The Debt Collection
On memory, knowledge, and love. A short story.-
Emma had caught his eye before she asked him to break a 100 bill at the automatic ticket dispenser kiosk at the airport bus stop.
She was the only other passenger in the airplane with a bicycle helmet as a carry on.
He though he wouldn’t mind mingling with her.
He had struggled to find a partner for so long, he no longer really cared. He was not boyfriend material, someone once told him. Not good enough job, not good enough looks, not good enough social skills.
He saw her from afar, without daring to get any closer. Like a wild flower the passer by doesn’t want to disturb.
Or maybe he was afraid of her. To get rejected once again, by a beautiful being for whom he was not a good suitor.
His insecurity, created fear. His fear prevented other fearful souls to approach him.
Emma was not afraid, but she was not immune to loss.
She had been a solo traveler for as long as she could remember. She knew how to handle herself and was good enough at reading people and knew what she liked and what she did not.
She had lost her grandfather, whom was the closest she had to a paternal figure after her parents divorced and his father gave himself to work and alcohol. Not necessarily in that order.
When she asked him for change, she was not flirting, she just needed to break a hundred.
She liked the way he looked at her. She then noticed his helmet hanging from his backpack.
She asked him if he was planning on cycling through the island.
He told her about his plans of riding enormous amounts of miles.
She wanted to lose herself in the distance and bury the pain of her loss in the road. So as they conversed, she offered to join him.
Even though she had no doubts about her cycling capabilities, she knew that in her emotional state she would benefit from having someone who would push her to do the mileage instead of staying at the bar of the first hotel staring blankly at the sea, without being in her pain, nor in the present.
He proved to be a good travel partner. He did not intrude too much. He didn’t asked too many questions, just enough to be cordial. He did not bug her with romantic advances.
She loosen up in the road. She always did. There was no other choice for her but to immerse herself in the landscape, in the world as it made her a part of it.
The wind flowing as they rode their bicycles. She pushing herself into the otherwise calm air, with each pedal stroke.
His new cycling slash travel partner wanted to push himself into a long challenging climb.
Emma knew by now that he would go no matter what since this was, he said, the purpose of his trip. She didn’t believe him. He had written I want to get laid all over his face. But he had insecurity written all over his body as well.
In any case, she did not have to go up the mountain road. But she wanted. She also told him he didn’t have to do all this, that he was a fine human being just as he was.
She suspected he appreciated the comment but he nevertheless charged up the mountain and she did as well.
The climb was challenging, it didn’t give much respite. The ramps they had to pedal up were steep. They were not moving very fast, the air was scarce, their breathing agonal. Their lungs burned, their legs tired, the rhythm had to be forced against the road. The cheer of the motorists did not help. It was their mind against the challenge of going up the steep long road.
As they reached the top, it came the flood.
Her guard was down and the sorrow arrived. The sadness that had always been there since she left her home town, poured down her eyes.
At first he was confused, but then he embraced her with his arms, his body, his hands. The sweat from their bodies, fresh from having pedaled up all that time, merge them into one.
He loosen himself too. He held her back. He held the back of her neck, softly. Her wet hair still smelling as grass.
Emma later told him what was all about, why she cried. Why she decided to take this holiday.
She felt light after that, after sharing with a kindred soul.
He knew it would take a miracle to pay for this trip, but then, he felt it was worthy.
His credit card had been up to the limit for some time, but life in his home town had been unsatisfying and he felt dead lurking among the despair.
They still had a few more days together.
TUD- TUD- TUD!
The thudding startled him from his sleep.
Reality arrived: his bed, his studio, his apartment, his home town.
As they banged the door of his apartment he knew exactly who this was.
No more dreaming.
The debt collector had finally made it to his apartment. There was no point in running. There was nowhere to run.
In any case, he was not the kind of guy who could run fast enough as to elude a debt collector.
It was pointless to try to elude a creditor.
Fear ran through his spine and established itself in his stomach.
