WEBVTT

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I can't remember your name.

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Seriously, I really can't. If I

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run into you in public, please

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show a little mercy as I stammer

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around, pretending I do. There's

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a word for my particular

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affliction: lethonomia. No, no,

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this is not an episode of

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Spectacular Vernacular, though I

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can't resist telling you about

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this magnificent, obscure little

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word. Thanks to some dusty

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corner of my brain where high

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school Greek mythology went to

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die. I can tell you Lethe is one

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of the five rivers of Hades.

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Drink from its waters, and you

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forget your past. And the

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daughter of Eris, Lethe, is the

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goddess of forgetfulness and

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oblivion. Hey, you, back row,

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stop yawning. I promise this is

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leading to a good story, so hang

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in there. The second part, nomia,

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evolved from the Greek word for

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name, onoma. So, lethonomia —

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the inability to recall names.

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It's a very real condition. I

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know. I have it. My brain is a

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steel trap for useless trivia,

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such as the obscure word

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lethonomia, but a Teflon pan for

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the names of people I've met. I

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am insanely jealous of friends

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who are masters of recall.

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They'll bump into someone on the

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street, and launch into a full

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biographical update. Bob! Is

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that you? Man, it must be 40

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years. How's your wife Mary? And

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the kids? Jason, Tonya, Billy,

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and Sally? All this for someone

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they met once, briefly, at a

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sparsely attended art gallery

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opening in 1983. Me? I run into

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someone vaguely familiar in the

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grocery store and my brain

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becomes a dial-up modem from

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1995, screeching and sputtering

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as it tries to connect to a

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server that no longer exists.

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All I can manage is a panicked,

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"Oh hi, uh you." They'll give me

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a pitying look and say, "I'm

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George, your neighbor. We share

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a fence." I always claim it's a

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context thing. See, if I see

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George in his yard, wrestling

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with his rogue sprinkler head,

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I'll cheerfully call out,

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"Morning, George." Well, most of

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the time, I have been known to

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call him Gary or even Max. But

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put George in the dairy aisle,

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and he might as well be a

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complete stranger trying to sell

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me a timeshare. Worst of all, I

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can't even blame genetics. My

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father was one of those people

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who knew everyone's name. Some

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sort of black magic was at work.

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We'd be running errands in town,

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and he couldn't take ten steps

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without someone stopping him.

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He'd grin, clap them on the

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shoulder, and rattle off their

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names without a single bead of

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sweat. I was stumped. "How do

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you do that?" I'd ask.

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"Associate their name with

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something about them," he'd say.

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As if it were that simple.

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"Roger has red hair." See how

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easy that is? Sure enough, the

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next time I saw a man with red

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hair, I'd confidently blurt out,

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"Richard!" Figuring the R sound

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was close enough for government

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work. He'd roll his eyes. "It's

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Tim." One day, my father offered

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a huge confession. Sometimes, he

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admitted, "I don't have a clue."

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Aha! He's human! A shocking

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conclusion for any kid. "What do

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you do then?" "Make it easy for

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them," he'd say, "to tell you

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their name." He demonstrated

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when we ran across a forgotten

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acquaintance of his. He stuck

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out his hand and boomed, "Long

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time no see. I'm Don." The guy

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smiled and replied, "Hi, Don.

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Great to see you. I'm Jerome."

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Genius. Simple. Foolproof. So I

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tried it. I saw a familiar face

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at the office coffee machine. I

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stuck out my hand with practice

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confidence. "Hi. I'm Kirk." He

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looked at me with a blank,

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pitying stare. "I know. We've

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worked in the same office for

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three years." He'd walk away,

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leaving me hanging. To this day.

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I still don't know who he was.

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Which brings me to my story.

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After college, I joined one of

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those big international

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accounting firms. Prestige.

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Glamour. At least so it claimed

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in their recruiting brochures.

