I don't know how it is for everyone else, but I must have won the memory lottery. When I look back on certain times in my life - say, my pre-teen years - and I really try to feel the feelings I experienced, I get intense nostalgia. Even for the things that went sideways.
Maybe this is just how nostalgia works. But even my most painful and embarrassing turds of humiliation are polished to a mirror sheen and placed on a little stand with a placard that reads, "Those were some fun times." And there they sit in a climate-controlled acrylic case, rubbing elbows with the "Great job!" exhibits in my personal history museum.
One summer when I was around 12, my friend and I decided to embark on an epic bike-riding quest. Our journey would take us far away from the shire, through the fires of Mordor, across the plateau of Gorgoroth, and all the way to Mount Doom, a.k.a the convenience store across town. We would require many provisions for this endeavor. But this was the '90s. So rather than put sunscreen on, pack snacks, and bring a water bottle, I just shouted "We're leaving!" to my mom as the door shut behind us. For many minutes we rode, only stopping briefly at a stop light and when my friend caught a rut and bailed into a grassy ditch.
At last, with our destination in sight, we salivated at the mere thought of the treats and beverages available within. We parked our dusty steeds with a firm kick to each stand and strode through the dingaling door after we held it open for the nice old lady who took far too long to walk through.
Ohhh kay...yup...you're welcome...yes, ma'am...yup...it's nothing, really...y-yup...yup, you too...
Aaaand she's out.
Our quest had but one more task: acquire refreshments. We each grabbed some candy and a thirst-quencher. My friend went for the soda fountain, grabbed a wax-coated cup, and filled it with Mountain Dew. A fine choice. But I had my eye on something else. Root beer in the glass bottle. I sidled up to the giant glass door in the refrigerated section and popped it open. I grabbed the frostiest brown bottle I could see and joined my friend at the register.
Back outside, we decided to get back on the bikes to migrate away from the heat-soaked parking lot so we could enjoy our hard-earned provisions in the shade. I held my root beer against the handlebar so I could negotiate the hop off the sidewalk curb back onto the street. Choosing the bottle with extra frost on the glass was about to prove a critical misjudgment. The impact of lowering the front tire dislodged my precious root beer, causing the bottle to smash on the pavement.
Devastated, I went back inside and grabbed another one, telling the clerk of my misfortune and half-hoping he would just give me the next one as a tough-luck-kid consolation prize. He did not.
Now, one would think an abundance of caution would be prudent for my next attempt at the convenience store egress. One would think that.
But instead, I held the bottle against the handlebar in a frighteningly similar fashion. However, "This time", I thought to myself, "I'll walk the bike off the edge of the curb. I ain't nobody's fool." I proceed to lower the front of the bike down from the sidewalk again, and summarily drop the second bottle within an inch of the first bottle's wreckage. So close, in fact, that one would be forgiven for thinking only a single bottle was sacrificed to the convenience store parking lot gods that day.
This...was not fair. When you're a kid it's common to feel like life isn't fair, but usually that's caused by external factors. Less common is the self-inflicted tragedy, and up until this point I hadn't dunked on myself at all, let alone so hard that I shattered the backboard. And in this case, I shattered the backboard AND my tasty refreshments.
My recollection of what came next is an irrecoverable memory. Either I went back in for a third drink and subsequently chose to hitchhike home in a suspicious-looking white van rather than risk compromising my last shot at soft-drink satisfaction, or I had no more money and thus performed the rite of seppuku in the shade of the cherry blossoms for bringing such shame upon my household. Regardless, the epilogue of the great root beer bottle caper isn't the chapter in question. Because, despite all the raw and heartbroken feelings I experienced in those moments, when I withdraw that event from my memory bank it inexplicably reads as, "Man, how awesome was it riding bikes to the convenience store with my friend back then?"
This is clearly the perspective of an insane person.
But I think this phenomenon of memory is the mechanism that allows us to keep making progress in life when all we really want to do is hide under our bedsheets and never come out. Animals don't seem to have this problem, though I've never spoken to one so that's still unconfirmed. It also helps if we learn something from our misfortune.
So what did I learn on that tragic summer day? well, if you don't change the fundamental way you approach something, it won't matter how tightly you grip the bottle. In other words, don't step into the same bear trap twice. I guess that's a pretty useful lesson to learn. It's a shame it cost me two root beers, though. I bet those would have been tasty.
Thanks for reading.
News of the week:
In last week’s essay I referenced Formula One, a sport for which I have a deep passion. I enjoyed writing that small reference so much I decided to publish a second SubStack, completely dedicated to F1. If that sounds interesting, I’d love for you to give it a peek.
Enjoy your weekend.
- Tim