Alby - Brain Farts

Brain Farts

“I know I came in here for something,” Jenny muttered as she hurriedly pushed papers around on the countertop and opened cabinets in the room.

“Go backwards in your mind and it will help you to remember,” Mom offered. “That’s what I do.”

“I can’t stand when this happens. I can be in the middle of something and completely forget what I’m doing because my brain is so overtaxed all the time. Sometimes I wonder if it’s age…” Jenny spoke to no one in particular.

“And what should I say?” Alby laughed at the twenty-something Jenny. “After all, I’m a few years older than you are. Okay, okay, I’m more than a few years older,” he admitted when he saw Jenny’s contradictory smirk. “But forgetting the little things really isn’t important in the scheme of it all. Tell her, Susie Q.”

Alby had come home from work and his expression was solemn. He didn’t offer his usual greeting of “Hey there, Susie Q. How’s my girl?” Instead he walked in, sat down at the kitchen table and loosened his tie. His green eyes were cloudy.

“What’s wrong, Al?” Mom asked.

“I tried calling you today. I repeatedly picked up the phone but no matter how many times I stared at the dial, I couldn’t remember our telephone number. Blank. My mind was blank. Like I’d never known it.”

“I forget stuff all the time Dad,” I offered.

“You forgetting and me forgetting are two different things,” he said distractedly as he wiped perspiration from his temples.

I had long known that as a CPA he was detail-oriented and numbers, for him, were his native language. He could do complex mathematical equations in his head with astounding accuracy and using a calculator was not in his repertoire. He used an old-fashioned “adding machine” on which he would punch in page-long columns of numbers without even looking at the keyboard and pull the handle on the left to get a total. Long strips of paper would print out the top in red and black ink and that was the extent of his technological assistance. The “ching ching” sound of the adding machine was as familiar a sound as the scratching of his pencil.
He ate his dinner while we all made small talk but I knew he was barely listening. His body was at the table but his mind was somewhere else. Before he even had his tea and apple turnover, he pushed his chair away and went upstairs into his office.

Mom and I left him alone to gather his wits and by the time we were finished cleaning the kitchen, he reappeared with his famous cat-who-caught-the-canary grin. In his hands he held a ledger sheet filled with mathematical calculations and a yellow Number Two Ticonderoga pencil worn down to a nub.

Mom and I looked at him questioningly, not sure where this was leading but the relief in his face was evident.

“It took a little while, but I had a revelation. Susie Q, if there is only one thing you remember when you grow old, let it be this. Never ever worry if you can’t remember where you put your pencil. Worry only if you forget what to do with it!”

“Mr. Rich, you’re awesome,” Jenny smiled sweetly.

“Nah. I’m just an old geezer with a lot of stories.”

“You’re my favorite old geezer,” I said and hugged him. Jenny put a compassionate, knowing hand on my shoulder and the weight of it was unbearable.