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One of their requirements was

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that we attended those

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after-work networking mixers —

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a personal circle of hell for

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someone with lethonomia. A room

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buzzing with forced gayety,

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smelling of ambition and

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lukewarm hors d'oeuvres. My only

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goal was to survive without

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trying to hand my business card

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to my own boss. Naturally,

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knowing my weakness, I

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gravitated toward events where

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participants wore name tags.

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There, at least, I had a

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fighting chance. Provided I

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recognized the person in the

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first place and realized I knew

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them, and their handwriting was

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legible, and the name tag wasn't

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flipped over or hidden under a

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lapel. After one such event, my

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social battery wasn't just low,

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it was leaking acid. All I

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wanted to do was go home and

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collapse on the couch with some

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junk food. But when I climbed

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into my poor car, parked in a

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remote corner of the parking lot

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so no one knew what a clunker I

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drove, I discovered my gas gauge

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was kissing empty. Desperate to

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get home and sulk in my personal

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cave, I pulled into the very

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first convenience store I saw, a

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place I had never entered. Now,

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for my younger fans, this

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occurred back in the prehistoric

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period before you could just tap

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a card at the pump and avoid

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human interaction. No, I had to

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go inside. I grabbed a dubiously

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constructed pastry—this was

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long before I started counting

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calories—and approached the

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counter. The cashier, a guy

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about my age, was engrossed in a

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magazine. He looked up as I

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approached, and his face lit up

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as if he had just seen a winning

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lottery ticket walk through the

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door. Well, I'll be, he said,

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his voice full of genuine

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delight. Kirk, how are you doing?

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I froze. My mind was a snow

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globe of forgotten faces,

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floating in a haze of memory.

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Nothing. Not a flicker of

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recognition. I couldn't even use

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my father's trick, not that it

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had ever worked. He had already

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called me by my name. I fell

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back on my trusty, pathetic

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standby. Oh, hi. Good to see you.

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He shook his head, still beaming.

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Man, it's been a long time, Kirk.

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Twice. He called me by name.

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Twice. Without a hint of

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hesitation. Meanwhile, I was

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drowning in a sea of anonymity.

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Yeah, I mumbled. It's been ages.

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I can't believe high school was

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so long ago, he sighed wistfully.

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Aha! A clue! I deployed another

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of my father's tactics.

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Association. Oh, yeah.

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Especially that one class we had.

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What was that teacher's name

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again? I asked, hoping for a

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memory jog. He laughed. Which

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one? Seemed like we had every

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class together. I was now

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hopelessly lost. Frantically

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racking my brain. If only this

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were a corporate chain

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convenience store where he'd be

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wearing a uniform and a name tag.

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But no such luck. Just jeans and

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a t-shirt. He kept jabbering as

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if we were long lost best

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friends. Hey, have you heard

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from Maria? I haven't seen her

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in forever. Maria? I wasn't sure

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I remembered a Maria. But that

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didn't mean she didn't exist. I

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didn't have time to resolve that

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mystery because he continued to

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fire names at me like a verbal

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machine gun. Barbara? Mike? Pam?

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Brent? I just shook my head. My

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panic rising with each mention

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of some forgotten classmate.

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Desperate to escape, I paid for

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my gas and my pastry. He rang up

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the sale but paused as he

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tortured me with another

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remember when story. When he

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finally handed me my change, the

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transaction was complete. I had

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my freedom. It was great seeing

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you, I said, already turning to

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flee. Hey, Kirk, he called out.

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Before you go. I turned back.

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Bracing myself. He pointed a

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finger at my chest. A huge grin

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spreading across his face. You

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really should take that thing

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off when you leave. Confused, I

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looked down. Stuck to my suit

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was a name tag from the

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networking event. Proudly

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displaying my name in large

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block letters — Kirk.

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He had me. Hook, line, and

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sinker. I can still hear his

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laughter echoing in that little

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store. You know what I did? I

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laughed with him. It didn't

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matter I was the butt of the

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joke. It was hilarious. Utterly

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brilliant. Perfectly played. He

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reached out for a handshake, a

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peace offering, to assure me it

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was all in fun, and uttered

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words I'll never forget. Thanks

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