Which Way is Hot?
I can’t remember which way is hot. In the shower. I used to know this, of course, and probably I still do. But recently I’ve been getting in the shower and can’t remember which way to turn the thingy to make the water hotter or colder. Perhaps it’s because we’ve been away for a few weeks over the holidays. After all, I’ve experienced three or four foreign showers since before Christmas. Perhaps this is just a period of readjustment I’m going through with my own shower.
But that’s not all. Lately, I find myself engaged in conversations fully knowing the word I want to use to express myself succinctly, but not able to summon it. I can almost see the word. I can practically hear it – positively taste it. “Ooh, what’s the word I’m looking for,” I say. Then, to cover, I talk around it with a pseudo-crafty definition or synonym. It’s only later that the word comes crashing into my head. A little too late, of course, to call up the person I was talking to and explain. “What I meant to say earlier was extrapolate – ‘when we extrapolate this line of thought…’ not, ‘when we carry on our merry way strolling down this path of thinking.’” Urg.
At almost 39 years of age I can hopefully rule out early onset Alzheimer’s or other equally terrifying clinical diagnoses, although that sort of thing does run in my family. Perhaps I’m just distracted. There’s a lot of stuff clattering around in my brain these days. Always was, probably, but these days I seem to spend an inordinate amount of time trying to piece it all together. The stuff. Why have I always thought that? Is this what caused me to behave that way? Perhaps that’s not really what I’ve wanted all along. Maybe, if I just did this instead of that, things would be better. Or maybe that’s not it at all. No, that’s not it. What I really need to do is buy a puppy. Or a pony.
OK, distracted. Let’s go with that.
But distracted doesn’t explain Liam Neeson. No. Liam Neeson – tall Irish actor many of whose film credits I can recite by heart. Liam Neeson, whose face I can see and whose voice I can hear clearly in my head after watching the most recent Star Wars installment, The Revenge of the Sith. You know, Qui-Gon Jinn, Jedi master and teacher to Obi-Wan Kenobi. Hell, I even ran into the man and his wife, er, what’s-her-name, at a restaurant in L.A. a few years back. But his name, along with his wife’s, apparently, is locked up in a little room in my brain with a sign reading, “Do Not Disturb.”
Four hours later during an interminable game of The Settlers of Catan – wham – it comes to me without warning. “Liam Neeson,” I blurt out. And then, as if by way of further explanation, “Liam Neeson!” Blank stares all around. “What about him?” asks my wife. “He’s a tall Irish actor who was in Star Wars,” I say. More blank stares. Craig, who as the best man in my wedding already knows I’m strange, rolls the dice and announces he’s upgrading a settlement to a city. The moment passes and, thankfully, no additional clarification is required, or for that matter wanted.
Distracted. Yeah, right. Try telling that to Emma Thompson, who I’m sure would be mortally offended if she knew that I couldn’t remember her name last week as I traveled home on the train from New York.
It started with an attempt to recite the names of my five favorite films. Not out loud of course, that would just be odd. To myself – in my distracted head. I made it to the forth, Kenneth Banagh’s Henry V, a fantastically acted and very cheaply produced rendering of Shakespeare’s classic. Then, much to my delight, I managed to summon the fifth, The Tall Guy, starring Jeff Goldblum and…and…Shit! How can I not remember the female lead? I’ve only watched the film about eighty times. Terrific actress… Remains of the Day, Carrington, Peter’s Friends (although that one was truly terrible).
So there I sat, facing backwards on the Metro North as we pulled out of Chappaqua station and slid towards Mount Kisco, not able to remember the name Emma Thompson. Emma, whose love scene with Goldblum in this movie is among the most memorable ever put on film. Emma, whose repressed English manner comes so exquisitely undone at the end of Sense and Sensibility that it never fails to bring me to tears, too. Emma, once married to the star of my number four film, Ken Branagh… Ha! Wait a moment. “Ken and Em, Ken and Em!” I repeat over and over to myself – this time out loud prompting a few disapproving looks from the commuting suits around me. “Ken and Em!” I say again, retreating into my distracted brain. “Em… Emma! It’s Emma. I’m sure it’s Emma. OK, I’m almost sure it’s Emma. Em… Em… Emily. Amelia. Shit. No, it must be Emma.”
The train happily announces, “Katonah!” as I flash back to my first love, Emma Flynn. Ahhh, Emma Flynn. Nine years old, blonde hair, and stunningly beautiful, Emma lived around the corner on Shrewsbury Road and was, quite frankly, out of my league. I recall my awkward attempt to woo her when, to profess my undying affection, I wrote a sad story of unrequited love in chalk along the curb of Silverdale Road. This, as I had cunningly planned, immediately got back to its intended target. Emma Flynn, who’s name I actually remember all these 30 years later, already tiring of my oblique advances, decided I was truly – an idiot.
“Golden’s Bridge,” the train somewhat more glumly announces. One more stop to go. Crap! I think. If I can’t remember Emma Thingy’s name, she’ll think I’m an idiot too. I imagine all the Emma’s in the world coming to the same conclusion. “Hello, I’m former Spice Girl Emma Bunton, and you’re an idiot.” Christ! Talk about distracted. I shake it off.
Right, that’s it. This is totally ridiculous. If I can’t remember Emma’s name by the time we get to Purdys I’m not getting off the train. I’ve got four minutes. Come on. Come on. Emma… Emma… Emma… Nothing. I mean it – I’m not getting off. I’ll go all the way to Southeast if I have to. Hell, I’ll even catch a connecting train to Wassaic.
“This station stop is Purdys.” Shit. I chicken out and jump off the train. Emma… Emma… Bitterly disappointed with my lack of commitment, I head for home. Emma… Emma… I repeat as I walk across the bridge over interstate 684. Then, as suddenly as Liam Neeson can interrupt a game of The Settlers of Catan, it hits me. Thompson. “Thompson!” I yell at the north-bound traffic. “It’s Emma Thompson!” The steady stream of rush hour SUVs seems surprisingly unmoved.
If I’d stuck to my guns I’d probably be in Croton Falls by now. Perhaps even Brewster. Instead, I’m walking into the hamlet of Purdys, established 1763, and feeling more distracted than ever. Now that I can remember both their names, I wonder if Liam Neeson and Emma Thompson ever made a film together. But as I turn into the driveway, my mind is unable to come up with the 2003 romantic comedy, Love Actually.
Defeated, I turn the key to the apartment. I’m greeted by Milo and Bennett, our two aging cats. I take some solace in the fact that I remember their names. Perhaps I’ll take a shower. That’ll make me feel better. Now, which way is hot?