“Memento Mori” by Jonathan Nolan, Part 2

The short story by Jonathan Nolan that is the basis for the movie Memento is included on many versions of the movie’s screenplay. Given the fact the script is widely available and this is strictly for educational purposes, I thought I’d post the story in excerpts each day this week.

You can’t have a normal life anymore. You must know that. How can you
have a girlfriend if you can’t remember her name? Can’t have kids, not
unless you want them to grow up with a dad who doesn’t recognize them.
Sure as hell can’t hold down a job. Not too many professions out there
that value forgetfulness. Prostitution, maybe. Politics, of course.

No. Your life is over. You’re a dead man.The only thing the doctors
are hoping to do is teach you to be less of a burden to the orderlies.
And they’ll probably never let you go home, wherever that would be.

So the question is not “to be or not to be,” because you aren’t. The
question is whether you want to do something about it. Whether revenge
matters to you.

It does to most people. For a few weeks, they plot, they scheme, they
take measures to get even. But the passage of time is all it takes to
erode that initial impulse. Time is theft, isn’t that what they say?
And time eventually convinces most of us that forgiveness is a virtue.
Conveniently, cowardice and forgiveness look identical at a certain
distance. Time steals your nerve.

If time and fear aren’t enough to dissuade people from their revenge,
then there’s always authority, softly shaking its head and saying, We
understand, but you’re the better man for letting it go. For rising
above it. For not sinking to their level. And besides, says authority,
if you try anything stupid, we’ll lock you up in a little room.

But they already put you in a little room, didn’t they? Only they
don’t really lock it or even guard it too carefully because you’re a
cripple. A corpse. A vegetable who probably wouldn’t remember to eat
or take a shit if someone wasn’t there to remind you.

And as for the passage of time, well, that doesn’t really apply to you
anymore, does it? Just the same ten minutes, over and over again. So
how can you forgive if you can’t remember to forget?

You probably were the type to let it go, weren’t you? Before. But
you’re not the man you used to be. Not even half. You’re a fraction;
you’re the ten-minute man.

Of course, weakness is strong. It’s the primary impulse. You’d
probably prefer to sit in your little room and cry. Live in your
finite collection of memories, carefully polishing each one. Half a
life set behind glass and pinned to cardboard like a collection of
exotic insects. You’d like to live behind that glass, wouldn’t you?
Preserved in aspic.

You’d like to but you can’t, can you? You can’t because of the last
addition to your collection. The last thing you remember. His face.
His face and your wife, looking to you for help.

And maybe this is where you can retire to when it’s over. Your little
collection. They can lock you back up in another little room and you
can live the rest of your life in the past. But only if you’ve got a
little piece of paper in your hand that says you got him.

You know I’m right. You know there’s a lot of work to do. It may seem
impossible, but I’m sure if we all do our part, we’ll figure something
out. But you don’t have much time. You’ve only got about ten minutes,
in fact. Then it starts all over again. So do something with the time
you’ve got.

***

EARL OPENS HIS EYES and blinks into the darkness. The alarm clock is
ringing. It says 3:20, and the moonlight streaming through the window
means it must be he early morning. Earl fumbles for the lamp, almost
knocking it over in the process. Incandescent light fills the room,
painting the metal furniture yellow, the walls yellow, the bedspread,
too. He lies back and looks up at the stretch of yellow ceiling tiles
above him, interrupted by a handwritten sign taped to the ceiling. He
reads the sign two, maybe three times, then blinks at the room around
him.

It is a bare room. Institutional, maybe. There is a desk over by the
window. The desk is bare except for the blaring alarm clock. Earl
probably notices, at this point, that he is fully clothed. He even has
his shoes on under the sheets. He extracts himself from the bed and
crosses to the desk. Nothing in the room would suggest that anyone
lived there, or ever had, except for the odd scrap of tape stuck here
and there to the wall. No pictures, no books, nothing. Through the
window, he can see a full moon shining on carefully manicured grass.

Earl slaps the snooze button on the alarm clock and stares a moment at
the two keys taped to the back of his hand. He picks at the tape while
he searches through the empty drawers. In the left pocket of his
jacket, he finds a roll of hundred-dollar bills and a letter sealed in
an envelope. He checks the rest of the main room and the bathroom.
Bits of tape, cigarette butts. Nothing else.

Earl absentmindedly plays with the lump of scar tissue on his neck and
moves back toward the bed. He lies back down and stares up at the
ceiling and the sign taped to it. The sign reads, GET UP, GET OUT
RIGHT NOW. THESE PEOPLE ARE TRYING TO KILL YOU.

Earl closes his eyes.

As you read the story this week, ask yourself this question: What narrative elements about it make it a story worth turning into a movie?