the coffee, and I took a sip. “Well, I can’t give you evidence, if that’s what you’re asking for. There haven’t been any scientific studies into the causes yet. The money I’m collecting is going toward new research.”
“Fine, fine. But you said that you suffer from...what was it?”
“Borokov’s Syndrome.”
“Right. Tell me a little of what it’s like.”
I took a deep breath. “All right, here’s an example.” I took my notebook out of my pocket and showed him the open page. “This is the canvassing schedule that I got from NAMI.”
“NAMI?”
“National Alliance on Mental Illness. Anyway, when you register with them, they assign you an area where you can ask for donations. You know, so they don’t have a bunch of people standing within a block of each other.”
Grover looked at the list and map seriously, then pointed with his middle finger. “Okay, so here you are.”
“Yeah, that’s me. Downtown Evanston. But yesterday, when I got the list, I could’ve sworn that I’d been assigned to Highland Park.”
“That’s all? You forget things?”
“Yeah, it doesn’t sound so bad, but it’s all the time. I forget appointments constantly, and I can’t remember people I’ve known for years. I should be in college right now, but there’s no way I could study for an exam and remember it the next day. So I’m stuck living with my parents and waiting for them to do more research.” Tone down the whining, I scolded myself.
“Hmm. So this has been going on for a while?”
“Ever since I was fifteen. The funny part is, I can remember everything from before that year perfectly. But any long-term memories my brain tries to make since then, no good.”
“When did you first realize it was happening?”
“Oh, well that was just strange. It was the summer of 2001. My parents were watching the news while I was sitting on the couch playing video games, and there was a story about President Gore butting heads with Congress.”
“Yes, and...?”
“And I was absolutely certain that Bush was president! I kind of went nuts that first time, thinking that the whole thing was some kind of practical joke. My parents had no idea what to do with me. I was calling 911, the cops even came and talked to me. They did a story about it in the Chicago Tribune about me, it was pretty embarrassing.”
“You seem to be doing better now,” Grover said cautiously.
“I’m not pulling my hair out or ranting to the cops, yeah. I can get by if I make notes for myself and check those notes every few hours.”
Grover stared into his tea before taking a drink. When he looked up at me, his eyes were weary. “And do you...remember to check?”
“Weirdly, yeah. Tomorrow, I might not remember that I ever met you, but I’ll have no trouble trouble checking my notebook at 9 am, or 11 am, you get the idea.”
“So, it’s just certain things you have trouble remembering. Is there any pattern, or is it random?”
“Usually, there’s no pattern. But suggestion can affect it, too. Like, when that Tribune article came out, all of a sudden, ten other people called the paper, saying they remembered Bush being president, too. That’s how we found out about these other cases. Professor Borokov thinks that when each of those people read the article, their minds retroactively created memories about Bush. It’s like my unconscious mind is continually rewriting my life.” Grover let out a quiet chuckle. “I’m sorry, did I say something funny?”
He just shook off the question and gazed out at the trees, blowing in the gentle wind. “Today’s such a nice day. It always is. No matter what else changes, right here, right now, is always beautiful.” It was an innocent, although odd thing to say; but the manner in which he said it to me wasn’t the wistful calm of a lazy retired gentleman, it was more like the cold calm of a serial killer describing every detail of his crimes. I gave him a befuddled look. He smiled sheepishly and shook his head. “Never mind. Give me your hand.” Now, I was even more befuddled. “I want to show you something. It’ll just take a second.”
I held out my hand, palm up, and he pressed the tip of what looked like a metal popsicle stick against the middle of my palm. I felt a tiny pinprick, and he took it back.
“What was that?”
“Just a drop of blood, nothing you’ll miss. Now, just a moment.” He pulled out a small computer screen and set the stick on top of it. Instantly, the screen came to life, and a rotating circle icon made it clear that some computer program was working. I seriously considered leaving at this point, but my curiosity kept me glued to the wire patio chair. A pleasant chime signaled that the program was done. “There, see? Clean bill of health.”
He handed me the small screen, which was even lighter than it looked. I’d seen blood work profiles before, but this was way more complicated. I even recognized some of the disease markers from when my parents put me through months of tests. The rest of it looked like a bunch of random gibberish.
“I don’t get it, what is this?”
