I drive through Mountain Brook, the wealthiest part of town that serves as a divider between my friend's house and my apartment. It is a short drive and one that I have made countless times on forgotten nights just like this one. The winding streets are familiar to me and could almost be traversed without much conscious effort, a fortunate circumstance considering my mind's wanderings. I don't pay much attention to the stop light up ahead or the turn I am about to make. I'm somewhere else right now, back in a dorm room with her wondering where it all went wrong. I've played it over a thousand times in my head without any resolution and nearly lost myself because of it. So I buried the memories deep and resolved to never visit them again, lest their hold on me became complete and I finally lost myself altogether. And then, just when I believed the memories were forever gone she re-enters my life, not in a purposeful way or one in which she planned. Curiously enough, not even in a manner caused by her own doing. But the memories are dredged up all the same, losing none of their vengeance over the years. I don't need this now. I don't need this ever. I just need the memories to disappear and only know of one method to ensure their departure.
My car veers from its normal path. I take a left when I should have turned right. Mountain Brook becomes a speck in my rear view mirror as I venture to another part of town not accustomed to recognizing my face, but not yet calling me a stranger either.
I park in a dimly lit lot just south of downtown. Its faded lighting casts my clothes in a burnt orange veneer that gives a sinister tone to the Auburn colors still emblazoned on my shirt. Half a minute later and I'm at the bar, deciding what I'll have while checking to make sure my wallet will cover the cost of the evening's indulgence. The bartender brings two shots of No. 7 and another of Patrón, a slight departure from my usual tastes but inconsequential for tonight's purpose. The two shots of whiskey go down quickly while I savor the tequila, its unique texture gliding across my tongue like the sting of a sensual kiss.
One more shot, then another, and finally a sixth to round out the half hour. Anything to erase the memories and the corresponding feelings they never fail to elicit. My left arms rests motionless on the table holding an empty shot glass while my right one lies sprawled out across the back rest of the booth that I'm sitting in. Almost without noticing, a girl takes a seat beside me and conspicuously places my right arm around her shoulder as she edges closer. She mentions something about how she saw me across the bar but her words clang together like the bells of some nearby church that will be ringing in only a few hours. I can't understand anything other than she is a student at UAB and wants to study education. Girls like her always want to be a teacher for some reason.
Thirty minutes later we are back at her dorm. Her roommates are gone and the room is completely dark save for a curious desk lamp with a pink lampshade over it. It casts the world into a starlit, faded crimson as we climb into her bed. She turns off the light while I succumb to an evening awash in alcohol and bad decisions.
The next morning I wake up to sunlight glaring through the window and the sound of quiet breathing coming from the body beside me. She's still asleep as I climb out of bed and get dressed. A moment later and her bedroom door is opening and closing behind me. The last time I was in a dorm room ended roughly the same way.
It's a two mile walk back to the parking lot and the mid-morning sun is only exacerbating the pounding between my ears. When I eventually find my car I notice a ticket placed just under the windshield but I crumple it and toss it to the ground without reading what it says. The drive back to my apartment is only a short distance away and by the time I make it home I'm having trouble remembering everything that happened last night. Something about a bad memory it seems. Maybe it wasn't that important...I'm sure I'll remember it tomorrow.
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Memories are our connections to the past. They show us how far we've come, remind us of who we were, and sometimes even let us relive a particularly important moment in our lives. When a memory is good, it can be a treasure to its holder and remind him of the very best life has to offer. But what of the other memories? What of the painful ones? When a memory is particularly painful it can seize someone by the throat and focus all your attention on reliving an experience that is seemingly inescapable. It can unmercifully bring you back to a place you repeatedly seek to avoid and hold your gaze there indefinitely. But what's more, it can make you forget. It can make you forget that things were not always this way and that tomorrow brings with it the promise of new adventures. It can make you forget that life is not about holding onto bad memories, but about making good ones.
I have one particularly bad memory in my life. It is not about anything unduly tragic or especially unique, yet it burdens my spirit all the same. For several years I have sought to rid myself of it and, for a time, believed I had accomplished my goal. But all it took was one happenstance to bring everything flooding back. One accidental correspondence to make me feel just as I did on that day so long ago.
If the particulars of my situation are vague you should know that it is by design. I choose storytelling as an outlet for my frustrations since narratives are assuredly less problematic than the actual behaviors contained therein. I simply don't know how to let go of a bad memory and even if I did, I'm not sure I possess the courage to bid it farewell.
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