Faces Without Names

Thanks to a nice removal of a chunk of my temporal lobe almost two years ago, I suffer from a disorder entitled, "I-cant-remember-who-you-are-despite-having-seen-you-on-multiple-occasions" syndrome. Frustrating, embarrassing, often pathetic when I am misplacing the first names of former teachers or co-workers or little sisters.

The Swede knows all about this. The Swede is one of, if not my best friend. He has been through the thick and thin of my life. Enjoyed the seizure moments, the Tamsy terrors, and the rolled golf carts. He knows me better than my future wife ever will. A great man, to which I owe more than a blogpost will ever be able to repay him for.

One of the most unique things about The Swede, a.k.a. Arizona Weezer, is that the man has an impeccable memory. He puts Ken Jennings to shame with the useless amount of information stocked up in his noggin. The names that this kid pulls out of his magician's hat has blown me away, illustrated by conversations such as this.

Me: "Remember that one night we went to that one restaurant after seeing that one movie, and that nice old waitress was talking about her daughter?"

The Swede: "Oh, you're talking about that night we went to Denny's after seeing Transformer's 2, and our waitress was advertising her daughter Alyssa, who's a showgirl at Little D's, down in Vegas. Yeah, our waitress's name was Shirley. She was sweet."

Me: With slackjawed/open mouthed/WTF look across my face. "Yeah, her."

The Swede has a gift, I'll give it to him. A gift that often times I have abused in public situations when I forget the name of a former classmate while standing in line at the movie theatre. A girl who's blogalias shall be Atlanta Braces. A girl who I spent EVERY SINGLE DAY with for two straight years, and could not for the life of me remember what we all called her.

Atlanta Braces: "Oh Hi Brock! How are you? It has been so long!"

Me: "Oh...Hi, uh, how are you...uh..." followed by tranced look to The Swede in hopes that his memory juggling will resurrect her lost I.D.

The Swede: "Brittany, how are you?! It's been so long!"

Me: Surprised, yet relieved. "Yeah, Brittany! Wow, you look great! How's work in wherever nowadays?"

This is just one of many instances in my life when this embarrassing situation has happened. And sad to say, The Swede is gone. He has moved out of my life. To Albuquerque, or Astoria, or Arizona, somewhere that starts with an A, I know that for sure. But since his absence, I have pulled more first-name foul-ups than Wilt Chamberlain had maiden's in the press room. I am a fool!

Rock Steady: "Brock! Dang, how are you?"

Me: "Good...uh, friend, how's life? It's been a bit, hasn't it?"

Rock Steady: "Dude, this is your roommate Bryan. We've lived together for a year now."

Me: With slackjawed/open mouthed/WTF look across my face. "Yeah, I knew that. I knew that." Fade to awkward silence.


OR


Random Face: "Brock my boy! How is St. George?"

Me: "I like it down here...uh...how is...uh...where...you...uh...live...?"

Random Face: "Son, this is your Mom."

Me: With slackjawed/open mouthed/WTF look across my face. "Yeah, I knew that."

So I forget people, alot of people. Ok, everyone I have ever met. Am I insensitive for not remembering who you are? Am I a shallow jerk who can only remember your actual name if I had The Swede on my shoulder whispering it into my ear? Alright, I probably am. I just hope that whoever settles down with me has a memory nearly as flawless as that great man from Gunnison. If I don't, I'll forget which one of my own kids that I'm going to ground.