remembering why I forget
Friday, Sept. 03, 2004
Evany doesn’t find my Memento-bad memory as charming as I would like. At first, she may have let out a good-natured, “Holy Crap! You really do have a horrible memory, don’t you? We were just here last night!” But it soon evolved into, “I told you that exact thing five minutes ago. I mean, really, aren’t there some sort of memory exercises you could do? Or could you at least double-up on the Gingko?” [Note: I’m totally paraphrasing what Evany said. Her words would have been much more Evanesque.]
Why do I bring this up? Because Evany and her good friend Jill are currently zip-zapping across the country (in a car!) from San Francisco to Amherst, Mass., where the über-brilliant Jill will be teaching for a year. (Jill’s a rhetorician; she can take a milkshake and use it to prove Kierkegaard is full of shit when it comes to the inevitable despair of living on the aesthetic plane.) And their trip reports are kicking my crappy memory into high gear.
I’m reminded of my own trip/move across country from New York to San Francisco—reverse skate—seven years ago. For instance, Evany and Jill mention taking Highway 50 across Nevada. Well, when I was putt-putting my U-Haul across country—reverse skate—I also took Highway 50 (it looked much shorter than the parallel I80 on the map. ha!).
When I first turned onto Highway 50, I was greeted by a sign that read, “Highway 50. The Loveliest Road in America.” How absolutely pleasant! And I have to say, it was lovely. All hilly with tall trees and totally not the desert that I would have expected (turns out most of 50 does shoot through a desert, but that’s not the section I was on).
I started down Highway 50 at sunset with maybe a quarter tank of gas. Soon it was dark, and I noticed that every town I passed—and there weren’t many—seemed closed for the night. But I pressed on, confident this lovely road would not let me down. And then I saw it.
Oh. Shit.
Of course I kept driving. Now it was pitch black. Now my gas gauge needle was comfortably resting in a horizontal position. Now I was swaying back and forth in a slight panic, as an AM talk radio show crackled through my U-Haul's one functioning speaker.
I hadn’t seen another pair of headlights in hours. Each town I passed was now off. I mean, it was as if there was an on/off switch to the whole damn town. And no all-night gas stations.
I guess the smart move would have been to pull over at a gas station, take a nap, and wait for morning. But it was cold, and I wasn’t thinking straight.
So I drove. To save gas, I crawled up each hill at 5 mph and coasted down the other side in neutral. Still swaying back and forth, I would alternately whisper encouragment to the U-Haul and scream epithets at the talk show host (I think the show was about bass fishing, a subject that rarely evokes stong feelings from me one way or another).
I drove THREE hours with the needle on empty. There was nothing. Just darkness, solitude, and … VEGAS, BABY!
Okay, not Vegas exactly, but close. Just as I reached the summit of the hundredth consecutive dark and silent hill, I was greeted by the glare of a bustling gambler’s paradise. With thousands of lights, lights, and more flashing, welcoming, glorious lights!
There was no gradual build-up. No suburbs. Just boom! One side of the hill was absolute oblivion; the other was casinos and gas stations featuring gas pump slot machines and college girls drunkenly “woo-ing” at my U-Haul. It felt like I had just passed through a sleestack portal from Land of The Lost.
Ah, memories.
You know, maybe my memory isn’t all that bad, after all. Maybe there are just a lot of things I've needed to block out.
…election update …
Qualification #5: I enjoy pomp almost as much as circumstance.
Campaigning in a local watering hole with my political advisor, Russ Duren. [note: I’ve started wearing my watch again. A sign of responsibility?]
Discharging the handgun of progress,
Steve Anacker
Sergeant at Arms 2008
