NOSTALGIA UNLIMITED:
from the world of hell bank notes
originally published in lexicon
I walked into the shop because I was looking for a job, I needed a job. I had a ton of
bills to pay and every single one was late, getting old enough to have bills of their own. So I found the place off the main drag and I was fascinated with its plain storefront and its abstract sign, the letters NSTLG UNLTD cast out of rusty iron swinging back and forth with a squeak above the dusty front door. I entered to the sound of one of those chimes that let retail people know there's a customer in the store but nobody was around to care. I thought it was a kind of pawn shop or antique dealer at the time, the place was cluttered with all sorts of miscellany. A giant old cash register sat on a tall wooden bench that served as the front desk and a bunch of upholstered chairs sat loaded down with old books and magazines along the first aisle that spread out into long shelves of tools and toys and other rotting memorabilia.
Then I saw my dad coming around from the back, or I thought he was my dad, the
way his mustache curled around his upper lip and the way his blue eyes hung sad and
droopy in their sockets. He looked just like my pops, but the shopkeeper introduced
himself to me as Stanley. My dad's name was Mark. I shook off the confusion and shook
Stanley's hand. I told him I was looking for a job and he told me good help comes to those
who help themselves.
I kept showing back up at Nostalgia Unlimited, making my days by dusting the
heaps of old collectibles stashed in every nook and cranny of the place only for them to return upon nightfall, ready for me the next day. When Stanley realized I wasn't going
anywhere he offered me the job, probably in hopes that I wouldn't steal anything. He was
just like my dad was when I was bugging him to do something, grunting go ahead as he
sulked off into the backroom, leaving me to tend the shop.
On my first day as cashier my old college roommate showed up, but he pretended like he
didn't know me. Nothing had changed about him, not his long curly red hair or his rude,
slack-jawed way of talking as he called me a moron for thinking I knew him. He left with a
stack of old DVD cases for George Carlin stand up specials with all the DVDs missing.
After a couple of weeks, I finally got a paycheck and started looking for a place to
live. I ended up moving into a replica of my best friend's house from childhood and my
landlord was Geraldo Rivera. Every month when he'd come to collect rent he'd host a
panel with me and all my neighbors where we'd run paternity test for the couple
downstairs. We all knew who the father was after the first time. Every episode
was just a rerun.
Work wasn't any better. In three days alone, I had rung up my middle school gym teacher, the guy who worked at the liquor store where I had tried to buy underage, the creepy old lady who had three hundred cats who lived down the road from me in college, the sexy
professor I had tried and failed to sleep with as an undergrad, four of my ex-girlfriends, two
crushes I never made a move on, and this one girl who stalked me one whole summer
three years ago and then disappeared when school started again.
I got comfortable enough to realize that something was off, that every person I met seemed to be someone I already knew. It was like the world had a limited reserve of people, places, things, and I had unwittingly used them all up. It was disheartening. After all, I had moved to the city to meet new
people and do new things, but I couldn't escape the past.
Even my own regular friends had picked it up, mimicking each other's voices and
speech patterns in what I thought was a mocking game until I tried to join, everyone
leering at me strangely as I made fun of my friend James. James got up and stormed out
of the house but all I saw was my first long term girlfriend marching out of my dorm room after she caught me flirting with Bethany Meloski.
I started working longer hours at the shop and drinking after hours in the back room
with Stanley. He drank George Dickle just like my dad, taking big shots that sent his whole
head swinging back, little amber beads of whiskey sticking to the hairs above his lip. One
night I had asked him what this place was and why people came here to buy this junk and
he told me sometimes it isn't the memory that's important, it's the remembering.
I felt cheated out of my new life. I had taken months to say goodbye to everyone in my old town, stretching out the inevitable snap of our correspondence, only to be stuck with the
same old people in the same places over and over and over again. Nothing had changed. I was living the same life.
I tried looking for a new job, but all the newspapers I tried to buy were months and months old, all the email addresses sending back undeliverable messages, all the phone numbers disconnected and forgotten.
So one day I just quit. Stanley looked just like my dad did the day him and mom told me
they were getting divorced, that he wouldn't be living with us anymore. He was sad. I kept
on walking, feeling time finally start to move again. I had a fit of sneezing out on the street
and as my eyes blinked back open I saw I wasn't anywhere I had ever been before. I
looked up at the buildings and streetlights and the way the sun reflected off their tall
polished steel and then I looked back down at all the people on the street and I didn't
know anyone. I didn't know anyone at all, and it felt free.
bills to pay and every single one was late, getting old enough to have bills of their own. So I found the place off the main drag and I was fascinated with its plain storefront and its abstract sign, the letters NSTLG UNLTD cast out of rusty iron swinging back and forth with a squeak above the dusty front door. I entered to the sound of one of those chimes that let retail people know there's a customer in the store but nobody was around to care. I thought it was a kind of pawn shop or antique dealer at the time, the place was cluttered with all sorts of miscellany. A giant old cash register sat on a tall wooden bench that served as the front desk and a bunch of upholstered chairs sat loaded down with old books and magazines along the first aisle that spread out into long shelves of tools and toys and other rotting memorabilia.
