Tell Me a Story

Out of all the experiences of all the days of my life so far, it's undoubtedly the ones that make satisfying stories that are capable of being remembered.

Sure, there are momentary scenes lodged in the gray matter — why do I remember stopping at an A&W Root Beer place somewhere out west, how we stepped in out of the blistering heat, how the heavy glass mugs were pulled out of the freezer, how beneath the creamy head were flecks of ice floating on the bubbly fluid? That's it.

But how much more satisfying is the tiny story of how we searched for an A&W in some western town (Henry can name it, I bet — or Bill), driving the wrong way down Main Street in the process and pulling over to ask a stranger for directions and my voice cracking — in an echo of puberty or from thirst — as I shout, "Do you know where we can find some rooøøtbeer?" And how Bill and Henry laughed at and imitated me for days.

Constitutionally, it seems, we're all fundamentally storytellers. I hear it at work all the time. Folks call for help with their iPhone, but they seem incapable of simply stating the symptom. It always comes wrapped in a narrative: "I traveled outside the country and now my iPhone won't ring."  Invariably the ringer/silent switch on the side has been flipped. I'm still waiting for the inevitable "I witnessed an eclipse and now my iPhone won't ring."

I remember hearing about an experiment in which, first, a red spot was projected onto the wall of darkened room. Then that light was turned off and a green spot was shown a few feet to the right. Subjects were asked to describe what they had seen. With a few seconds between the events, the common answer was "A Red light went on and then off over there and then a green light came on and went off over _there._" Then the scientists reduced the space between the two events a little at a time -- with new subjects at each increment. At a certain point the description changed. Now the common response was, "A red light came on and then shot over there and turned green."

Narrative. No escaping it.

 I must've had lunch 1,000 times in the plumbing snake factory lunchroom back in the 70s, usually reading a book and half listening to my fellow workers' conversations. Yet the only day that readily comes to mind is the one on which I overheard old white-haired, soft-spoken Bill Brown say, "You know, I think if my brother came through that door right now I'd kill him. All. Over. Again."

More stories coming tomorrow!

G'night.