“This is your full genetic profile, Tyler. Any predispositions for cognitive defects or mental illness would show up here. But look, it’s all green. There is absolutely nothing wrong with you. Well, aside from a marker for hypertension, that is. You might want to watch that.”
I flipped the device over in my hands, inspecting the smooth finish. “Is this military technology? Some kind of super-secret high tech?”
Grover laughed at me again. “Oh, no. You can get these at your local Best Buy. At least, you will in a few years.”
“It’s from the future? You’re pulling my leg.”
“I most certainly am not. Got the genetic testing kit in 2009, too. Now, that’s a tricky one. That one always needs a bit of help.”
I stood up and gathered my Borokov’s Syndrome pamphlets. “Look, this was interesting and all, but I’d better get going...”
“Sit down, Tyler. This is important. I’m telling you that there’s nothing wrong with your memory.”
I fell back into my chair, despite all protests coming from my brain. “What do you mean, there’s nothing wrong with my memory? Of course there is!”
“No, son, there isn’t. Your memory isn’t changing, it’s the world around you that’s changing.”
I pulled out my notebook one more time. It still said Evanston. “Okay, let’s say your crazy theory is right, and the world is changing. Why would the world ever change?”
“Come, now, Tyler. Haven’t you figured it out by now? The reason why the world around you in constantly different than how you remember it...” He leaned in close and hissed at me “...is because I am changing it.” He stood up, put his hands in his pockets, and stepped toward his garden, as if taking a normal late-summer stroll. “People complained a lot about Gore, well, they complained about Bush too, whenever he was president. Nobody’s ever happy, and things don’t really change that much.”
I stared at my notebook incredulously. “This is insane. You’re telling me that every time I’ve remembered something the wrong way...”
“...it was because of me, yes.”
“You changed the election to make Gore win?”
“Only when I wasn’t making Bush win.”
I stood up, shaking my head slowly. “No. No way is this right. It’s ridiculous. You think that since I have problems with my memory, it makes me some kind of gullible idiot?” I blinked myself sane. “You know what, you can keep your money. We don’t need it this badly.”
As I started heading toward the sidewalk by the yard, Grover turned to me. I could see cold fury in his eyes. “Don’t you see that I’m trying to give you a gift? You’ve spent all this time thinking there’s something wrong with you, but you’re perfectly fine!”
“Why should I believe you?” I said over my shoulder. “It would be so easy for you to make this up.”
“Don’t believe me, huh? Tell me, Tyler, do you remember your parents receiving refund checks from the Bush Tax Cuts?”
I stopped dead in my tracks. “Yeah.”
“Gore didn’t pass any cuts or send refund checks, did he?”
“No.” I’d never told my parents, or anyone about that part. Who wants to hear minute details about things that never happened?
“You ever see Back to the Future IV?”
“No, but I remember hearing about it.” There had to be some other explanation of how he could know these things...but what?
Grover strode over to me, until we were standing in the grass just three feet apart, peering at each other appraisingly. “Problem is, I’ve got no idea how you’re doing this, Tyler. I thought maybe you’d know more about what’s going on, but clearly, you don’t.”
There was a moment of silence. The neighbor’s sprinkler system turned on automatically. Suddenly, I burst out laughing. “I’m...sorry, it’s not funny,” I said, wiping tears from my eyes.
Grover ignored my poorly timed laughter and stared me down. “But even if you don’t understand, it all comes down to you. You’re all that’s stopping me making everything right. You’re the piece I have to take off the table.”
“You’re right, I don’t get it...how am I getting in your way?”
“It’s not important. What’s important is that you knew the truth first.”
“First? Before what?” A wave of nausea came over me. “Look, I really don’t feel that great right now. I’ve gotta go. Can we finish this conversation later?”
“You won’t get very far.”
On top of everything else I was feeling, I added dread to the list. My mostly-empty coffee cup stared at me from the patio table. Of course, we couldn’t just go to a coffee shop. I swiveled to Grover, who held up his computer screen and pointed at a red bar in my blood work. I couldn’t read the label.
“Oh, come on! Seriously? You poisoned me? What did I ever do to you? I’ve never met you before in my life! What the fuck!”
“You think I take this lightly? You have no idea what I’ve been through, boy. You don’t know the kind of hell I’ve endured. Everyone here is fat, happy and complacent. They have no idea what’s out there. All of these fragile worlds can come crashing down at any second, and they’ll never see it coming. But there are those out there who can see it coming. I’m not the only one who can see the future, I’m just the only one who’s lived through it.”
