Death in a Restaurant
No, it’s not what you think. I wasn’t poisoned or shot by a waiter gone postal, nothing like that. This was purely self-inflicted.
Or was it?
On a recent Saturday night, Penny and I went into a small restaurant, a lovely little spot just near Whistler. As went in, a woman on the far side of the restaurant seemed to notice us, with a look of familiarity. She was sitting with what appeared to be her husband and son. Penny remarked on it, and as we sat down, the woman waved and smiled at me. I was immediately flustered. I didn’t recognize her, I’m socially shy at the best of times and worse, I have terribly poor recall for faces and names.
But, thinking it would be rude not to acknowledge her, I crossed the floor to their table, leaving Penny behind in my rattled haste. Racking my brain, I simply came up empty – who the heck was she? It seemed likely that I had met her through work, or the neighbourhood, or something and that her identity had simply slipped out of my sieve-like brain. I was hoping for some kind of clue that would trigger a recall, and as I neared the table my sociophobe mode was in full control.
The conversation that followed I can remember only in snippets. She asked me if “you guys” were up for the weekend.
“You guys”? I can’t explain it, but this sounded like someone from long ago. Aargh, was I going to have to launch into an explanation about the changes in my life over the past few years. Or was that a false clue?
I replied with a few clues about me: something about spring break, a week off work, kids and having been at Whistler for a week. How about them?
She had been up in Penticton seeing her father. Father in Penticton? No help, I’m afraid.
In a clever tactical mode, I turned to her (presumably) husband and introduced myself by first name. He shook my hand and replied “Hi”.
Strike two.
Feeling desperate now, I turned to the (presumably) son, who the (presumably) mother introduced as Connor.
Connor? No help there, either. Strike three. No option but to get outta there as soon as possible.
We rattled on with a few more pleasantries, discussed the snow level and the weather generally (we’re Canadian after all), and then I said goodbye and re-crossed the floor back to our table. It lasted all of about a minute, and felt like a year. I felt like a complete imbecile, cursing my soggy cardboard box of a memory and wondering if I’d managed to make a complete fool of myself.
As I sat down and told my woes to Penny, she gently reminded me that I had abandoned her at our table. Sorry, babe.
Later, Penny watched as the trio paid their bill and left, noting that they did not wave or acknowledge us, but more or less bolted out of the restaurant.
At that point it occurred to me that they just wanted to get away, or…had the mistake been at their end? What if they had mistaken me for someone else, and halfway through our conversation realized with horror that I was not the person I thought. And none of us had the chutzpah to admit that we had no clue to the identity of the other.
I had the waiter look up the name on the credit card receipt, and it was not a name I recognized. Hmm, while that was a small relief, it was still inconclusive unfortunately (hey, I can forget practically anything). I told Penny that it would have been a total relief and blessing if the mystery woman had come over and apologized for the mix-up, and we could all laugh and share the relief.
No such luck. What is it about us that we can carry on with ghastly smiles while we’re dying inside, instead of simply shrugging our shoulders with an embarassed grin and saying “sorry, I should be able to place your face, but I just can’t”.
I’m sure that there is a memory deficiency syndrome that has an impressive name and that would explain away our vacuousness. It doesn’t have to imply stupidity on our part. I relayed my experience to a colleague, an extremely bright and accomplished CEO of her own firm, and she admitted it happens to her all the time.
So, mystery woman, whoever you are, I’d like to apologize not only for my forgetfulness, but also my inability to simply admit that’s what happened.
So, c’mon readers, put your imaginations to work. What can we call this , what is a name to trot out when our recollection skills fail us? “Memory processing disorder”? “Failed recognition syndrome”? “I-have-many-important-things-to-remember-and-you-didn’t-make-the cut condition”?
Help me out here. It could save us all from a fate worse than death.
