The Rembis Report and Other Fascinating Topics - Volume XLI

I remember a lot of stuff.

April 06, 2022

I remember a lot of stuff.

I really do. I can recall conversations I had years ago like I had them today. Maybe not always word for word, but the gist of what we spoke of, and certain lines remain solid in my memory. I can remember faces that I have not seen in thirty or forty years. Not so good with names, though. I remember the people more than the names, but for many, I remember everything. Faces, names, what they wore, and especially, probably better than any other part of my recall, is what their voice sounded like. If you called me on the phone I would know you by your voice, even if I have not heard it for decades. I am certain of this.

I suppose I am lucky. I do not go to any great lengths to sharpen my recall. It just happens. But it is not complete. There are definite gaps. Times I spent with groups of people, I can remember a lot of them, and for some, I can solidly say who was there. For others, I can’t say for sure who they were. I remember people who said something, did something, maybe their build, hair color, but not the face, and the name is completely gone, if I even knew it at the time. So, they are like ghosts. They were real people who existed, who I interacted with, and they are somewhere out in the world, and I can’t say who they were or where they may be now, or whether or not I would recognize them if we met again.

I have worked over a hundred jobs and met thousands of people. I have had personal interactions with many people on a daily basis my entire life, as have we all, but not everyone stands out. Once in a while, however, a face comes to mind, and I can barely place it. I know I met them, but do not know who they are. I don’t even know what made me remember them. They are a distant memory, and that is all. No matter how I try to build upon it, I cannot make the memory come back completely, only fragments. That bugs me.

As much as I would like to think I have perfect recall and a steel-trap mind, I do not. The selectiveness of my memory is a mystery. Why do some things stand out more than others? Why are so many just bits and pieces? What have I lost altogether?

I am certainly not the only one asking these questions. With experience piling upon experience, with everything that has happened to us all, it is a wonder that our brains do not explode. Or would they implode? Either way, we all get a lot of information in the course of our lives.

Sometimes you run into somebody you haven’t seen for years, and you both agree that you recognize each other, but you can’t place each other. Did you actually ever meet? How did your brain play that trick? What forced that false familiarity?

When I lived in Libby Montana, a man, about my age, approached me at a gas station. He was so happy to see me. He could not recall my name but said it had been so long since we hung out. I did not know who he was.

I asked where and when we would know each other from. He mentioned a town in southern California where I supposedly lived and worked and hung out with him about ten years before. I assured him that whoever he thought I was, I was not. That was a bit sad. I was definitely not the guy. The stranger seemed so nice. He probably was a cool person to hang out with. Of course, we parted ways, and I never saw him again.

Another time, at another gas station, not too far from my home in Florida, I saw Stephen King pumping gas into a motorcycle, parked next to another motorcycle. There he was. In the flesh. The rarely disputed master of horror in American literature. The author of Pet Sematary, The Stand, The Shining, and Misery, a book with such graphic violence I tossed it on the floor when I got scared! This was it. My one chance to meet a living legend.

I approached, a bit starstruck, and asked “Excuse me, are you Stephen King?” thinking I would finally meet him and get a treasured long sought-after autograph.

He said I had the wrong guy and spoke with a heavy Maine dialect. “I get that a lot. But we are from the same town in Maine. I’m not related to him, and I never even met him.” He was kind enough and understood the mistaken identity, taking no offense. The man’s companion came out of the store and got on her bike. I pumped my gas and studied them.

Famed writer Stephen King is basically a household name and is recognizable to anyone who has paid attention to pop culture over the last fifty years. He has an exceptionally distinct look. You know who he is. So, when you see a guy who is the spitting image of Stephen King, it must be him, right? How could there be two of them if they are not twins? How can they sound the same?

It was uncanny.

I told some friends about my encounter, and according to hearsay, Stephen King vacations down here and has been spotted riding his motorcycle all over town.

I went to my computer to investigate. I looked at all the pictures I could find of Stephen King. He does ride a motorcycle! I watched some film clips so I could hear his voice. He sounded just like that guy! Then I saw a picture of his wife, Tabitha King, who also pens novels. I read one that I enjoyed and highly recommend, The Trap. She looked just like the lady on the other bike!

