"While I had been reading science fiction much earlier through back issues of Asimov's SF magazine scattered about our house, I only really thought of writing science fiction after encountering the cyberpunk writers of the 80s, particularly William Gibson's "Neuromancer". He, along with writers like J.G. Ballard and Thomas Pynchon, are perhaps the strongest influences on my writing style." 

     "Currently, most of my reading list is composed of science fiction and Japanese literature. The most recent books I've read are William Gibson's latest novel "All Tomorrow's Parties", and an early Murakami Haruki novel "South of the Border, West of the Sun". All-time favorite books include Gibson's "Neuromancer", Ballard's "Crash", Murakami's "Dance Dance Dance" along with "Hard-boiled Wonderland and The End of the World", and Mishima's "Spring Snow". 
 

     Irrelevant information, Chuck told me through the earphone I wore. My case of Rhythmic Memory Blackout Syndrome was bound to hit me anytime soon. I was at least a month overdue. 

I was seated at the bar opposite a pair of American chicks talking to Japanese sarariman types. From the mouth movements, they seemed to be talking in faulty English. I ordered my fourth rum-cola and chain smoked. They passed before my eyes between clipped fingers in fast-forward - complete with the white noise at the edges and absence of sound.  

     Then another face entered my framed picture of Japanese nightlife. Sure caught my attention. Japanese female, without a doubt. Sometimes, though, you just couldn’t be sure. This wasn't sometimes. From fast-forward, things went to slow motion as her eyes turned and locked into mine. It was a familiar face with hair done in a shoulder length edgy style. Was she following me? 

     I had been at another place before Rhythm Emotion - one of those multitudes of small spots filled with suit-and-tie clad Japanese men. That was definitely where I saw that girl before. She had been sipping on some blue-colored cocktail, several seats on the bar away from me. I didn’t pay too much attention her at the time. 

     I was talking to this Australian English teacher. He had gotten a bit too chatty for my tastes, talking about the rise in the number of people diagnosed with Rhythmic Memory Blackout Syndrome. When I told him I was one of those statistics, he started interrogating me. So I explained to him that every number of years or so, one got total memory loss.  

     “Everything?” he asked.  

     Of course not. Some basic motor skills, linguistic abilities, among other things that were locked into the brain remained. But the transient memories were all gone--One’s all sense of self, childhood memories, family, who one’s friends or loved ones were. 

     At that level of question and answer, I usually didn’t mind. But he got all pseudo-intellectual. He started speculating on the nature of the self, throwing around all these names and theories I wasn’t too familiar with. Some bullshit about identity in the postmillennial context.  

     All this while, that girl must have been listening in.  

     I got bored. Besides, Chuck wouldn’t have liked him.  

     Chuck was an old friend, and occasional lover, who I had known since we were kids. Or so he told me. He was also the first real person I saw (excluding the Japanese doctors and social workers who hovered around me) after I awoke with no memories. He reworked some basic elements of my personality. According to him, my mother was a Filipino nightclub dancer who got involved with a married Japanese businessman in Osaka. He had reintroduced me to the band I was supposed to be a vocalist at along with my other hobbies – namely chain smoking and loading interactive artificial personas on my glove/computer. 

     When Chuck got himself beaten up in some subway station and got himself hospitalized at critical condition, I was left with a realization. With Chuck gone, I wouldn’t have been left with anyone to guide me through when my next memory blackout hit me.  

     So I studied the programming code of the interactive personas I carried on disc for my computer. It hadn’t been too difficult, so I managed to pull out Chuck’s neural patterns off his entropizing head and recorded it as a standard interactive persona. Some might argue that I effectively murdered Chuck. The electromagnetic shock the downloading of neural patterns gives is often enough to fry the physical brain. But in the age of one liner impressionism, it had been the best one can do to keep the memory of a loved one alive. 

