I never forget a face, and if only I could remember the names of the people they belong to, I’d go into politics. This particular age-related problem has reared its ugly head from time to time since I entered my forth decade.
We were having a sales blitz where I worked, people in from the home office teaming up with local employees to call on as many middle Tennessee companies as we could in three days. I was teamed with a marketing person, a woman I had met twice at corporate and had been introduced to again – when I wasn’t paying attention – at the Sales-Blitz-Kick-off-Happy-Hour-and-a-Half the night before we started.
The next morning, on the thirty mile drive towards a town teaming with sales potential, I suddenly realized that I couldn’t recall the woman’s name. Her face was easy; she was the spitting image of Charles Nelson Reilly. Nevertheless, her name was beyond me.
My plan came together on a state two-lane highway five miles from ground zero. We’d arrive at our first stop, and I’d say, “Hello, sir or ma’am, I’m Bob Fajardo with Nameless Corporation.” Then, I’d turn and gesture toward the mystery woman, raising my eyebrows expectantly. Immediately, she would smile and say, “And I’m Charlene Nelson Reilly.” Couldn’t miss.
Nobody at the five companies we called on before lunch learned her name, either, although she shook every available hand and flashed that patented Charles Nelson Reilly smile.
At lunch, I put some space between us and phoned my secretary, who didn’t flinch when I asked, “What it this woman’s name?” The rest of the day, I introduced both of us.
I attended college on the GI Bill as an adult. One night between classes, a very attractive blonde woman approached me in the hallway. “Bobby Fajardo,” she pronounced warmly, immediately placing herself not later than my high school life. Her face was familiar, and I was certain that her name would come to me momentarily. We chatted for a few minutes; she mentioned several people from my past.
There is a grace period of three to five minutes, beyond which you cannot ask a person with whom you are conversing who they are without appearing either rude or senile. I wore that grace period out, and spoke to the young woman for the rest of the spring quarter, and to this day I don’t know who she was.
One afternoon at the number one tee box of a local municipal golf course, I spotted a familiar face, a guy I had known in high school. I was sure of it. I stared for a few minutes, trying to recollect his name. Then he glanced over at me, and a look of recognition came to his face. It was almost enough to bring his name to my mind. Almost. I headed over to shake his hand, figuring his name would come to me as I approached, and it did. As I drew closer, he said, “I’ll bet you don’t remember me, do you?”
“Sure I do,” I said proudly. “You’re John Falstaff.” (a pseudonym)
“HELL no!” he snapped, and I remembered that in high school John Falstaff was a likable, honor roll nerd of the first order. The man told me his actual name, which escapes me right now, and shook my hand warmly anyway. The lesson here: never accuse anybody of being a likable nerd unless they have “Likeable Nerd” tattooed on their skinny arm.
On a snowy night some years later, I was walking towards the exit at a local mall. Coming through the door was a man I recognized from my youth. He was dressed like a cowboy, wool-lined buckskin coat, Levis, a worn black Stetson, and cowboy boots. Had to look twice to be sure he wasn’t wearing a side arm.
We made eye contact. He recognized me, too; I had to come up with a name. Now we were 20 feet apart. The name came to me: a classmate who had gone into rodeo after high school. He’d changed considerably, put on some weight, but it had been more than 30 years since I’d seen him. I extended my hand, and he did the same.
“Butch Berry!” I said.
He beamed and said, ‘How ya doing, Butch?”
Exhibiting pure brilliance, I said, “I’m not Butch. You’re Butch.”
But of course, he wasn’t Butch, either. His name was Bo Boyd, and he told me so.
Could be worse, I guess. If all I could remember were names rather than faces, I’d still be walking up to complete strangers saying, “Are you Butch Berry?”
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