I have no memory for names. I used to, and oddly I can recall names — some of them anyway — that were stored before September of 2000. Nothing particularly magical happened in September of 2000. I did start college, but my lifestyle did not change significantly in terms of the intake of potential memory-washing substances. But I am fairly certain this is about when the deterioration of my memory began.
This was most recently confirmed by a few random encounters with a lovely girl from my Freshman floor. The first run-in was on the 36 bus, which I rarely take. It is rush hour and like most bus-riders I am mentally distancing myself from my fellow pilgrims. I’m not sure why we do this. I certainly tell myself that public transportation gives me the me-time that I need and deserve, but it is more likely a symptom of social laziness. It takes a lot of energy to say Good Evening to a complete stranger, and god forbid that they take that as an invitation to start a conversation. Then you’re small-talking all the way up Clark wishing you had kept your mouth shut so you could enjoy the collective solitude which you are now disturbing with your half-hearted prattle.
I am weighing the merits of transient mass lonesomeness when a woman says my name. I recognize her immediately, and memories that surround this character from my past flood into my brain. I remember how she looked and notice how she looks now: older, more mature, more elegant. I remember how her voice sounded and realize that it sounds exactly as it did. I remember where her room was on our floor. I remember who her friends were. I remember events that she and I both attended. And so forth.
But I cannot for the life of me remember her name.
The next time we meet is on the Red Line, which I also rarely take but she and her husband take almost every day, I learn. Her husband — whose name I have of course lost (Steven maybe?) — and she work in the same building, which sounds equally delightful and terrifying. They are also on the junior board of the Goodman Theatre, where I happened to be interning at the time. This promised that future interaction was probable, so discovering this woman’s name grew more imperative. I kept waiting for her husband to let it slip into the conversation. “Oh you know_______: she’s such a go-getter.” “No, I don’t have season tickets to the Cubs because_______is a hockey fan.” “_______and I were going to grab dinner. Do you want to join us?” I kept waiting, but nothing. I started to think up questions to ask that would require answers in which he would have to say her name. Questions other than “What’s your wife’s name?”
The third time I ran into this woman was at the opening night party for the Goodman’s Shining City. Luckily my partner Rachel was on my arm. Rachel has learned to take cues from me over the many years that my memory has been lapsing, and we have worked out a wonderful little trick that makes me look only slightly absentminded while saving me from being inexcusably rude. We approach the anonymous woman from my freshman floor and her husband, who are sitting at a table for two drinking wine. I say hello and shake hands and say, “Oh you remember my girlfriend Rachel.” And then I pause while they shake hands: “Hi. I do remember you. I’m Jill.”
Of course you are!
This trick of course does not work as well when I forget Rachel’s name. Which happens occasionally. Of course when that happens, remembering the name of some random woman from my freshman floor is the least of my worries.
Memories have holes. Not all of them are as distinct as the craters surrounding the names my mind has managed to lose, but we don’t remember everything. How could we? We take with us what we subconsciously think we need, like heroes from those adventure video-games who can only carry a certain number of items in their satchels. I’ll take three health potions, a golden key, a longbow, and an indecipherable piece of parchment that can only be translated by a troll who lives in an impenetrable series of underground caverns (you know you’ll need it!).
One of the many things I adore about New Leaf’s current production, Girl in the Goldfish Bowl, is that Panych structurally honors the black holes of the forgotten. We travel through four days with surprising speed because time literally slips away to expose only the moments that are necessary for the audience to understand the protagonist’s story. We know that Iris goes to school, but we don’t see it because we don’t need to. We know that an uneventful afternoon has passed, but we don’t see it because we don’t need to. Nothing extra. Nothing wasted. We are given what we need to understand.
And isn’t that how memory works?
