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’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 Feb. 27. His DOB was Jan. 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 of when 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 24.”
“My birthday is April 26.”
“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 24.
— Steve Eskew
After many years of tackling theater and book reviews, profiles and playwriting projects, Steve Eskew is hard at work on a nonfiction anthology, Tommy’s Mind. Steve swears his favorite pastime will always be humor writing, an affection that began while writing a humor column for The Gateway, a school newspaper at the University of Nebraska at Omaha. A retired businessman, Steve received a pair of master’s degrees in both dramatic arts and communication studies from that university after he turned 50. No Rhodes Scholar, Steve sometimes bewails his academic writing as probably funnier than his humor pieces. Check out his humor blog, ESKEWPADES.