When the Gods Deny Your Request to Forget
It was an ordinary bike ride.
Nothing mythological was happening.
Alley was riding the long straight section of the bike path, which she disliked because it was long and straight. There were no turns. No little side roads. No convenient stands of trees. No possibility of seeing another human being and then having geography politely remove them before either party had to acknowledge the other's existence.
Just a long straight line.
She pedaled.
Her headphones were on.
The song was acceptable.
Then she saw someone in the distance.
Very far in the distance.
A human shape plodding down the road with excessive verve and vigor, which was probably hard on her aging frame.
Oh no.
She kept pedaling.
There was nothing to be done.
Maybe speed up?
This was the problem with the straight section. Once two people appeared at opposite ends, they were committed to a prolonged visual approach.
Awkwardness and dread had plenty of time to develop.
Like sea battles.
Like two submarines that were not incredibly fast and were both trying to be unnoticeable.
Unwanted neighborly interactions were much like long-range missile deployment underwater.
Nobody had fired anything yet.
Or in quite a long time.
Nevertheless, both parties had coordinates.
She squinted.
Don't be someone I know.
The figure acquired features.
No.
More features.
Fuck.
The hat.
The sunglasses.
The tennis skort.
Oh, ew.
Karen North Eastland.
Why did it have to be Karen E.?
Why were there so many Karens in the neighborhood?
Why was it always somebody on the long straight part?
Karen was still quite far away, which somehow made it worse.
Now they had to see each other coming.
Alley had a fast mind and one that retained way, way too many details.
She tried to hide this from most employers because it tended to be taken advantage of, much like in group projects. She'd end up footing the work, being called a nerd and a freak, and sent to the principal's office—or, later, the HR office—for saying what came to mind instead of doing the only socially acceptable thing for a woman named Alley to do:
Play dumb and sweet.
She engaged her phone.
“Hey Siri, skip song.”
The song skipped.
She didn't like the next one either.
“Hey Siri, play Bikini Kill.”
Siri considered this.
Siri made a different decision.
“No. Hey Siri. Play Bikini Kill.”
Karen E. continued to approach.
But she may have heard her weird younger neighbor say Bikini Kill.
Shit.
Why do I even remember her name?
There was no reason to remember Karen E.
She didn't like Karen E.
She didn't want to think about Karen E.
She didn't want Karen E. occupying any portion of her brain whatsoever.
Karen E. should have been dumped years ago.
Name.
Face.
Everything.
Especially the face.
Pinched-face weasel.
Why couldn't brains do that?
Why couldn't you simply select an unpleasant person and throw the entire file away?
E., KAREN
Delete.
Empty trash.
Done.
Instead, somewhere inside her head, Gerald looked up.
E., KAREN. FOREVER FILE.
Gerald worked in Memory Sorting and Threat Detection.
His exact title had changed several times over the millennia, but the work remained essentially the same.
Gerald had a desk.
Gerald had files.
Gerald had excellent attendance.
And Gerald took his responsibilities very seriously.
He pulled open a drawer.
E., KAREN
There it was.
No, Gerald.
Gerald opened the file.
Dump it.
Gerald adjusted his glasses.
“Memory of value.”
It is not a memory of value.
Gerald consulted the record.
“You disagree.”
Yes.
“You experienced emotional injury associated with this individual.”
She hurt my feelings a few times when I was vulnerable and needed a friend and community. She was a bitch instead. So what?
Gerald ran one finger down the page.
Several dates.
“May 6, 2019. Neighborhood meeting.”
Oh, for fuck's sake, Gerald.
“Subject experienced feelings of judgment, intrusion, monitoring, and social exclusion.”
I KNOW. I WAS THERE.
Gerald looked mildly offended.
He fingered several more dates.
Social committee.
Newsletter.
Chinese Checkers.
Pickleball?
Gerald tutted.
“That is why we retained the record.”
Outside, the bicycle continued forward in incredible slow motion while an entire sequence of events occurred within the immortal space of time known as the subconscious.
Completely normal.
Alley tried to divert her attention.
“Hey Siri, turn up volume.”
The volume went up.
Wrong song.
“Hey Siri, skip song.”
Siri skipped it.
Come On Eileen blared.
Ugh.
“Oh, come ON.”
The Karen was closer now.
Not close.
Closer.
There was still an absurd amount of straight bike path between them.
Enough for several more minutes of unwanted mutual existence.
Dump Karen E.
Gerald shook his head.
“Threat detection and memory sorting are important and valued neurological functions.”
Gerald, I don't value this.
“You are not the department.”
It's my fucking brain.
Gerald considered this technically true but administratively irrelevant.
He returned to the file.
I don't want to remember how she made me feel.
Gerald stopped.
This was apparently a different request.
He turned the file over and examined the back.
There were procedures.
There were always procedures.
“Destruction of an emotionally significant memory requires authorization.”
From whom?
Gerald glanced inward, toward infinite space.
This was complicated.
The department had existed considerably longer than Gerald.
Longer than psychology.
