But one of the more interesting things about life is how the cards you’re dealt change over time.
And how important the plays are.
I was reminded of this last week when, a month from turning 68, my pea brain couldn’t come up with the name of a person at the library I used to stop in on regularly during my full time reporting days.
Those days ended a dozen years ago, so it’s the kind of thing that can happen. It’s part of a syndrome not limited to the aging that a friend long ago described as CRS, for Can’t Remember … well, Stuff would be the unscented version.
I didn’t worry that it was more than a momentary block because, at my last doctor’s visit, I passed the little memory quiz they give seniors these days. Minutes after given the information, I was able to remember not only Mr. Brown’s name and house number but that he lived on West Main Street, not East. And the nurse agreed to give Mr. Brown my best regards.
Still, on my Grandpa Frustration Scale, CRS ranks right up there with the recording telling me that the wait time for the next customer service associate incapable of helping is approximately 39 minutes, then twists the knife by saying “all calls are answered in the order in which they’re received.”
Really? Can’t you just toss me a bone and move me up in line? Who’s gonna know? Your supervisor’s always drunk, for God’s sake.
All this explains, as best can be explained, why, after checking out a book, I was sitting on a bench in the Clark County Public Library’s entry hallway last week, staring at the floor, hoping it would reveal to me Alice’s last name.
My reasoning was sound: Alice walks over that floor every day, which means the floor should know it. And since my tax money paid for the floor, coughing up her name was the least it could do.
But after the floor won the staring contest and failed to respond when I threatened to vote against the next library levy, I braced myself the humiliation. Approaching the book return desk, I cagily asked the receptionist to let Alice know I’d like to see her.
A quick search didn’t turn up an Alice.
One of the reason is that the receptionist is relatively new. The second is that her name isn’t Alice.
Having discovered that the hard way, I girded my loins for further humiliation and asked to see the library’s the public relations person.
BINGO!
When the receptionist said the words Allison Peck name, I awarded myself partial credit for Alice while feeling two things simultaneously. One was the pleasure that comes from someone scratching that unreachable spot in the middle of my back when it’s in mondo itch. The other was the jolt that arrives when a huge white glove escapes from a classic cartoon, slaps you upside the head and shouts: “Ya BIG dummy!”
Allison soon emerged through security doors with a big smile on her face. Once back in the office where we’d had so many fun conversations, we had another. Her bright personality and laugh hadn’t changed, and I left a happier person, confident that the embarrassment would come out in the wash just like the food I slop on to my shirts.
Fast forward to last Sunday, when I’m swapping lies with the usual suspects in the Sunday breakfast gang. While the other half of the group is focused on something else, three of us are involved in our own meaningless but gripping conversation about CRS that itself produced a CRS moment.
It involves a lyric from a Beatles hit of 1968.
With the lyric in hand, we reach for phones smarter than to chase down the title.
This technological advancement that makes it unnecessary for those of us with CRS to cut off the tips of our tongues, where we all wrongly thought the data was once stored.
I’m proud to announce that Sunday, powered by the half gallon of Celtic Grog engorging it, my pea brain came up with the title: “Hey, Jude.”
More interesting, was the lyric my pea brain had pulled out while the conversation about CRS was unfolding.
“Don’t you know that it’s a fool who plays it cool by making his world a little colder?”
It was a lyric that told me I had played my cards right.
Had I played it cool, I would have avoided a tiny embarrassment, yes; but my world would have been a little colder because I hadn’t refreshed my friendship with Allison and because I’d have walked away regretting that I hadn’t.
So, I’m asking you all to do two things.
1. Fight through your embarrassment so you can stay connected with your buds.
2. If you see her, say hi to Alice for me.
About the Author