Late, Late

Julie turned towards us her pretty face marred by a strand of thick red vomit clinging to her hair like connective tissue on an open cadaver. Given the extenuating circumstances I think the three of us behaved in an entirely blameless manner that night—damsel in distress and such.

Studies of subjective reports of memory show that memories of highly significant events are unusually accurate and stable over time. A fact, which I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out, that seems to stand in stark contrast to my earlier reference to the hippocampus. Last thing to keep in mind here, according to the APA it’s impossible for a patient to distinguish between a repressed memory and a false one. Thus, you can suffer a delusion that you’re now remembering something that actually happened when in fact, you’re remembering nothing.

The three of us made our way over to the railing and looked down at the frat guys, who, upon our arrival, began making indelicate remarks about portions of our reproductive systems and related claims as to our upcoming diets. Not the sort of thing I’d repeat here. Again, imagine the contortions that the best of Bosch’s folks are engaging in, and you’ll have some idea of the proffered threats.

Telling them that the Pinot Noir was free of charge did nothing to curb their enthusiasm for violence. Pearls before swine, right?

Steve wandered back to the table and began waxing eloquently about the risks of imbibing cheap liquor. Jerry and I remained at the railing, surveying the guys below who were hunched over like football players. “Watch the play clock,” I yelled. “Get the damn thing snapped.” Jerry asked for a time out and threw down a mock clipboard.

This is only to indicate that I had no intention of doing what psychologists suggest. I did not intend to engage in any activity that would cause me to recall a repressed memory. I’m partial to the term motivated forgetting.