Cash for Memories
By Jessica Lake
Harmony sat in the spacious lobby of the Ephemeral Memories skyscraper. Their mission was unassailable: “Your Memories for Cash!”
It had taken half her lifetime to arrive at this stylish seat in the well-appointed waiting area. She had long rejected the idea of selling any memories of herself. Mostly because she had so few.
Without a childhood, who was she?
Without them, how could she survive the toughest days?
But the demands of the present outstripped hopes for the future. If her life were to have any meaning at all, she must perfect her heart’s desire. That would be a memory to treasure.
For that, she needed cash.
She was a bit disappointed she hadn’t seen any Outsiders—the sole consumers of childhood memories.
The extraterrestrials from another galaxy had to have childhood memories. In trade, they offered boundless sustainable energy, an end to want, an end to disease. This promise soothed Harmony. And she wanted to be a part of it.
The Outsiders were no fools. Obviously, they wanted the most bang for their buck. So, they convinced the world’s richest men to found the Memory Exchange. For your childhood, they got priceless technology, and you got cash. And the Outsiders? They got the lowest price on something they considered priceless.
“Miss Harmony, we are ready to review your results.”
The young woman had not blossomed into an introduction. She had made an error that seemed unavoidable.
“It’s just Harmony. That’s my first name.”
The innocuous intermediary nodded deferentially oblivious to anything she might say.
Harmony arose and followed the supernumerary.
Once seated, she gauged the young man on the other side of the swank desk.
His smile is cruel. He sees me as a sideshow freak.
“Miss Harmony, you are one of the lucky one percent.”
“It’s just Harmony.”
“It’s not public knowledge, but your brain is wired in a distinct—though not unique—pattern. Not so much a deficiency as a valid alternative.”
Harmony smiled, knowing he was insulting her without leaving any trace of an insult.
“Harmony, you exhibit SDAM—Severely Deficient Autobiographical Memory.”
Outside Harmony revealed nothing. Inside she recoiled at yet another label closing off another avenue.
It always went the same way: You can’t do X for whatever reason. But look how fortunate you are, you can still do Y. And Y is honestly just as useful as X.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what that means.”
“Think of your fondest memory.”
“That’s a no-brainer. I was a kid. Just me and my mom at the beach.”
Harmony closed her eyes and recalled her sweetest moment.
The Polaroid pointed down at a pudgy little girl seated on the sand. She wore a one-piece white bathing suit with blue stripes and ruffles. A red plastic shovel in one fist, and its matching bucket between her chubby legs.
Harmony never tired of that tiny girl. So young, so cared for in an uncaring world. Her mother hovered nearby—ever watchful, ever loving.
What must that girl be feeling?
What must she be thinking?
Who was this little girl?
Maybe this is why—it isn’t my life.
The scene snuffed out like the flame of a candle.
Harmony opened her eyes.
“Well?” the young man grinned. “What did you see?”
“A glimpse of my childhood. Like an out-of-focus Polaroid. There—then gone. Exactly what everyone else sees.”
The young man tilted his head. Once he’d learned about her kind, he hoped for this day. It was his big day to shatter someone’s selfhood.
“For you, yes. Not for everybody else.”
He leaned forward slightly.
“When I recall a beach, I am young again. I’m standing on the hot sand. The wind whips my long hair. I hear the rush and moan of the surf. I’m thinking about how lucky I am. I am brimming over with joy.”
Harmony said nothing.
He continued.
“I don’t watch it—I relive it.”
Something seismic shifted within her. Memories are fundamental to being human. Could I have been so wrong?
What she said was, “Big deal. So, I have a lousy memory.”
“That’s the spirit,” he giggled.
Harmony thought of the girl on the beach. It had to be her. She was in her head, right?
“Well, those are what I’ve got. So what?”
“Oh, my poor dear,” he chuckled, “Those are semantic reconstructions. You have a few facts—you make the rest up.”
“So?” Harmony said. “How much are reconstructed memories worth? It seems to me they should be worth more, since they’re so rare. Like diamonds.”
“Sadly, they are worthless. The Outsiders seek episodic memories, like mine. Our best guess is that they have only semantic memories—like you. The Outsiders long for a remembered childhood. A past with substance. Something that keeps a person grounded.”
“So, what does that mean?”
“It means I’ve wasted the last half hour talking—to someone who has zero value to me.”