by Don Hall

It's an inevitability. Get two or more men of a certain age—say between 45 and 60 years old—and they will find their conversational way into complaints about getting older.

From the obvious How Is It That I Can No longer Eat as Many Carbs to the I Hurt My Back Sitting in a Fucking Chair Yesterday it is the point in life when the slow decay of the body comes as a bit of a surprise. This isn't the morbid back and forth of mortality one hears from those much closer to death, a litany of disease, medical procedures, and pills needed to function but the dawning awareness and slight shock at the effects time has on guys who thought they'd live forever and always be able to play a pick up game of basketball without feeling run over by a bus.

As these three men get closer to 60 than 40, the talk edges closer and closer to the creeping realization that in addition to the creaky tendons and slowed metabolism comes the degradation of the brain. Lost keys, forgotten passwords, and the confirmation that memory is less a message written in stone and more an etching in sand just as the tide comes in to wash the words away.

It's easy to forget that in our society half a century old is considered old unless you happen to be a politician or a judge and then you're considered seasoned. Most of us live in a world wherein fifty years is seen as pretty much done in life. The cat wearing his Gen X credibility openly, complete with salt and pepper hair and dad bod, has only to worry about the part we seem to grasp onto like hands trying to hold onto chocolate bar in 115˚ heat—our intellectual capability.

When the stories start to include the possibility of being the old guy who can't seem to remember his address or the faces of his children, it gets a bit scary.

I knew that Frank was moving from Chicago to L.A. and that he planned to stop over in Vegas for a night. I knew he was coming around Monday or Tuesday. I didn't have his number in my phone but he and I were connected via Faceborg Messenger so we were solid.

Monday morning, I get a text. A 773 number (Chicago) so it has to be Frank. "I'm in Vegas. Can't check in to the hotel til later. At the LV Convention Center. Meet for coffee?" I didn't really have the skinny on why he was ditching Chicago for the West Coast but getting convention work was as likely as anything. And coffee was fine so I jumped in the shower, got dressed, and headed over.

"On my way." "I'll meet you at the main entrance." "Here." "I'll be right there."

It's definitely a convention. Dudes in khakis with collared shirts wearing lanyards are everywhere. I position myself a bit away but visible and smoke my pipe. Unlike when I smoked cigarettes, the pipe garners me a few looks and smiles because I smell like their grandpa or father. The scent of nostalgia.

I see Frank heading over but something is off. Frank seems to have gained about fifty pounds since I last saw him. He's wearing a COVID mask but aside from the weight it looks like Frank. He sees me and calls out "Dude!" He embraces me in that heterosexual white guy way. 

"So why the move to L.A.?"

"I'm not going to L.A. I live in Texas with my family."

RECORD SCRATCH. Frank does not live in Texas and is not married. This is not Frank but who is it if not Frank?

In a moment of Hitchcock or Cohen Bros. dolly zoom, I realize I don't know who this guy is. Unmoored, I search my brain for clues. I cannot figure out who this cat is and I don't know if I'm suffering one of those pre-dementia episodes or if maybe I'm losing my mind. Who the fuck is this guy and what if I don't figure it out?"

When the stories start to include the possibility of being the old guy who can't seem to remember his address or the faces of his children, it gets a bit scary.

For ten minutes we stand in line at the Starbucks and I listen for clues. He obviously knows me. We talk about his family, what he's doing at the convention, his trajectory since leaving Chicago. I try to piece it together but I'm coming up blank. Then it hits me: convention, lanyards, nametags. I glance at his lanyard like a guy checking out a woman's cleavage without being called out for it.

I recognize the name but still don't have a connection in the meandering wasteland of information that includes recent Netflix binges, thoughts of workouts, a thing I read that morning about COVID in the New York Times, a possibility of an article pitch to The Atlantic I'm working on, and wondering about a piece of marketing I have to complete that afternoon.

Wait. Wait! I KNOW THIS GUY! From 90's Chicago. An improv student. We corresponded a few months back about me coming to Austin to teach workshops but then it was dropped. I'm not insane or mentally decaying!

Coffee is purchased. We sit. Masks come off. I do know him. It isn't Frank but I know this guy.

Driving home later it occurs to me that I may need to get used to this sort of thing. The feeling of losing memory. Of time spent and people known. I'm pretty sure I'm not afflicted with this slow loss of cohesion yet but I remind myself that panicking when I'm set adrift by a failure to see what used to be so clear is the worst response.

A few days later I'm in a room with two more friends of a certain age. We talk about metabolism, ankle pain, and I tell this story. Behind their eyes, my friends have a sense of knowing what's coming. I do, too. I'm fine with it. By the time I lose my grip on reality, I won't care anyway.