Embarassingly, I am still unpacking things from my move. I just opened my last carton of books, in which I discovered The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul. Funnily enough, I had just been discussing that very book on Tuesday, because it has one of the best opening sequences in the history of the universe. So I flipped it open, only to discover that my college boyfriend had left a note on the flyleaf.
Memory is a funny thing; although we haven't seen each other in more than ten years, I immediately recognized the handwriting. Even before I looked at the date on the inscription, I was cast back to the cavernous apartment on 44th and Walnut where the miles of ancient hardwood flooring were practically innocent of furniture, but the walls were fully occupied storing vinyl, polycarbonate, and reconstituted tree pulp. There we sat for countless hours, wiling away a happy youth producing overflowing ashtrays and impassioned marginalia*. As the inscription itself bears the full charm of youthful book annotation, I herewith reproduce it:
Remember, every time you do something stupid, it will leave a memory with which you will have to live for fifty years. This is the great advantage of drinking to excess: memory loss.
But the real charm is the accompanying note:
[reword to snappy epigram]
* You see, back then, we were immortal. Also, cigarettes only cost $1.50 a pack.
Please tell me that wasn't me pulling that dumb stunt with the preposition. Most of what I've done in my life I can live with, but there I draw the line.
I'm afraid it was. 10/2/92.
Noooo! Well, thank God for Yuengling porter and memory loss...
That fall, Drum was $1.41 a bag at the CVS across Walnut from Penn. Or $1.47; I'm sure the last digit was a prime. Good times.
Oh, Odin, that was about the time I met my someday to be ex-wife... remembering stupidity like that doesn't begin to cover it... Memory is fine, and loosing in drink, as well. The time? you can never get it back.
When I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they
sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the
speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the
workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party
was in 1935
Back then we called nickels bees on account of them having Bees on 'em. "Gimme five bees for a quarter," you'd say. Now where were we? Oh--the important thing was, I had an onion on my belt--which was the style at the time.