Thursday, April 28, 2016

Sticks Like A Memory, Floating Like A Dream

Today I had a memory flash before that made me feel as if I had traveled back in time. I'll get those on occasion and they are just a flash of nostalgia that overwhelms me. The memory was one of those regular mundane moments that stick with you forever for whatever reason.

This one had to do with buying Surge at Campustown in Illinois. Campustown was a little shop on the downtown area of Normal that sold ISU tshirts by the truckload and would carry black light posters, some soda supplies with chips and snackables, as well as bootleg CDs when they were popular. Want a concert from your favorite band on a shitty audio quality CD that someone used a microphone from the audience to record? They had them, and for the low price of about $25 a piece.

I had gotten some Nine Inch Nails CDs from the place, because they were and still are my band. I still have those CDs around somewhere, and they hold a special place in my heart.

This store had sold 20 oz bottles of Surge, and I planned on getting as many as I could. This place also was the first place that I bought my 18th bday presents for myself. In particular, I wanted to get cigarettes, lottery tickets, and porn. This place had all three. A little nervous but also proud that I had decided to do this, I walked up to the cash register at the front of the store by the door. I asked for the lotto ticket, asked for a random pack of cigarettes that I was going to give to a friend because I could, but then there was the porn. When the cashier asked if I was going to get anything else, I looked over at the magazines on the other side of the entrance and nodded in that direction. I said "well, I would get porn too, but those guys are all over it."

There was a group of three guys, probably college age. They were checking out the magazines and were checking out the dirty ones as well. This was before the internet had eased the ability for young college guys to Google search their way to delights. The cashier, in all her glory, told them to step back from the magazines, that it was my 18th bday, and that I needed to get some porn.

They parted like the Red Sea. They each held in their hands some of the dirtiest magazines ever. They were probably your standard Hustler or Playboy, but they were shoving them in front of my eyes and giving me all the details of the differences between each magazine. The courage I had in telling the cashier I wanted to get some porn somehow went to the wayside in front of these dudes. I did a 12 year old boy's nervous chuckle when he talks to a girl he likes for the first time, held my hand out, and grabbed whatever one was in front of me at the time.

I got the other supplies and left the store that day a proud, yet somewhat sheepish, man. I think I gave both the porn and the cigarettes away to the same person, whoever that was. I didn't win the lottery tickets, but it was one of the most memorable experiences of my life.

For a moment today, I was back in that store. I was buying Surge like it was an average day. I couldn't tell you the clothes I wore. I couldn't tell you what day of the week it was. I remember the Surge, I remember the smell of Jake's Pizza across the street, and it all is as clear to me as if I was in the room at this very moment. The memory is like a distant dream now, as that instance could literally have been half a lifetime ago.

Getting wrapped up in Nostalgia from time to time can be a good thing. The trick is to avoid having it take you over, and bring you down. Too much time with your head in the past and you don't know if you can make the trip back. I don't understand why I can remember boring old memories like that one were it just seemed like it was an average day. There must have been some connection in my brain that day that fired in just the right way to hardwire everything about that moment. If I ever go senile, I hope that is one of those moments that plays a constant cycle in my head. That would be a good memory and somewhat bittersweet moment against the tragedy of memory loss.

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