The game he used to play in his mind at such moments was called Oblivion - which involved taking inventory of all the cultural detritus - events, trends, fads, obsessions that had gone the way of the dinosaur...old books, tired art, stale music, those poor novels gathering dust in used bookstores or hard-bound historical volumes sitting row upon row in some library - the old hit songs of 1923 or 1872, the rococo paintings ignored in the 17th century wing of a museum, pamphlets, brochures, advertising from a decades old political campaign and most especially the follies of public opinion run amok - crowds assembling so as to rant and complain and push against some leaden reality such as the steam engine or the surveillance camera ....... He would content himself with the knowledge that the present tomfoolery would likewise be consigned in this way - and that the present frenzy would give way to an unescapable forgetfulness. Looking out at the scenes of the maniacal protest in the streets before him (across the from the coffee shop) staring out at the crazed faces of the young - Edgerton felt nauseous and looked away in disgust... This too, this too... Oh Lord...someday soon...one can hope at least... It shall be washed away - Edgerton found himself whispering...and at just such moments then that sly old psychic-minded savant named Synderman would brush up against him - the timing was really quite uncanny - and Synderman - appearing out of nowhere - would utter the familiar mantra: "This too shall be forgotten...unless" - a halfway thought to which there was no ending - none provided by Snyderman - except when Edgerton would add "as conquer we must, as conquer we shall..." Snyderman - with his damned happy grin and clumsy gait stumbling up toward the front of the line - if not for optimists such as him - where would Edgerton be exactly - because the same game of Oblivion - could easily be applied to the events of his own life - and indeed - it was not unlike him to begin reciting details of the world now departed or completely departed that he had felt so connected to his identity - but alas, parents, grandparents, uncles, cousins, neighbors in the old neighborhood - celebrities and famous names - gone - celebrations, events, traditions, festivities, preoccupations of yesteryear a relic of past decades, and stores, buildings, businesses, streets, schools - there but no longer there - but most tellingly - the events of his own life - faded, forgotten, unacknowledged except by his own powers of memory. Will there be no one left to light a candle for person x or accomplishment y? My years at the college...my marriage and family...the little house on Minotaur Avenue...the annus horribilus which precipitated his personal catastrophe - the attempt at a good deed - and the subsequent punishment - the inquest and resulting bad publicity - the exoneration and early end to a promising career...the end of a marriage and the estrangement from a beloved child - could Snyderman help with those painful things - which like the other detritus were no longer anyone's special concerns. But this should be a form of happiness thought Edgerton.