     His video image had been a little more troublesome. I had to manually reconstruct it via wire-frame. Fortunately, I managed to make sure Chuck's little savings from our music royalties went solely to me. Of course I got screwed by the rest of the band, leaving me without work. But that was okay. I knew they'd have kicked me out regardless. Either way, with the cash, I managed to scrounge up high-end hardware to make my video-unit portably hanging in the right lens of my shades, while the main unit, I wore on my right hand. Quite compact. I even managed to get slots to carry two additional discs, although I had blanks with me most of the time. Best of all its wireless. So I get the video projected right into my retina even in public places, without calling too much attention. Not that I minded attention. But lovers did need their privacy. 

     After everything was complete, I carried Chuck’s disc on my computer practically all the time. We were almost in constant audio/video contact. 

     As usual, he was nagging me for smoking too much again. Which was funny, actually, since I recently tweaked his video to have a cigarette hanging perpetually by his lips. So there he was hanging before my right eye, lecturing me on the decay of my voice with my smoking, while he had a never-ending cigarette in his own mouth.  

     He was about to go into another narration on this as I lit another cigarette. Didn’t hear much of it this time, though. A face had blocked the cracked cement wall I was staring at.  

     It was that girl. Ignoring her apparently didn’t make her vanish. I removed the earplug to better converse. Not easy to talk to a girl when there's a memory construct babbling detailed observations in your other ear. 

     She has this partial smile on her face. My cig fell to the ground as she pushed her face towards my ear. Time to talk Japanese again. 

     "Mind sharing the real smokes?" she said in English. Her accent was funny. Almost like she had a built-in resonator. But I liked her voice, anyway. Something like the sound of a synthesized alto sax with the twang of a nice old 12-string acoustic. Her eyes went down to my feet, where half-a-dozen or so cigarette filters still expelled smoke. “It sure looks like you’ve got a bit,” she added. 

      "Sure, no problem," I answered, extending my pack of nonelectrics. Chuck said something I wasn't able to make out. I took a head-to-toe gazing of the girl. Chrome minidress, cut halfway from the knee. Interesting.  

      The girl introduced herself as Chiho. She told me she had seen one of the band’s gigs some months ago, when we were still a band and Chuck was still breathing. She said I had a good voice. Well, even if it had been bullshit, it was nice to know you’re appreciated. We got ourselves a couple more rum colas while sharing my box of burning paper. 

     She wasn’t the dancing type either, so we left the place to take a stroll. 

     I plugged Chuck's earphone into my ear and lightly tapped the power switch of my lenses, as Chiho and I stopped at a pedestrian crossing. Lit a cig as well. Six left in the pack. She started freshening her lipstick. I've been here for some time already, but it still caught me off-guard when Japanese women started doing their make-up in public. 

     Chiho said nothing as the low hum of my portable computer filled the next to silent air between us. Chuck’s visual image spilled into my left eye just as the traffic light turned green.  

      We crossed the road. 

     I could tell that she was watching me. No, not me. She was watching Chuck. 

      I turned my eyes towards her, but didn't bother to say anything. She wasn't the first one to openly stare at Chuck. While Japan is fairly advanced, anything that isn't bought pre-assembled seems alien to them. Like my arm-wrapped skeleton computer to run smart audio off from. Whoever said that the Japanese live in a science-fictional world must have been drunk. 

     We walked without exchanging words for several minutes, diving into random alleyways and covered walks. Chiho must have been watching me all that time. The silence was broken when her pocket phone rang. I powered Chuck down and watched her as she spoke. 

     Chiho began talking on her phone in a mix of Japanese and English. Actually, more like Japanese with English catch-phrases and taglines. Just like a pop song. I looked straight at her. She grinned. Her teeth weren't too bad.  

      We stopped at the fountains next to the Umeda Sky Building. Tourists were usually the crowd at the place, but there were few people at the time. Chiho said her feet hurt, and I was rather dizzy from alcohol myself. The blood pumping up to my face already felt like it was dripping out the pores of my skin. I leaned over to the fountain and splashed water to my face. Chiho laughed. I turned to face her trademark grin, and she pointed my eyes to a drunk sarariman pissing into the fountain. 

      I didn’t care. Chiho had a cute laugh. Like pizzicato strings with the echo of a football stadium. 

