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.