Total Recall

Oh, I’m glad I’m not a writer. My friend Terry actually is a writer. He’s got a book that’s out now called, “The Broken Earth.” It’s a historical novel, set in the time right after the end of the Civil War.

Being old (semi-)retired guys, Terry and I have a lot of free time. So we go out to eat a lot – breakfasts and lunches, mostly. When the weather is nice, we'll hop on our motorcycles early and ride off to someplace interesting for breakfast. And last Thursday we did just that.

Since we live in diametrically opposite ends of our little coastal city, we met up in downtown Pensacola just after sunrise. From there we rode out to the beach, and then eastbound on Route 399 which connects Pensacola Beach and Navarre Beach.

Rte 399 is a stunningly beautiful road that traverses the thin, fragile barrier island of sugar-white sand and sea oats. There used to be tall dunes on either side, hindering the view of the Gulf of Mexico, but Hurricanes Erin, Opal and Ivan respectively blew the dunes away. Now, drivers and motorcycle riders have a clear view of the water for the entire ride. Along the way, we stopped at various points to take some pictures of our bikes in the soft morning sun.

At one such photo-op, Terry began waxing poetic, as he's sometimes inspired to do. ”The sun is sparkling on the water…like…the diamonds on a little girl’s…something…” And that’s when I walked away to let him compose his poem in peace. I am not a fan of poetry. I am definitely…and defiantly not a poet.

At breakfast in a restaurant called Juana’s Pagoda on the water in Navarre Beach, Terry regaled me, as he usually does, with stories of his youth. He has an uncanny ability to remember intricate details of every person he’s ever met, all the way back to his elementary school days and maybe as early as the womb. He knows stuff like his late father’s birthday, as well as the day and date that he died. When he was a taxi- and then later an Uber driver, he would remember all of the details of the lives of every passenger he carried. It’s a unique – and quite bizarre – trait.

Sometimes, when we’re together, Terry will bring up stories from his past – events that happened, or people that he knew. Just being someplace can trigger odd memories for him, which he recalls with surprising clarity.

I am often astounded and amazed, and more than a little impressed at Terry’s ability to remember these kinds of things. But then it dawns on me: He’s a writer. He needs to remember these things because those very details are what allow him to flesh-out the backgrounds of the characters in the books he writes.

Me, I’d have to make it all up. I don’t remember shit. And moreover, I don’t want to. As soon as my passengers are out of my car, they’re gone from my consciousness. I don't remember which day of the week my dad died - hell, I don't even remember what year he died.  I’d never make a good cop; my powers of observation and retention are poor.

Police Officer (showing me two pictures: one, a mugshot of a man and the other, a security camera picture of a man with a gun getting out of my Uber in a bank parking lot): ”Mr. Barbanes, is this the man you dropped off at the Hancock Bank on Airport Road at 2:53 yesterday afternoon…the man that robbed that bank?”

Me: ”Uhhh, durrrrr…could be…”

Terry would know the man’s life story…where he grew up, who his parents were, how many brothers and sisters he had, that he had a mole on the back of his neck, what he’s doing in Pensacola, and what he plans to do with the money.

So not only would I not make a good policeman, I’ll never be a good novelist, either.

Terry, on the other hand, has that gift of being able to jot stuff down in his mind and file it away for future use. Thus, he’ll be able to populate his books with interesting people and their unique personalities. You know how movie or book critics sometimes complain that, ”The characters were not well-developed.” Well, Terry won’t ever have to hear that said about his work.