      “So, who were you talking to a while back with that machine on your hand?” Chiho asked me. 
      “Chuck,” I told her. 
      “A friend of yours?” 
      “More than that.” I popped another cigarette into my mouth and offered one to Chiho. She declined.  “Chuck pulled me out of several tight spots through the years.” 
      “So what kind of trouble were you in?” She leaned over. 

     I decided to have an angst trip. A lot of people would have blamed alcohol in their system whenever they got angst trips. Hell, they could actually be honest, for all I knew. But I was quite sure my head was on right when I talked to Chiho.  

      “How do you know Chuck didn’t leave anything out?” Chiho asked. Right after she did, she turned away. Like she didn’t need any answer from me. 
      “Should it matter? As far as I know, none of it might be true.” I said. “But false memories are still better than none at all.” 
      “They’d just be your imagination then.” 
      “Guess what, I can’t tell the difference between memories and imagination anymore.” 

      Chiho gave me a razor-sharp look. She didn’t answer. She probably didn’t believe me. I tried to think of something else to say when she stood up.  
      “Want to go to my place?” Chiho asked. 

     We stepped into the small shop. Gamesoft indeed. I read once in an old paper-media document that it originally meant software for old TV games Japanese kids obsessed with. Eventually it lost hold of the word as pirated hentai games dominated the scene upon advancing from the mere two-sense supporting game media of old. Or so the article said. Not surprising, actually, considering that it has always been back-of-the-shelf porno which takes the first step in new media formats. But this place still carried the older CDs along with the multisensory collections. It was a rather tight place. Six-floor structure with an elevator. We took the elevator to the third floor, which was quite bare. Chiho pulled some screens around the back, near a dusty cash register. She had a washing machine and a futon all laid-out. Looked like she had been using the place lately. She stretched herself on the mattress. I stood around looking dumb 
. 
      “So,” Chiho said. “Can I meet Chuck?” 
      “What for?”  
      “I want to know why you chose to preserve him as your future guide to your self.” 

       I nodded. There was little point in arguing. 

     So to the best of my abilities, I introduced Chuck to Chiho. Not much good, considering Chuck's program is desinged to interface with me. Meaning, he thinks everyone is me. Strangely, Chiho still found some perverse pleasure in talking with my former guitarist and lover. Probably because she's not well-versed in smart-tech. From what I could deduce from the discs piled up beside the futon, she was more interested in fashion. Must be a high school girl who never found the need to get older. At least she didn't wear the uniform.  

     “Chuck’s not a bad guy,” she said, still wearing my video shades and ears plugged in.  
     “Maybe one day I can find God through Chuck,” I joked. 
     "Huh?" 
     "You know, I want to find God and be forever in communication with him." 
     "Oh really?" She raised her left eyebrow.  
     "It's true. I think if I can collect enough neural patterns, I can even reconstruct him from all the information in the world." I wondered if she actually believed anything I was saying.  

     She returned my equipment and stood up and drank some water from a recycled mineral water bottle she kept near the washing machine.  

     "Who are you, really?” Chiho asked as she offered the plastic bottle of water to me. I depowered my equipment, but kept them on me before taking the bottle. I really needed to puke. But I needed an excuse to get to a toilet. At least the water helped a bit.  

     Didn't have time to think of one. Her lips suddenly pasted themselves on my own. Correction, not paste. More like cyanoacrylate. She did some trick with her tongue I wasn't familiar with. Under normal circumstances, I might have found it pleasurable. But she was triggering my vomit reflex. 

     Broke off. I started coughing. 

     "You have a toilet?" 
     "Downstairs, first floor," she replied, left eyebrow raised. 

     And I went off and hit the elevator down button hard. I could feel it rising in my throat, in tune with the elevator coming up from ground floor. I tapped my feet restlessly, my eyes locked on the elevator's position marker above the door. It was only three floors! What was taking so long? 

     And the doors opened, complete with a Japanese woman's digitized voice saying what floor it was on. I stepped in, and returned to tapping my feet as I waited again for it to hit ground.  

