No thanks for the memories
I fixed my best friend with a baleful glare. “There’s no two ways about it,” I snapped. “You are a memory rapist.”
“I am not!”
“Yes you are,” I replied. “A filthy memory rapist.”
Why am I hurling the epithet “memory rapist” at my best friend? For the answer, we must back up precisely 37 paragraphs, to the beginning of this sordid tale.
* * *
There I was, hanging out around a cheery campfire with my lifelong pal Conan and a few Americans. Conan was telling the group a humorous anecdote from his childhood, which went something like this:
Once upon a time Vancouver hosted Expo ’86, a five-month world’s fair that attracted millions of visitors from around the globe. And it was at this event that a 12-year-old Conan found himself standing on a catwalk directly above Canada’s prime minister, Brian Mulroney. In Conan’s hand was an orange slushie. In a moment of diabolical inspiration he considered pouring the drink on the prime minister’s head—but he was indecisive, the PM walked away, and the opportunity was lost forever.
There was a murmur of pleasure around the campfire, and everyone agreed that Conan should have poured his drink, thus becoming one of the only people in history to pour an iced beverage on the head of a head of state. Conan’s anecdote had been a resounding success.
However, I was not impressed. Not because it wasn’t a nice anecdote, because it was. The problem was that the encounter he described hadn’t happened to him. It happened to me. My so-called best friend had baldfacedly stolen a favourite story from my childhood and claimed it as his own. Right to my face, no less!
Not wanting to make a scene, I sat on my recriminations for the rest of the evening. But the moment I had him alone, I pounced.
“You bastard,” I said.
“Huh?”
“I can’t believe it. I can’t believe you stole my ‘Brian Mulroney at Expo’ story.”
“What?”
“You know exactly what you did, you nasty little man. You said it was you who had the chance to pour a drink on Mulroney. And you know full well it was me.”
“What the hell are you talking about? It happened to me, Glen. I remember it clearly.”
I stared at him, shocked. As hard as it was to accept, I could see that Conan was unaware that he had stolen my story. He sincerely believed it had happened to him. Wow. This was a whole different ball game. How do you tell a dear friend he has a false memory? I decided to break it to him gently.
“You’re a fucking idiot, Conan. That story happened to me, not you. I told you about it years ago, and now it’s fucked around in your memory so you think it happened to you.”
“Oh, come on,” he snickered. “Don’t be stupid.”
“Okay, fine. I’ll prove it.”
He laughed, as if I were mad. “How?”
“By trapping you in your own web of lies,” I replied. “Tell me the rest of the story, memory man. Where exactly were you when you encountered the prime minister?”
“Um, I’m not sure,” he said. He frowned, perhaps a bit surprised that he couldn’t remember.
“Aha!” I shouted. “I’ll tell you where it happened. It was at the IMAX theatre. My family was lined up on an outside walkway waiting to be let into the lobby, and Mulroney and his family walked right under us.”
“Really,” said Conan, unconvinced.
“Really.” I replied. “Tell me more. How long was Mulroney standing under you? And how did he come to be there in the first place?”
“He was there a long time,” Conan said. “He was coddling a baby.”
“What horse shit!” I chortled. “This proves it’s a fantasy. Isn’t it just a bit too perfect that you remember him doing something so phony and stereotypical? Brian Mulroney, the freakin’ prime minister of Canada, just happened to take time out of his day at Expo ’86 for an extended session of baby coddling, with you and your slushie right overhead? Yet the whole incident was so insignificant to you that you can’t even remember where it happened? Fuck off!”
“I remember it really well,” said Conan, getting more defensive. “I clearly recall watching him coddle a baby.”
“Well, you’re insane,” I replied. “You forgot the context of my original story, so your diseased brain filled in the blank with a pathetic cliché. The truth is that Mulroney was only under that walkway for a second. He and his family were bypassing the line into the theatre because they were VIPs. There was no baby, and he didn’t pause as he passed under me. I only had a moment to consider pouring my drink on him, and I didn’t have the balls to go through with it.”
“Well, that’s not how I remember it,” Conan said.
“That’s because you don’t remember it!” I shouted. “You just think you do! Do you want to know what happened next?”
“Okay, What?”
“The Mulroneys ended up in the audience of the movie we’d lined up to see. Before the lights dimmed, Mulroney stood up and waved to us, and everyone applauded.”
“Really.”
“Really. So tell me, Conan, do you have any idea why I remember so many more details than you?”
“Okay, why?”
“Because... it... happened... to... ME. And because I’ve regretted not pouring that drink every waking moment of my life since.”
“Um, I really don’t think you’re right about this,” Conan said. But he was starting to look genuinely concerned. It was the look of a man who doubted his own mind. I relished it.
“Okay, you twit. I’ve got another way of proving you wrong. How would you feel if I produced an independent witness? I’m sure my parents can corroborate the fact that my family saw an IMAX movie at Expo ’86 with the Mulroneys. If we ask them, will your parents confirm that your family also had a close encounter with the PM at Expo?”
“I... I don’t know.”
“I do know. They won’t know what you’re talking about, because it never happened.” He was starting to look very uncertain now. It was time to swoop in for the kill.
I fixed my best friend with a baleful glare. “There’s no two ways about it,” I snapped. “You’re a memory rapist.”
“I am not!”
“Yes you are,” I replied. “A filthy memory rapist.”
* * *
It’s been more than a year since that argument, and Conan remains unconvinced that his memory of the Brian Mulroney slushie incident is false. At least I can take solace in the fact that my version of the story checks out.
Alas, my mother remembers seeing the IMAX movie with the Mulroneys as clearly as I do. Except, interestingly, she remembers that the Mulroneys sat directly in front of us, while I remember them sitting several rows behind us. That traitor! •
Completed in 2004 for inclusion in the Wasting My Youth book.
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