A Stroll Down Memory Lane (Observation Only)

John walked toward Gate 4: Personal Turning Points.

Beneath the large glowing sign, smaller text read: Remember observation only. You are not really there. He had read that rule on the pamphlet, and then again on the signs posted on both doors to the terminal, and then at least five more times in the terminal itself. They were on screens, notice boards, and etched into glass panels positioned every few feet. The company seemed very insistent on drilling this fact into its customers’ brains.

His friend Tim had insisted that the experience worked wonders after his most recent breakup.

“You get the closure you need, and you can stand much closer than in the historical tours,” he had slurred before chugging down another beer. “Trust me. It’s worth the cost.”

John still thought the whole idea sounded a little absurd, like the sort of thing that he would read in a self-help book. He was almost certain that he had seen a t-shirt with a very similar slogan at an airport store, stashed between paperbacks and neck pillows. The fact that they had both been exceptionally buzzed that night had not helped build his confidence in Tim’s constant assurances.

Yet, here he was anyway, with a printed confirmation sheet and a silicone wristband that he couldn’t take off on his own.

He looked across to the other side of the terminal, to the Return and Memory Processing Section. It was already half-filled with people who had just finished their own trips. One was crying. Another was grinning from ear to ear as if they had just rewatched their championship game. A third held a white tote bag that read: I walked down memory lane… and I liked it. Closer,he could see a fourth purchasing a mug with the words: I sipped through my past.

John felt his wristband tighten twice. His timeslot had arrived. The attendant managing the gate was dressed in a blue polo and white pants that looked like it had been ironed to a crisp. He waved John forward and gave what was clearly a practiced smile.

“Enjoy your experience into your past. We will see you again when it is over.”

The world went white.

When the colors returned, he was standing back on North Avenue.

“Welcome to your chosen Personal Turning Point. Enjoy,” a soothing female voice seemed to speak into his head.

He looked around. He would have recognized this street anywhere, even if someone had tied a blindfold around his face. The smells of the burning trash from the nearby dumpster, the orange glare from the neon sign, the occasional flicker of the streetlights above. Everything about it was so realistic, down to the spitting of rain from the storm that was about to come down in buckets ten minutes later. This was the very street where he watched her leave after their big fight and he had done nothing.

In the middle of the road stood his younger self, staring down the street. His hair was still long then, with the curls along the ends. He hadn’t cut it yet. John knew right now his younger self was debating whether to follow or call out for her to come back. He remembered this exact moment like the back of his hand. He had felt such indignation and the justification that he was right—that if he stayed long enough, she would realize she was wrong and turn back around.

He also remembered the rules. Observation only. No interference.

He took a step forward anyway. The concrete grit felt so real under his boots.

“Follow her!” He called out from his place in the shadows. “Do something!”

His younger self looked up. John felt a glimmer of hope grow for a moment in his chest that he had heard and was going to do something. But then the younger John turned to the television playing some Sherlock Holmes film through the window of the nearby bar and after a moment shrugged. He stayed where he was. He didn’t turn to look in the direction where she was walking away.

John took another step forward to move even closer. “Please!” he yelled louder. “Just call her back! You’ll regret it!”

He thought he caught a glimpse of her at the end of the street. She slowed under one of the lamps and began to turn. When she saw nobody was behind her, she faced forward again and kept walking. Within ten more seconds she was gone altogether.

John began to take another step when he heard the soothing female voice again.

“Time’s up.”

The street blurred and then went white.

He was suddenly back at the Return and Memory Processing Section of the terminal. He blinked a few times—everything felt so bright and noisy after the empty street.

The attendant looked at him. “Well?” they asked with the same practiced smile as the one at Gate 4. “Was your experience to your satisfaction?”

When he hesitated, the attendant pointed towards the help desk. “We strive to ensure all visits are met with only the highest satisfaction. May we interest you in another trip? Repeat customers get 15% off.”

John thought of his younger self standing in the middle of the street, making one of the biggest mistakes of his life, thoroughly convinced he was making the right choice.

Maybe he just needed to stand closer. Yell a little louder. Make a bigger distraction.

Gate 4 chimed as the next timeslot began, and the next guest walked in. John was already wondering how much longer he would have to wait.

He thought about Tim again that night at the bar. He now wondered how many times Tim had gone back to relive his moment before he felt “better.” Had Tim only needed that one time or had he booked another appointment afterwards? It hadn’t even occurred to John at the time to ask. He had been laughing too hard at the idea of booking closure like a hair appointment or a trip to the doctor’s. Now it felt like a very obvious and potentially costly question to have missed. There was probably a number or statistic buried somewhere in the pamphlet he had scanned earlier, but he must have thrown it away. He didn’t remember doing so, but he knew it wasn’t in his hands anymore.

“Yes, please. One return ticket,” John finally responded, and headed towards the desk.