Then I knew the truth, or what I now believe to be the truth. Stephen King lied to me.

That was Tabitha and Stephen King. I’m sure it was, and he just didn’t feel like being a celebrity at that moment, that’s all. Or maybe Tabitha doesn't like him being an attention hog. I don't know.

So - What are you going to do about it, Mike?

Nothing. That’s what.

But I wonder if that guy remembers me. If I am wrong, and I concede that I may be, (but I’m not, it was him) I wonder if that guy remembers what I looked and sounded like. No matter who he was, did I make a lasting impression? Why does it matter?

It matters because it meant something to me. It is a part of my life that I can recall with clarity. I want to be remembered. I want to remember as much as I can, too.

You know how we can find people on the internet. People from our past are there. But some people are not. They seem to have completely disappeared. They are off the grid. Erased from existence.

Once in a while I find somebody from years ago, so I reach out and say hello. Sometimes we have a pleasant exchange, and sometimes, they do not know me.

I worked for a family business selling pots and pans in 1985-86. We drove around Florida and Georgia setting up phone rooms and running sales calls. It was a lot of fun. The patriarch, Red, had two sons, Warren and Dan. Dan was about ten years older than me, and Warren was about five years older. So, I hung out with Warren a lot, but not Dan. Young men in our 20’s, partying a bit, and selling pots and pans, we had a great time. When that job finally ended, I never saw Warren or anybody else from there again.

I found Warren on LinkedIn and made contact. We shared a volley of emails. He apologized and said he did not remember me. He seemed confused and concerned that I knew so much about him. I knew his Mom and Dad, his dogs, his brother and sister, the car he drove, all the places we sold Regal waterless cookware. It unnerved him. I felt bad. But I thought he would remember me. We rode and worked, spending hours a day together, for over a year. How do people forget?

They just do.

The disconcerting thing is that you start to wonder if it ever really happened.

I was surprised to hear about some of my favorite actors' loss of recollection.

Frankie Muniz, the titular star of Malcolm In The Middle, seems to have forgotten his seven seasons of work on that show. He had nine concussions. So, that could explain some of it.

Courtney Cox, who played Monica on Friends for a decade, barely recalls making that show. Two of her co-stars, Matthew Perry (Chandler) and David Schwimmer (Ross), also report losing memories. Matt LeBlanc (Joey) says he remembers almost everything.

It begs a question of consciousness. We have proof, the video footage to show that these people acted in these roles, so the physicality is indisputable. But, if one can not recall their own life, is it possible that their consciousness resides elsewhere in the universe?

Multiverse theory may be the answer. To keep it simple, the idea is that there are multiple dimensions all residing beside each other, overlapping in places. What happens here, happens there, to a degree. Remember, this is a wide reaching theory without absolute proof, but stay with me. What if consciousness reaches into other dimensions? Do false memories, or those we can’t exactly place, come from a parallel universe? What about the memories we should have? Like those filmed experiences we have absolute proof of? How did they become lost? Do those memories reside in another realm?

Heady questions, I know.

I just heard that Bruce Willis is stepping back from acting due to declining health. He has been diagnosed with aphasia. This language disorder results from brain damage and leaves the afflicted with an inability to effectively communicate.

Bruce Willis is one of the only actors I went to the theater for. The movies did not matter. It was always about Bruce. He is that likable fellow who is tough, funny, and not a bully. Like a big brother or uncle who gives you your first beer while offering some simple verbal lesson about respect. He always seemed to be that kind of guy. To hear that he is getting out of the business makes me treasure his work even more. I was shocked to learn about his decline and that he still made 22 movies over the last four years. I really had no idea.

Bruce will always be admired by myself and other fans. If not for him, I would have never tried my first Seagram's Golden Wine Cooler, what I still believe to be the greatest wine cooler recipe of them all.

So, again, while we know where Bruce is, where does his consciousness go?

Is it all physical? The human brain is the most complex thing we know of. But if memories do not stay in there, where do they go?

We may never find out, but I like to think that in another universe, we still have tasty wine coolers, Bruce is still kicking ass to rescue us, and all of our favorite actors have fond memories of their work. If that universe exists, maybe it is there that Stephen King is asking for my autograph, Warren remembers me, and that dude from California is one of my good friends.