Children of the New World: Stories Read Online Free PDF Page B

causes, I resented that she never praised my work. “You know that indigenous tribes are buying our memories, right?”
    She let out a heavy sigh. “I’m not trying to put down your work,” she said. “But you’re spending more time trying to figure out memories you never had than making real memories with me. You’re getting addicted.”
    This wasn’t entirely true. In those first months together, I’d go to the Crow’s Nest and work on memories during the day, then take nights off with her. A bistro had opened near my place, and we’d go there on the weekends for breakfast. Nights we’d order in Chinese, lie in bed, and make love. But Cynthia was right. There were many times when she’d catch me staring out the window, trying to find the edge of Quimbly’s latest memory.
    At work, Quimbly, Barrett, and I focused on making our memories last longer. The key was to package memories together. A vacation to Europe couldn’t simply be the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre; it needed to involve the airplane ride, the week at work before, the mundane details that helped make the memories stick.
    “All good memories have boredom buried in them,” Quimbly told us one night.
    “You should write children’s books,” I said.
    Barrett was unusually quiet. He’d grown more silent ever since he began designing past-life memories, and we mistook his silence for Zen satori rather than the madness that was slowly taking his mind.
    “Look, if we make perfect memories, we’re not going to have customers left,” Quimbly said and leaned over the coffee table. “The key to our success is to give people ninety-nine percent perfect experiences. Make them almost happy, and they’ll keep buying. Trust me on this.” Then he gave us the next batch of memories to test.
    *   *   *
    CYNTHIA HATED QUIMBLY from the first time they met. I’d invited Quimbly for dinner in hopes that they’d get along, but by the time we sat down to eat, it was a mess. Cynthia was working on a clean-water project for children in Mali and, in typical Quimbly fashion, he started an argument. “Look, I get you, it’s good to give them water, but let’s be honest, water’s not going to save them. They’re going to die from disease, civil war, malnutrition. Give them memory sticks and at least they’ll have happy memories before they die.”
    “That’s really sick,” Cynthia said.
    “You’re telling me if you could give them a happy childhood, you’d deny them?”
    “It’s not a happy childhood; it’s forgetting their actual past.”
    “I think you want them to suffer,” Quimbly said. “Somehow their pain makes things real for you.”
    I tried to soothe the tension, suggested we do both, send them water and memories. Getting the kids water made sense, I said, it was the right thing to do, but I didn’t see any harm in giving kids good memories as well.
    “Fuck that,” Cynthia said. “What you’re talking about is making a bunch of beam-heads who won’t ever work for social change.”
    “That’s not true,” I said. “We’re designing parents for inner-city kids with horrible upbringings; we’ve donated memories to the poor.”
    “That’s not social change,” Cynthia said and got up from the table, leaving her dinner unfinished. “I hope you guys know that the work you’re doing is evil.”
    Quimbly took a sip of wine and gave me a smile after she left the room. “You sure she’s the one?” he asked. “You might want to take a closer look there, buddy.” He stayed long enough to finish his dinner and fix himself another drink, and then, when I said it was probably best I see him tomorrow, he left. I cleared the dishes from the table and went into the bedroom, where Cynthia sat reading.
    “I can’t believe you work with that asshole.”
    “You guys didn’t get off to the best start,” I admitted. “He’s actually a good guy; he just likes to push people’s buttons. He’s a brilliant designer.”
    “That kind