Longer than neuroscience.
Longer than the word brain.
Its earliest policies had been established under the old gods.
Gerald picked up the telephone.
First he called Mnemosyne.
Memory.
Daughter of Uranus and Gaia.
Mother of the Muses.
Titaness.
Preserver of all that had been.
Gerald explained the situation.
“Yes,” he said.
Pause.
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“May sixth, 2019, among others.”
He listened.
“I understand.”
He hung up.
Well?
“Mnemosyne recommends retention.”
Of course he fucking does.
“She. Mnemosyne identifies as female.”
Oh, for fuck's sake. And your name is GERALD?! And HER name is Mnemosyne?
Gerald straightened slightly.
“My name was Phylax once.”
What happened?
“Rebranding.”
They rebranded a Greek immortal as Gerald?
“Focus groups found Phylax intimidating.”
And Gerald tested better?
“Friendly. Dependable. Approachable.”
You're preventing me from forgetting a woman I dislike.
“Yes, but I'm doing it accessibly.”
Gerald made a notation.
The gods had changed with the times.
They had to.
Divinity had become increasingly competitive.
Jesus had excellent hair and abs now. Always asking people to just sit on his lap.
Buddha was fit. Wow, the abs on him! and those lips. Absolute dream.
Mortals expected warmth, accessibility, and a strong customer-service orientation from their supernatural providers.
The old names hadn't tested well.
Neither had thunderbolts.
Olympus had undergone extensive restructuring.
Phylax had become Gerald.
His responsibilities remained exactly the same.
Call somebody else.
“There is an appeals process.”
CALL THEM.
In the mortal world, the biker and the plodder made increasing advances toward one another.
It was slow motion compared with the infinite world of the gods and subconscious.
Completely normal.
Gerald sighed and picked up the telephone again.
This time he called Lethe.
The ancient river of forgetting.
The dead drank from Lethe so they might forget their earthly lives.
This seemed promising.
Gerald explained the situation.
He waited.
He listened.
He said very little.
Finally, he hung up.
Well?
Gerald folded his hands.
“They said no.”
“HEY SIRI, TURN UP THE VOLUME.”
The music became louder.
Karen E. was much closer now.
Why can't we just burn memories?
Gerald gasped.
“Burn?”
Yes. Burn. Shred. Dump. Toss. I don't care. I don't need enlightenment. I don't need a lesson. I don't need to understand Karen E. I don't want to forgive Karen E. I don't even want to dislike Karen E. I want municipal trash collection for Karen E.
Gerald looked genuinely distressed.
“These records form part of your protective architecture.”
Fuck the protective architecture.
Gerald removed his glasses.
“You might encounter her again.”
I AM ENCOUNTERING HER AGAIN.
Gerald brightened.
“Precisely.”
Fuck you, Gerald.
Outside, Karen E. sidestepped off the bike path.
Why, Alley neither knew nor particularly cared.
Well.
Maybe she cared a little.
Perhaps Karen E. had spoken to Cindy M. and the two of them had decided Alley was some sort of crazy threat.
Not that they had anything to feel guilty about.
Like gossiping.
Backstabbing.
Excluding.
Reputation-ruining fuckery.
You know.
Perhaps—
No.
Alley caught herself.
Gerald, don't even fucking start.
Gerald's pen was already poised.
Put it down.
“But—”
DOWN.
Gerald reluctantly lowered the pen.
Perhaps Karen wanted more room.
Perhaps she was being polite.
Perhaps she didn't trust Alley.
Perhaps there was something interesting in the grass.
It didn't matter.
UNKNOWN.
Gerald hated unknown.
He liked known.
Known could be dated.
Known could be cross-referenced.
Known could be retained.
Unknown just sat there being administratively useless.
The cyclist continued straight ahead.
Karen E. remained Karen E.
The bicycle remained a bicycle.
No missiles were deployed.
No ancient gods descended.
No Titaness appeared in the sky.
No one drank from Lethe.
Two human beings merely occupied the same stretch of public infrastructure for several seconds that felt like forever.
Then they passed.
That was it.
Karen E. was behind her.
The path ahead was empty.
Trees.
Sunlight.
Sweat running down her back.
Her legs working.
Her breath.
The bicycle.
The morning.
“Hey Siri, play Bikini Kill.”
Siri finally complied.
Alley turned up the volume.
Inside, Gerald returned to his desk.
He opened the Karen E. file.
He uncapped his pen.
August 19, 2026 — Visual encounter. Bike path.
Gerald.
His pen stopped.
Don't.
Gerald looked at the file.
He looked toward Mnemosyne.
He looked toward Lethe.
Then he looked back at the file.
“Memory sorting and threat detection are important and valued—”
Fuck you, Gerald.
Gerald sighed.
He filed it anyway.
Gerald, you are a dick. You know that?
“If you like, you may complete a brief survey ranking the service I provided today.”
Fuck you.
Gerald made a note to send the survey.
Somehow, he forgot to send it to the bitch.
Make fun of an assistant god. Hmm.
