LAST NIGHT AT VERONICA’S, REMEMBERING A STORY I NEVER WROTE ABOUT SOMEONE WHO ROBBED PEOPLE OF THEIR MEMORIES. PHOTO ALBUMS, AUTOGRAPH BOOKS, CASHLESS WALLETS. “I DON’T WANT YOUR MONEY,” THE ROBBER WOULD SAY. “I WANT YOUR MEMORIES.” THE THIEF GREEDILY CONSUMED YOUR PHOTOS, YOUR YEARBOOKS, YOUR RECEIPTS AND 5TH GRADE COMPOSITION BOOKS FILLED WITH ROTE ESSAYS ABOUT GEORGE WASHINGTON. THE THIEF FILLS IN HER OWN STORIES AND AS HER PRISONER YOU EXPLAIN THE DETAILS ABOUT THE OTHER KIDS IN YOUR GRADE SCHOOL, THE WITCHY TEACHERS, THE PAIN YOU FELT IN PENMANSHIP CLASS. THIS IS MENTAL RESIDUE FROM READING AN OCTAVIO PAZ STORY CALLED “THE BLUE BOUQUET” IN WHICH THE NARRATOR GETS MUGGED BY SOMEONE WHO WANTS TO MAKE A BLUE BOUQUET OF EYEBALLS FOR HIS WIFE. THE NARRATOR HAD TO PROVE TO THE MUGGER THAT HIS EYES WERE NOT BLUE.
FLASHLIGHT IN THE EYES. PROOF. I THINK THAT MEMORIES, DISCONNECTED FROM THEIR SOURCE, BELONG TO ANYONE.