Fitful Lights Flicker in Memory Bank

By Steve Eskew

A politician and wannabe wit recently blurted out: “I have short-term memory issues, I have long-term memory issues and I also have short-term memory issues.”

Generally, memory becomes enhanced or   diminished arbitrarily by its selective nature. Analytical babble aside, the miracle of memory, like all blessings from Above, is not a given––it’s on loan.

Memory’s a blatant control freak, a mistress of confusion, a blessing and a curse. Let’s face it––scattered pictures boldly and abruptly withdraw the good, the bad and the ugly from our memory bank. 

Like any other shy narcissist, I take enormous pride in the precision I display as I merrily travel memory lane. Okay, okay, I can’t really claim to have a truly photographic memory, but oh shucks, I’m pretty darn good. I amaze one and all––especially me––with the vast array of dates indelibly seared into my memory’s boundless boundaries.

Am I blushing? 

Never to brag, not I, never, but In addition to remembering the birthdates of every friend and relative I have, I’m also keenly aware of the birthdates of each of the people at my senior center, plus those of various clerks, bus drivers and even their children.

Some people think I’m a shameless showoff. I 

say, “if ya got it, flaunt it.” 

However, to my detractors’ delight, once in a blue moon my cockiness short-circuits. For example, when I consult some of my journals from decades back, they’re like reading a new book of unfamiliar plot and characters. Moi? Not remember? How?

I blame my scatterbrain defect in defending such selective amnesia. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.

As much as I hate being an infamous  scatterbrain, I adore  its infallible flip side–-the  eidetic memory I pretend to possess.

Recently, I was walking down the street and saw an occasional acquaintance from 40 years ago and exclaimed:

“Oh, wow! Keith Evans! It’s been decades. Hey, how did you celebrate your birthday last week?”

“Who are you? How do you know my birthdate? Ah wait, your face is indeed familiar,” Keith responded, “but I can’t recall your name.” 

“I’m Baby Jane Hudson,” I quipped in my best Bette Davis mimic.

”Keith laughed. “That rings a bell. Ah, yes, I still don’t recall your name but you were the wild and crazy actor on the tennis team, I remember now. A horrible athlete. 

“That’s me!”

“Okay, now I got it––your name is Steve. Half of the people thought you were brilliant, the other half thought you were insane.”

Hmmm. Was I actually controversial? Who’d a thunk it? Confidentially, I’ve never been diagnosed as brilliant, but I’ve been diagnosed as insane a dozen or more times.

As for other selective memories, I constantly  boast about my instant recognition of a deluge of even the most obscure actors from decades back––and their birthdays.

But conversely, only yesterday, as I was patting myself on the back, I was smote by a demon named Humility. I hate that entity.

Out of the corners of  my mind, a light flashed upon the face of a late superstar. I could recite  his birthday, his wife’s name and her birthday. But I still couldn’t recall his name. Such madness.

I remembered that his wife was actress Joanne Woodward, born February 27, His DOB was January 26. He starred in “The Hustler,” and countless other films way back when dirt was new. 

Oh, and he was a philanthropist. Yes, yes, he founded a charity named, something like “Nimoy’s Own”? 

Still stumped. Humiliated. Then––an epiphany struck my noggin. Eureka! The words “Paul Newman” popped up, instantly planting my tail between my legs

And yet the exact dates that my pets of 10 years ago were neutered, spayed and vaccinated have embedded themselves indelibly into my brainpan.

But then again, I, the self-proclaimed whizkid, once wished a receptionist named Babs a Happy Birthday.

“Thanks, but you’re two days early,” she said.

“Come on, Babs. I’ve a flawless memory on dates. Your birthday is April 24th.”

“My birthday is April 26th.”

“No, that’s Carol Burnett’s birthday,” I countered.

“Well, It’s also mine, Babs insisted. “I’m quite certain I know which day I was born. Here’s my ID.”

Hmmm, her driver’s license did indeed list her DOB as  April 26. I guess I stand corrected.

Emphasizing that my faculties are far from flawless, my critical cousin Stosh claims that once upon a time I had a job as an elevator operator. 

Huh?

Stosh swears I did and that I was fired because ––well, because I couldn’t remember the route.  Funeee! (Stosh is the wannabe wit from the first paragraph of this piece.). 

I still say Bab’s birthday is April 24th.