     I never made it. By the time the elevator hit second, I released everything to the floor. It exploded so loud that I was sure Chiho had heard it. Rum-cola burgundy, with fragments of potato fries and stomach acids. My head swirled. I could feel the blood rushing up to it. The elevator hit ground, doors opening. I stood there, head aimed down, waiting for any aftershocks. The doors closed. The cramped cubicle was spinning. My video shades dropped from my face. Reached down to pick it up. My feet slipped. And I was in my burgundy vomit. 

     It was still raining. I could still hear the droplets. Pale-beige-painted metal walls, dim fluorescent light, and a pool of burgundy vomit surrounded me. Rust had formed on the seams of the elevator's metal paneling, almost moving, crawling like electric ants before my blurred eyes. 

     I raised myself to sitting position, feeling the vomit slide off the back of my gray jacket. My metal-gloved right hand instinctively fished my vicinity for my lenses. After what seemed like a mainframe reboot, it found them. I was sitting on them. 

     Shit. The black matte finish of the right lens was cracked. I ran my hand over the lens surface. I needed a new one. Great, first I don't manage to get myself through a late-night-rhapsody without throwing up somewhere, and now I'd need to make a hardware purchase again, I thought. Looks like its no video for now.  

     My hand (actually, the stripped down computer I wore as an extended glove on it) started to release weird ticking sound.  

     "Oh, alright, Chuck, stop gloating now." But Chuck was programmed to laugh for a full fifty seconds. And he did. 

     I pulled out a cig and lit it. It was a fine old burning type cigarette, Not the electric stuff that left no ash most people smoked. 

     My fingers ran over the cold metal paneling as I smoked. There was a certain sensation to the cool contact of flesh and metal. It still made my hairs tingle, no matter how much I was used to it. Every time. Chuck used to joke that I got off on metal when he was still breathing. Well, Chuck, now you are metal. 

     I lost track of time again. Wonder how long Chiho has been waiting upstairs. She could wait. I looked around the elevator walls and tried to recall what had brought me in here. As usual, it took me a while to gather things up. I wasn’t sure whether it was post-alcohol-induced-vomit memory blanking or my Rhythmic Memory Blackout Syndrome had finally caught up with me. 

     I forgot to ask Chiho why she had been following me. Who was she? The solitary girl at the barstool. Someone who had watched the band perform in the past. Someone who watched me very closely as we walked. Someone who wanted something from me.  

     An island of ash and cigarette filters swam in my vomit. Noticed the pungent odor for the first time. It mixed with the trapped smoke in a fragmented odor. Almost mystical. Or I'm just delirious, Chuck reminds me. 

     If there are things called strange elevators, those with mirrors in them must qualify. This one was such a thing. I've never understood what rationale there could be in putting a mirror in an elevator. Unlike restaurants, there's little need to try and make them look bigger. Unlike bathrooms, people don't really fix up inside them. Unless they were for people who had sex in lifts, so they could exit looking mildly decent. But I'm more inclined to believe the other conspiracy theory. That it's a plan by the media to watch everyone around and elevators, being supposedly private places, were favorite spots for secrets. Could Chiho’s secrets be hidden in here? I would find out.  

     And since I thought of that, I've always pulled the mirrors off to check for cameras. There were none this time around. I've never found any. But that doesn't mean they aren't there. 

     But no time for second-thoughts now. Had to get back to Chiho upstairs. Besides, I was out of cigs. 

     I took off my jacket and shirt and headed back up to third on the elevator. I was secure in the knowledge that Chiho had a washing machine, so I wouldn't have to head off on the train tomorrow in a funky smelling jacket. The question was whether she had soap for it.  

     The doors opened, and I stepped out into Chiho's floor. Must have smelled terrible. She was lying on the futon, underneath a maroon blanket. Her chrome dress was hanging from the washing machine.  

      "Took you so long?" She asked, raising her head slightly. She didn't say anything about how I smelled. 
      "Had some smokes," I answered, tossing my laundry over. It landed on top of her dress.  
      "Well come on in." 

