Monday, 25 July 2005 | Memory

On Saturday it took three separate trains (and a detour into Manhattan) to get from one part of Brooklyn to another. Along the way, I met a man named Reggie. We had a brief exchange on the second train, and we began conversing while waiting for the third—first, about trains and schedules (polite) and then about cities and personal histories (tangible). He was surprised that I knew the name of the small North Carolina town where he'd spent some time, and I was surprised that he also used to live in Raleigh, not too far from me. He flashed me his North Carolina driver's license as proof.

Reggie had a small build and an angular face; I could see the shape of his skull underneath his dark skin, the bones of his cheeks protruding like they wanted to escape. The whites of his eyes were cloudy and dark, and his hair was braided in neat cornrows that gathered at the nape of his neck. He looked kind of worn, but came across as friendly and attentive.

When our train arrived, we sat beside each other on a bench, and he told me about a bad car accident he'd had in 1995. The accident stole his memory for an entire 8 months, he said. (In the hospital, they kept asking him, "What's your name? What's today's date? Who's President?", to which he'd reply, "Y'all know I don't remember. So stop asking me.") He'd also lost his short-term memory, and would regularly forget what had happened the day before, or even that morning.

I asked him if losing his memory was sad or scary. He said No, but that his family and friends were upset by it. Friends would come up to him on the street and he wouldn't know who they were. His mother tried to jog his memory by showing him photo albums and taking him to childhood places, but nothing registered as being familiar. In fact, because his family seemed like strangers to him, they made him uncomfortable, so he returned (alone) to his apartment in New York. When his memory finally did return, it came flooding back in one piece, bringing with it a massive migraine headache.

The details of the accident itself came to him differently—little by little, and unfolding in dreams. Once his subconscious (sleepy) mind gave him all of the pieces, his conscious (awake) mind knew the complete story. He was on the Jersey Turnpike when a car hit him, causing his automobile to slam into another one.

When my stop neared, I briefly considered staying on the train to continue our conversation, but instead I gestured toward the door, to communicate without interrupting him. We spent the last 30 seconds going through the formality of trading names and shaking hands, and saying something about how we hope to run into each other again. We meant it, but we won't, of course.