Back when I was a man....

One of the continual surprises of my life is the memories that other people have of me.

I don't get to hear about them very often; largely because I'm always pretty sure that I don't WANT to really know about them. You hope, as everybody does, that those memories that people have of you would be of good quality, but you fear that in a previous incarnation of your current personality, you were, in essence, and a***ole.

I'm connected enough with myself to know that I have a***olian tendencies.

I'm a gentleman enough to know when to apologize for it. Sincerely. My own a***olian quality can bring tears to my own eyes.

This is all brought about by a couple of encounters with old friends; old girlfriends, brought back into the sphere by the dreaded Facebook. And I instigated those connections, because I have memories of them that are so dear, they are actually kept in a small, solid gold box on the mantle of my memory.

Memories are often coated with the fairy-dust of forgetfulness, as well; the bad tends to be muted somewhat, in favor of the good. It's the good that shines out...so perhaps the metaphor is better as Bon-Ami, rather than fairy-dust. The Bon-Ami clears away the tarnish, leaving the shine.

I have always been at my best when my heart is full. I don't think that's uncommon, really, at least among the people with which I populate my world. I can't think of a single friend of mine that's phoned it in when the chips were down, or walked away when there was blood or sweat or tears flowing.

One of those people that recently fell back into the Clemorbit has recently shared a story that I find uplifting; and would probably be more uplifting if I wasn't a party in the story....and still more if I could remember it. But, apparently, I had a conscience and sense of right and wrong, even when I was in my "blackout" period.

It goes something like this:

We went at each other like unfriendly cats.

We really had no reason to do so, but it was one of those things; maybe it was a territory thing. Maybe it was that our individual scents reminded us of people who did us wrong in a previous life. Maybe the look in your eye at that particular time made me think that you were a jackass. Maybe you thought I tanked an audition reading we had done together. The initial reason is only prologue.

We did not care for each other.

And our lives revolved around that no-man's land; we went to the same parties, but never in the same room. We went to the same table at lunches, but never the same end, or even the same side. We would acknowledge each other's presence, but in a kind of grudging way that indicated to everybody in the surrounding area that if we were to touch, we could very well annihilate everything around us.

And then, he broke up with her, and she was devastated.

It was the kind of devastation that you try to hide, but like the floodwaters behind the dike, that sadness would seep out through the well-hidden seams of her outward appearance.

And on one particular day, after that breakup, I was walking past an office, and there she was, sitting between two desks, head down.

I walked by.

Stopped.

Sighed.

And walked back.

I didn't say anything; I just sat down next to her. There are times to speak, and times to keep your mouth shut. A broken nose and several chipped teeth have taught me the difference.

And I sat there for an hour, as she put her head on my shoulder and cried.

After that, I walked her home through the Illinois evening, and she talked it out. And I nodded my head, and occasionally asked a question to clarify, and let her vent.

The hug she gave me when we came to her house would have cracked a rib if it had been December instead of September. And she tried something else, but I gently extricated myself from the encounter. Gently. With a kiss on the forehead.

And I walked away.

For the next two years, we still went to the same parties, but still wound up in different rooms. She met a very nice fellow, and turned out to be very happy for the extent of our mutual orbit. But there was no feel-good-movie-of-the-year bond between us.

But apparently, the memory stayed fresh until a few days ago, when she jump started my memory of the event.

And I bask, briefly, in the glow of someone else's memories of me.

One more chit. I may get into Heaven yet.