Drunken Zombies

Curious Memories from November 1997

My mind isn’t particularly interested in rehashing the milestone triumphs and tragedies that comprise the bulk of my remembered past. The blockbuster moments -graduations, births, deaths- are each as familiar as a Beatles song. They can be replayed for predictable emotional impact on demand.

The memories that keep knocking on my back door like drunken zombies come from obscure, curious or surprising incidents not attached to important life events. My theory is that these ill-defined and irregular impressions shape us more than we think. With crooked edges and Indy-movie complexity, they aren’t easily filed and forgotten.

Two memories from November 1997 have stayed with me. At the time, I was gearing up for a career in politics. I was a serial networker, former high school elected official and outstanding conversationalist. Post-Election Day I reached out to a guy a few years older than me who had just been elected mayor of a nearby city. We had mutual contacts in political circles. He accepted the invitation.

We sat down for lunch and hit it off. One day I’d likely be just like him — conquering the political landscape, adored.

Then a piece of bread lodged in my throat. At that time, I was suffering from a condition called dysphagia that causes food to stick half way down about once every 200 swallows. No choking but intense chest pain.

“Would you mind if I excused myself for a moment?” I asked. “I have something stuck in my throat,” He said sure. I stepped away and walked around the restaurant once.

The pain faded after a few minutes and I returned to the table. We picked up the conversation as if nothing had happened. I took a small bite of food. Once an episode passed, I was usually OK. This time the pain returned immediately.

“I’m so sorry, but I need another minute, do you mind if I step away to the bathroom?” He said sure, didn’t seem bothered at all.

I came back less than five minutes later and he was gone. He had eaten just a few bites of his food. I sat there for quite a while. He didn’t return, so I paid the bill and left.

I sent him an email explaining what happened and apologizing, but he never responded.

Maybe he thought I was a mentally unstable hypochondriac. Excusing myself for a second time triggered a deep paranoia, making him fear for his safety. Or perhaps he was a homophobe and thought I was a gay man looking for a rendezvous out in the alley. Or was there an additional element I’m not aware of? Did the waitress spill coffee in his lap and he didn’t want me to see him weeping? Did he spot his wife and her lover curled up at a corner table and now associates me with the dissolution of his marriage?

The most likely scenario is that he simply didn’t give a shit. The lunch bored him and he cut his losses when things got a little dreary.

1997 was indeed a dreary El Niño year. One rainy night in late November I was supposed to meet an old college friend for an alumni cruise on the San Francisco Bay. I was suffering from a bad cold and considered flaking. But I had committed and didn’t want to let her down, plus I might make some new connections. So I trudged down Market Street in my cheap Men’s Warehouse suit and boarded half wet and feeling miserable.

My friend never made it. Traffic. So in between nose blows I tried to make conversation with a bunch of fellow alums of various ages. No one wanted to talk to me, which I must have been imagining. I walked from group to group. The more I tried, the more I noticed strange looks and lack of enthusiasm.

I kept on talking — there was a group around me. A woman interrupted to let me know I had something on my cheek. I reached up and felt something.

To say that a piece of my brain was laying on my cheek would be an exaggeration. But it was the most substantial booger I have ever known by a large margin. How it even exited my nose is a mystery. My ears started ringing and blood drained from my face as if I were going into shock. I didn’t care that I had an audience, I needed to get this off me right now and I didn’t have a tissue.

I should round this story out with an uplifting memory. But the other thing about memories, at least for this guy, is that I tend to remember the darkly funny more than the wondrous & innocent. Makes sense. I’m not into kids movies. I’d rather be watching Breaking Bad. I’m sure some good stuff happened to me in November 1997, but it is much too boring to remember.

If these unsettling memories teach us something, what did I learn? Well, I never did become a politician. Maybe the callousness of the asshole mayor combined with the betrayal of my own body function at an extrovert-required moment was a turning point. Somewhere along the line I started dreaming of F. Scott Fitzgerald rather than Theodore Roosevelt.

In any event, I have new zombies knocking on my back door these days. I don’t mind thinking about the past, so I’ll let them in and put on a pot of coffee- as long as they don’t bore me.

If you liked this story, please hit the Recommend button and follow me on Medium. Check out some of my other stuff. The piece on Poland has been highly redacted but still smolders. For cheap thrills, follow me on Twitter @DanConway650.

Thank you for reading. I am truly honored that you got this far.