Memory is a Bitch

In 1990, I was a senior in highschool and had just moved to San Francisco. My father had a furnished businessman's apartment on Nob Hill (Snob Hill) and I stayed with him until our house in Marin County was ready.

During the day, I'd walk up and down the hills of the San Francisco financial district. One day, I bought a used paperback book and read it. The only thing I remembered about the book was that the main character ends up walking into a river at the end. I wrote about it in my diary and likened myself to the character.

All these years, I'd think about that book--the title and author of which I couldn't remember. It killed me I couldn't remember. Then, yesterday, while leaving the Astor Place Six station on my way to work, I thought, "Danny Deck." That was what I thought the main character's name was.

Sure enough, I just googled it and it was a book by Larry McMurtry titled All My Friends Will Be Strangers. But what frightens me is that I knew that name for all these many years but didn't know I knew it.

Like a necklace lost in the folds of a purse, it had been with me the whole time.

2 comments:

Marcie said...

That's really cool. I love it when a piece of information like that pops out of the "vault". Most of the time I can't remember shit.

bowling with no panties said...

Mothra and I were discussing this teacher at Immaculate High School who used to lecture loudly and after important sentences would snarl, "GET IT DOWN!" we have been saying, "GET IT DOWN" to each other for YEARS but neither of us could remember his real name. We always called him "Slinky".

For the last few weeks it was killing me that I couldn't remember his real name.

The last time I saw Mothra we were hanging out at the movies and half way through Talladega Nights I yelled, "SLAVINSKI!"

It totally came out of the vault.