Then I saw my dad coming around from the back, or I thought he was my dad, the
way his mustache curled around his upper lip and the way his blue eyes hung sad and
droopy in their sockets. He looked just like my pops, but the shopkeeper introduced
himself to me as Stanley. My dad's name was Mark. I shook off the confusion and shook
Stanley's hand. I told him I was looking for a job and he told me good help comes to those
who help themselves.
I kept showing back up at Nostalgia Unlimited, making my days by dusting the
heaps of old collectibles stashed in every nook and cranny of the place only for them to return upon nightfall, ready for me the next day. When Stanley realized I wasn't going
anywhere he offered me the job, probably in hopes that I wouldn't steal anything. He was
just like my dad was when I was bugging him to do something, grunting go ahead as he
sulked off into the backroom, leaving me to tend the shop.
On my first day as cashier my old college roommate showed up, but he pretended like he
didn't know me. Nothing had changed about him, not his long curly red hair or his rude,
slack-jawed way of talking as he called me a moron for thinking I knew him. He left with a
stack of old DVD cases for George Carlin stand up specials with all the DVDs missing.
After a couple of weeks, I finally got a paycheck and started looking for a place to
live. I ended up moving into a replica of my best friend's house from childhood and my
landlord was Geraldo Rivera. Every month when he'd come to collect rent he'd host a
panel with me and all my neighbors where we'd run paternity test for the couple
downstairs. We all knew who the father was after the first time. Every episode
was just a rerun.
Work wasn't any better. In three days alone, I had rung up my middle school gym teacher, the guy who worked at the liquor store where I had tried to buy underage, the creepy old lady who had three hundred cats who lived down the road from me in college, the sexy
professor I had tried and failed to sleep with as an undergrad, four of my ex-girlfriends, two
crushes I never made a move on, and this one girl who stalked me one whole summer
three years ago and then disappeared when school started again.
I got comfortable enough to realize that something was off, that every person I met seemed to be someone I already knew. It was like the world had a limited reserve of people, places, things, and I had unwittingly used them all up. It was disheartening. After all, I had moved to the city to meet new
people and do new things, but I couldn't escape the past.
Even my own regular friends had picked it up, mimicking each other's voices and
speech patterns in what I thought was a mocking game until I tried to join, everyone
leering at me strangely as I made fun of my friend James. James got up and stormed out
of the house but all I saw was my first long term girlfriend marching out of my dorm room after she caught me flirting with Bethany Meloski.
I started working longer hours at the shop and drinking after hours in the back room
with Stanley. He drank George Dickle just like my dad, taking big shots that sent his whole
head swinging back, little amber beads of whiskey sticking to the hairs above his lip. One
night I had asked him what this place was and why people came here to buy this junk and
he told me sometimes it isn't the memory that's important, it's the remembering.
I felt cheated out of my new life. I had taken months to say goodbye to everyone in my old town, stretching out the inevitable snap of our correspondence, only to be stuck with the
same old people in the same places over and over and over again. Nothing had changed. I was living the same life.
I tried looking for a new job, but all the newspapers I tried to buy were months and months old, all the email addresses sending back undeliverable messages, all the phone numbers disconnected and forgotten.
So one day I just quit. Stanley looked just like my dad did the day him and mom told me
they were getting divorced, that he wouldn't be living with us anymore. He was sad. I kept
on walking, feeling time finally start to move again. I had a fit of sneezing out on the street
and as my eyes blinked back open I saw I wasn't anywhere I had ever been before. I
looked up at the buildings and streetlights and the way the sun reflected off their tall
polished steel and then I looked back down at all the people on the street and I didn't
know anyone. I didn't know anyone at all, and it felt free.
HELL BANK NOTES:
THE NEW NOVEL FROM
H. WILLIAM DAVIS
Clark Waters is in another world. He's in the Hell Bank, a dystopian nightmare where the water is laced with dissociatives and manufactured news squalls from every street corner. To return home, he must confront the Hell Bank's Cartoon President and his police force of Plainclothes Men, but first, he must track down the memories he's lost along the way.