"Come in. We're Open."
This sign greeted the young man at the entrance. Though still unsure, he decided to go in.
The bank was like any other bank: the glass doors, the bright fluorescent lights, the marble flooring. There were a lot of desks, stacks of papers sitting on each, and a far more lot of people falling in line. It was one of winter's coldest days that all of the heaters were turned on. Accenting the common-looking establishment was a vault of tremendous size occupying the far back, sitting cold and silently watching everyone's movement.
"Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?" asked a man in a black suit; 'Roger Cruz' was embossed in the man's nameplate.
"Well I, uhm -. I'm not really sure."
"Would you like a tour, sir?"
Roger Cruz who turns out to be the bank's manager, escorted the young man further inside.
"What is this place?" asked the man.
"This is a Memory Bank. Well, when we use the word 'memory' we refer to everything that has happened and will happen to one person."
The man was dumbfounded. Bank, memories - they don't seem to fit. Before he could ask another question, Roger spoke.
"We operate the way ordinary banks do. You deposit, you withdraw, you loan et cetera. Instead of cash though, we only accept memories, sensations, emotions."
Dumbfounded still was the young man.
"You could deposit memories - be it good or bad. When you deposit good memories, you'll be left with only the bad ones; deposit the bad ones and be left with the good ones. We get a lot of the latter case. The former, well, I guess some are really masochistic in nature."
Confusion.
"Deposited good memories will earn interest. When you decide to withdraw them, you'll be earning more good ones. The same goes for depositing bad memories."
Wonder. Understanding.
"You could also loan good memories. Here 'memory' is not just about one's past but also everything that are bound to happen to one person. We could lend you good things that are to happen to you. But, you know what happens when one exhausts all his happy memories, right?"
You'll be left with bad ones - this the young man understood. After savoring everything good, the painful ones will just creep into your bed at night, enveloping you, suffocating you to death. Or to madness.
"Why would anyone choose to exhaust all his good memories? That's mad!"
"Simple: people are desperate." answered Roger. "Most are desperate for happiness, some for sadness. Yes, sadness. Remember how others, after break-ups and other heartbreaking events, choose to listen to depressing songs? That's basically the idea. Some don't really want to heal the wounds they've got. They want to suffer, and convince themselves that the world owes them good stuff."
The man couldn't look at Roger in the eye for this he also understood. He knew sorrow, desperation. In fact, he knew it too well - that's why he went there in the first place. He wanted to find solace by forgetting the divorce, his ex-wife's custody of their son - all the pain and suffering.
Unable to admit his defeat, the young man left quickly. Roger stared at the glass doors, watched the young man battle the heavy storm outside.
"Sir, you have a call from Mrs. Fuentes." said one woman in uniform.
"He'll be back." said Roger. "Persistentes recuerdos, la gente desesperada."*
"Sir?"
"Nothing. Send Mrs. Fuentes' line to my office."
*Persistent memories, desperate people.
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Memory Bank by KASH