     I slipped with her under the blanket, and she resumed her kissing. Then she pulled back slightly. Pause. 

     "Could we have some privacy?" She asked, hovering on top of me. 
     "We're the only ones here." 

     Chiho’s eyes narrowed. Then her hand moved to mine, to my computer, and she ejected Chuck's disc cartridge from the unit. She then slipped him the back pocket of my trousers, and then removed my computer glove. 

     "That's better." Her eyes pierced into mine and her voice was calm. Like the low crackle of cigarettes in a dimly lit room. 

     Lying naked beneath the blankets with Chiho, I wished I had not used up my cigarettes. She was quiet, with her back turned to me. But I could sense that her eyes were still open.  

     “You won’t forget this, won’t you?” Chiho finally said, turning her body towards me. Her eyes almost looked wet in the dim light.  

     I didn’t answer. I would forget this eventually. I knew that much. 

     Chiho’s hand went to mine and she held it tight.  

     It took me a moment to realize that I hadn’t forgotten everything yet. Another new day to forget was upon me. I stood up. My clothes were nowhere in sight. Chiho must have taken the liberty of dumping them into the laundry.  

     I must have missed it the night before, but there were a bunch of photographs taped to the side of the washing machine. I walked up to them to take a closer look.  

     They were photos of me. I recognized the places--Rhythm Emotion, Me singing with the band before Chuck died, Me at a subway station. The last photo caught me. It was a picture of Chiho with Chuck in the middle of some hillside.  

     I didn’t get the chance to reflect on that last photo. I stood up right at the sound of the elevator doors opening. 

     Chiho walked in from the elevator She was dressed in a trim blue feminine version of the corporate suit.  

     "Was that your crap in the elevator?" she asked.  

    I nodded. It was probably best to play it cool. Chiho had been following me. I was definitely more than a random romp for the night. She was hiding something from me. It was time to bug out.  

     "I’m glad you still remember me,” she said. Her heels ticked on the floor as she walked towards me. There was a smile on her face. "Hungry?" 
     "A bit," I answered. I powered my glove computer. I needed to get some advice from Chuck as to how to deal with this situation. 

      There was no response from Chuck. I checked my computer. It was empty.  

      “Where’s Chuck?” I asked Chiho. My eyes locked on hers in a long stare. 
     "Forget about Chuck," Chiho said, walking up close to me, putting her arms around my neck. “I’m here now.”  

     I looked at the washing machine briefly. Only briefly. Then rushed over and pulled the plug. Chiho stood by the elevator doors, watching me. I fished through the pile. My pants were in there. I pulled the disc out of the back-pocket. It didn’t take a genius to know that it was useless already. 

     “Who are you, really?” 

     There was no answer from Chiho. Instead, she took the disc from my hands. I let her. The scene must have been hilarious. Man naked except for a metallic glove, while a sharply dressed Japanese woman pulled a warped data disc from his hands.  

     "I'm sorry." she said, plastic puppy-dog look in her eyes.  

      I pulled my clothes on. Chiho just hovered about as I did. After I finished, we stepped into the elevator together. The crap had been cleaned, but the mirror was still laid down, useless, on the floor. I looked at the spot where it used to be. No cameras. 

      "You’ve been living a lie," Chiho said without warning. She held her head low. “Chuck made it all up. You aren’t who he said you were.” 
     “I wouldn’t know the difference. But what he made up was still better than a blank space.” I could have explained it to her, but I didn’t say anything more. There was no point.  

     The elevator was still as slow as last night. I flicked a few covers open from my computer and extended the neural probes, then loaded a blank disc into the unit.  

      “I won’t leave you anymore. You won’t become a blank space again. 
      "I know you won’t, Chiho," I told her, looking at her. "I love you, you know."  

     I pulled her close to me, watching our reflection on the mirror. And then I embraced her. She leaned her head on my shoulder, then opened her eyes wide as I attached the neural probes of my computer behind her neck. 

     “Together again,” Chiho whispered with a resigned smile.  
     I keyed in the command to download. 

 

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