Memories

There are indeed times when I don’t remember what happened, but not that evening.

On a recent visit to a city North of me, we wandered into a restaurant. It was there that I saw the sign. Oh, oh. After being seated, I made an excuse to use the restroom. As I remembered, it was down the corridor past the kitchen. 

There it was, the list, on a bulletin board. Prominently near the top, in faded ink, was an old Polaroid photo held up magnetically. Scribbled in red ink across it: Wes Carson Banned for Life! My heart accelerated, and I smiled. There I was, handlebar mustache, big D-ring engineer boots, and a shit-eating grin. In those days, the three were the uniform of the day! One of the cooks went by. He looked at me, then glanced at the photo before entering the kitchen. I took a final glance at the photo and sighed; good times.

Back at the table, we ordered, were served, and enjoyed a good meal. The only thing marring the experience was the studious glances from an older gentleman about my age standing behind the bar. He had the look of a man trying to remember something. My mind returned to attempting a mambo with Sadie on the same mahogany bar—were those marks on the surface scars from my boots?

Noticing my glances, the gentleman took a closer look at me. Well, years older, heavier, and with no mustache, I doubted I’d be recognized. But to be safe, I hurried my little group along, paid the bill, and started the trudge up the stairs to the street.

“Excuse me, sir!” there he stood, Polaroid in hand. I took command of the situation and put on my best Sean Penn attitude. “Please! No one knows I’m in town! Do you know how tiresome it is to have the paparazzi mobbing you?” I gently nudged my wife along a little faster. At the foot of the stairs, a perplexed restaurant owner looked at the photo and looked at me, doubt painted across his features.

We emerged into the sun and rapidly moved away from the memories, and into a nearby gift shop.