On Memory

On Sid and Nancy

Part Three of a Four Part Series on Memory

I watched the movie Sid and Nancy when I was in high school. This was many years ago. I don’t remember much of it, just that it began at the bottom and went down from there, which I thought marked an impressive feat of storytelling. Sid was stumbling yelling in rainy streets, drunkenly surrendering to a love so toxic that it literally killed everyone. Death and love, violence and yearning. I thought it was cool. Aspirational, in fact. I thought that this was what love was supposed to be.

In college I had a best friend who I liked a lot because he, like me, had come from a rootless background. He was a white kid from Texas with a long stringy mullet and a sleeveless black t-shirt who walked around campus like he was ready to kick somebody’s ass. But when you talked to him you realized he was the most caring and supportive person you would ever meet. He nodded along with you when you spoke, mimicking your facial expressions as if there was no difference in his mind between you and him. When you told him that something had surprised you, his face would contort into a perfect picture of shock. When you told him that something had disgusted you, he would shake his head and wrinkle up his nose and mouth as if he himself was the one being subjected to the offensive thing. For a while we were best friends. He had the way of relationships that a lot of people have who moved around growing up. He could love you immensely, then completely abandon you…