Grief and loss settled in.
Even before he opened the door he was willing to plead, to humiliate himself and to beg.
The opening of the door was unceremonious.
Two debt collectors were standing on the other side. A young man who could pass for a boy, and a middle-age individual, the kind who is not old enough but has not aged graciously.
“He is in training”, were the introductory words uttered by the middle-aged one, as if to justify the existence of two of them in a world driven by the austerity of economics. “My name is so and so, and he is this and that”. They presented their identifications. “We are with the Bank”.
They didn’t need to say that. He knew. He understood they would show up any day now.
It was easy to identify them by their uniforms, those shirts that identified them as debt collectors. Shirts most people would not use in public for no reason unless someone was paying them. The bank was paying so and so and this and that to execute a debt.
He knew he was behind on his credit card payments. He knew he could not even justify his last big transaction. His last trip overseas. The place where he met her.
It was a casual encounter. It lacked the eccentricity of romance as portrayed by romantic movies. There were no fireworks. Just the silky sound of her voice, her dilated pupils, her trusting him.
It was an understanding, a knowing how to listen to each other, a gravitational pull.
Such a beautiful memory was going to get lost forever in the incongruities of his neural pathway.
“Is it better if you try to relax, sir.” The boy said. He had obviously studied the Bank’s procedures manual on debt collection to the T, and knew how he was supposed to talk to the debtors. “Otherwise other memories could be lost as well, and the Bank would not be responsible for such loses”.
“Could I get a sedative?” our hero, who didn’t have much of heroic, begged.
“You know we’ll charge you, you will have to work and pay for it.” The middle aged one warned him.
“This memories are all I have.” Stated our hero. “I took a trip. I met someone. I think I met someone special. Have you ever really met someone really special, with whom you felt you connected?”
“You know you booked the trip with the Bank’s money, and you are behind in your payments.” The middle-aged individual answered coldly. He was not even performing the role of threatening creditor coming to execute the mortgage, he was uninterested in his job, he was just there performing a part, an actor with no soul.
Financial institutions had realized a long time ago that with insolvent clients, it was better to just take away the memories of experiences acquired through the use of their services than to try to cash in unsaleable items.
Hence, if a person didn’t pay for the trip he had taken on credit, he or she would be subject to having the memory of that trip erased from his or her mind. And this was easy with the advent of technology that was able to tap into the brain of the consumer.
“Do you know how the Brain-Washer works, sir?” Asked the young boy, again following protocol. A more senior agent would have probably just commanded him to sit down and shut up.
Our hero’s eye got watery, his face was filled with pain. He knew his pleading was useless. He felt impotent for having to share something so personal to individuals he did not even know.
“I don’t think I ever felt love before.” He lamented in a quiet voice, mostly to himself. “I don’t even know if it was love…”
“If you work hard and you pay your debt, you can travel again, sir. There are many people you can meet in resorts around the globe, the Bank even has sponsorships through our rewards program.” The young boy tried to console him. But he was clearly more nervous about the impression he would be making on the middle-aged man than on the well-being of the hero.
“You don’t get it! It was love!” Our hero shouted. “It was not lust, it was not about her body. I mean she was beautiful… it was like being there and not being there… we connected… I think…”
“Well, if you were not there, it won’t matter you will forget about being there!” Interrupted the middle-aged individual cynically, annoyed at how long things were taking.
“Look”, he said directing himself to the creditor who could have passed for a boy: “We have other debt to collect, we cannot stay here all day, get him to lay down so he doesn’t hurt himself, strap the helmet on, and take the memories of the stuff he bought on credit. I have the list in here”. He said pointing to the screen in his hand held device.
“I think it was love, but I’m not sure. I think we really connected”, our hero mumbled incoherently. ”Now I’ll never know”.
In a world dominated by hierarchy, often with a seemingly indecipherable status quo, in which desirability was determined by the power held by men, which usually translated to economic advantage that could be traced for generations. And in women to reproducibility and their desire to submit.