“You’re insane,” I said as I pulled out my cell phone. All I had to do was dial 911. Grover folded his arms and watched me. Except the numbers on my phone were out of order. I tried dialing something, anything, but I couldn’t remember if I’d dialed one number or a hundred. Frustrated, I threw my phone on the ground. I staggered backwards, but forced my feet to find the ground. I tried to say something sarcastic and defiant, but all I could get out was “I’ll get the police!”
“As I said, you won’t make it far.” Grover seemed satisfied that I was leaving, but I didn’t care.
Every cell of my body was on fire as I reached the alley behind Grover’s house and pivoted on my heel. Forcing air into my lungs gave me the confidence I needed to make it back to the main road. What was it called again? Each step was agony, but as long as I kept forcing one foot in front of the other, I’d be fine. There had to be a police officer nearby. There had to be. A breeze tickled the hairs on the back of my neck, and how long had I been walking? Such a nice day, and it would be so nice to lay down and take a nap. I wondered if Grover was still watching me, or if he’d gone back into his house. Why couldn’t I breathe? Why wouldn’t my feet move? I could feel my body going down...or was it up? Why was my face taking so long to hit the pavement?
I stumbled into a black woman walking the other way, who just elbowed me and shot me a look that said learn how to walk. The realization slowly dawned on me that I was still standing. How? There was something important that I had to do. Against all odds, I seemed to have plenty of time to gather my thoughts and figure out what it was. I was looking for someone. A police officer! It all flooded back to me. I had to find a police officer and tell him about how I’d been poisoned, and that I had to get to a hospital. First, I had to get my bearings. I could clearly make out Sheridan Road a half block away, but I didn’t recognize this part of Evanston at all. Saint Johns Avenue? I kept walking. Glencoe Avenue? It didn’t make any sense. On a wild hunch, I reached into my pocket for the notebook. It was there, even though I’d left it on Grover’s patio table. I knew what I’d find on the canvassing schedule, and sure enough, there it was: August 8th, Highland Park.
I swallowed my pride and called my mother with the cell phone that had also reappeared in my pocket. She’d fuss over me, sure, but it was important to get out of there. When she finally came to get me, I told her that I needed to check on a donor in Evanston, which was technically true. Grover Hinton, 1046 Sheridan Road, Evanston IL. I could still see so clearly all those science journals and charity packets on the roll-top desk. I thought of asking her to call the police, but couldn’t stand the thought of looking like a fool all over again. So she drove me down Sheridan, following the edge of Lake Michigan. I cracked the window to let the wind cool the sweat on my forehead. It was still a beautiful day outside, but then again, I had it on very good authority that today was always nice.
Mom let me out at the curb. The ionic columns were still there, but now, even though the lawn was neatly mowed, the trees and bushes seemed not quite so choreographed anymore. A small child’s hard plastic tricycle sat upended in the grass. I swallowed my dread and rang the doorbell.
“Hi, can I help you?” said a tall white guy with thinning hair. Couldn’t have been more than 40.
“Um, yeah, I’m trying to help raise money to research Borokov’s Syndrome. I don’t suppose you’d like to make a pledge?” In the background, I could hear children screaming at each other, although the man didn’t seem concerned that they might have been hurt. There was no security panel, no chandelier in the dining room (which was currently being used to dry paintings of rainbows.) I couldn’t see all of the library from where I stood, but over the door, I could tell there were no books anywhere near the ceiling.
“I’m sorry, we’re getting ready for dinner soon. Can’t you come back at another time?”
“Yeah, yeah...no problem. Sorry to bother you. Just one thing. How long have you lived here?”
“A little over four years,” he said as he softened. “We did live in the city before we had kids, but this area is so much better for raising a family. Hey, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Have a good day, all right?” Walking back to the car, I had no idea what got to me the most. Even now, looking back, I don’t know which was worse. On one hand, it was possible that it had all happened as I remembered it, and there was a man out there somewhere changing history all the time. I could see the effects of what he did, but I’d always be powerless to do anything about it, and nobody would ever believe me. I barely believed it. But then again, it was also possible that the whole drama was created by my subconscious mind as an expression of my feelings of depression and self-pity. Was I really that self-absorbed? Finally, the question came down to, what could I believe and still drag myself out of bed the next morning?