In a world in which relationships were transactional, and where couples were no more than means to social advancement. Women seeking the protection of males so other males wouldn’t pursue them like rabid dogs. Males accepting this protectorate as a means to boast their eminence as individuals who were able to court appealing females.
This was not easy for him, and for him, the existentialist solitude had came in to contact with the physical one.
He had always love to travel, and he hoped he would find his special one while traveling abroad.
But traveling solo, he found himself unable to break into the social circles ruled by invisible rules he could only but to suspect of their existence.
But then he met Emma.
She smiled at the image of our hero, a middle-aged man that seemed as scared as a boy.
She was unafraid of looking into his eyes.
She saw the child who could not get himself to be a man.
She saw pass the social class structure. She seemed to be uninterested on the status quo.
She opened herself in conversation. There were places where she would not easily go. But then she went.
More to remember than to forget.
Maybe she was lonely. Maybe she was generous in love.
The debt collector who could have passed for a boy clumsily placed the Brain-Washer on his head. As the hero laid on top of the carpet of his studio, in his apartment, in his home town.
“Try to take a deep breath”, he advised. There was some honesty and true concern in his voice.
The middle-aged man was now impatient, wanting to finish and move on to the next debtor, to erase another memory.
“If this people don’t learn to take responsibility and pay for the things they buy, we may end up erasing their whole lives”,the middle-aged collector said as he scrolled through the screen of his device. “Looked at all this: holiday travel, dinners, bars…! I wish I could go there! You go and don’t pay your credit card. Useless! What were you doing spending all this money? Maybe you will forget about going on holiday from now on!”
As he heard this words the hero wept in the carpet. The middle-aged individual gesticulated so the debt collector who could have passed for a boy turn the Brain-Washer on to finally erase the memories associated with his overspending and his debt will be foregone.
A swift zip was felt as the Brain-Washer was activated. The memory of something that could have been loved, faded.
When the debt collector who could have passed for a boy removed the helmet, he could not remember when was the last time he had been on holiday.
It didn’t matter, he thought, because if the debt collectors had pay him a visit, it meant he was deep in the red, and the Bank wouldn’t lend him money to go on vacation for a while.
As the person gets filled with memory, it becomes harder to live, to move, to breath. Emotions overwhelm the spirit, for the one that remembers too much. Too much love or too much hatred can be poison for the human heart. I suspect this may not be so for the heart of God, if there is one.
His memory faded, as well as the trip he undertook, the distance ridden, the beautiful sunsets, the early coffee before departure, each day an adventure.
Leaving was messy, too fast, too soon. Not wanting to say goodbye, he almost lost his flight. Her name was Emma, she lives in her home town, she works, she rides, she lost her grand-dad. That’s all he knew.
The danger of living in the moment is that is difficult to take care of practicalities like, what is your email address.
But now it did not matter, since her memory was gone.
Memory is deceptive, while knowledge is not.
While the memory was gone, he still knew what love was. He recognized the affection, the tolerance, the patience and the appreciation of the other for what the other was.
He now knew about patience. He knew about the bravery necessary to love. To risk to lose what we have, for what we don’t, the blind faith required to act, and the hope that something worthy would be found after all.
With knowledge, understanding came.
He did not set himself to try to re-live the steps that had lead him to the memory of the lost love, like many others did, when a fragment of their memory got erased. They would frantically go to try to recreate stories now gone. To incessantly try to relieve them in an attempt to capture a long-gone moment of happiness they could not truly remember, possibly because they were never present. Being told about them by images that now had no meaning.
In an act of defiance, he took his last hundred bill he had kept on his wallet from a trip he was not aware he had made. He looked at it strangely. His plan was to crush it. But then he decided not to.
He walked outside his apartment.
He looked up.
He saw an airplane’s contrails drawn against the clear blue sky.
Pablo Pereyra 2019