Knowing for Sure Who You Are But Being Wrong

I can meet you and not know who you are. 

It’s not an age thing, it’s a talent I’ve always possessed. It sometimes takes me a moment or two to connect your face and voice with who you actually are. Even if I know who you are, your name will almost certainly elude me for some period of time. 

The more I try to remember it, the less success I will have with it. If I could switch my mind to some other unrelated thought, your name would be there, in the corner of my mind’s eye and I would know it. But that’s not easy to do when we’re on the street or the bread aisle in Tesco and your middle child is clawing at my shin.

This is bad. Of course it’s bad. But it’s not the worst thing. Not by a long chalk.

The worst thing, in this particular wing of human experience, is when I know exactly who you are, I know exactly what your name is and I know all about you. Your hopes and concerns. Your highs and your lows. All of it. And I engage with you on this level, happy and comfortable in the knowledge that, for once, I’ve got you sussed.

The worst thing is when I do all this… and I’ve got it completely wrong.

You are not who I think you are. You are not even remotely related to that other person. You are Somebody Else Entirely. And, by the time I have finally realised this, I have dug a hole so deep that even Elon Musk and his little submarine couldn’t get me out of it.

This doesn’t happen too often and that in itself is a great blessing because, when it does, it requires a mental dexterity and a level of backtracking that is almost superhuman. Why couldn’t I just put a little of this massive energy into remembering who the person was in the first place? But life isn’t like that, is it? We are all flawed beasts and we muddle through as best we can.

Down town a few weeks ago, I met a woman who I believed had suffered a bereavement a few weeks before. “You suffered a bereavement,” I said, not without some confidence about this elderly parent factoid, “I was sorry to hear it.” She stared at me blankly for a moment and then a light dawned. “No,” she replied, “no bereavement for me. Perhaps you’re thinking of the woman up the road?” It turns out I was, indeed, thinking of the woman up the road. We went on to analyse the weather and the state of the economy but the damage had been done.

At a social function a few weeks ago, I was navigating a room full of in-law relatives, many of them quite distant and rarely seen. Late in the evening I found myself in a corner with two nice ladies and, after an initial enjoyable time, the conversation had started to lag. I studied the younger of the two ladies. Of course! This was the ‘book’ lady who goes to all the literary festivals and know loads about Irish writers. I seized the moment.

“So, are you reading anything good at the moment.?”

The look of panic in her eyes told me all I needed to know. I had, once again, gone off in the wrong direction. This lady was not the literary lady, she was over at the far wall, nursing an Espresso Martini and chatting easily to some pensioner. Okay. So who was I with?

I looked back at my lady. A thin sheen of perspiration had formed on her brow. She was clearly searching her memory for a book, any book, she might ever have read which would satisfy this leering loon and his stupid, stupid question.

Her friend looked on amazed. She’d been around the block a time or two and had doubtless heard all kinds of rubbish out of the mouths of middle-aged men at late night parties. But this book-crack was something new, something different. She watched with lively, glistening eyes and waited to see how her poor friend might get herself out of this one.

As for me, there was nothing I could do. I had cast my conversational line and there was no way I could reel it back in without having some little something on the hook. I waited and waited, mentally kicking myself for getting everything completely wrong yet again.

After a small eternity, she finally came up with something.

“I… I read this book about a local man who… composed Irish tunes and… and… visited all the households and played them.”

My gratitude to this woman knew know bounds. Against all odds she had returned the conversational ball and got us over the enormous hill I had made for us. I picked up on her musical literary friend and went off on a verbal ramble about music and houses and men and then we were okay again.

Her friend leaned back on her heels and relaxed her brow, clearly disappointed that the crisis had passed without some more entertaining form of breakdown. I got out as quick as I could and went outside and found a stray cat to talk to. No peril there. 

So do me a favour. If I’m prattling on to you and I clearly think you are somebody else, drop in a hint or something. If you can do it before I dig my hole too deep that would also be appreciated.

Thanks. You’re a mate… I’m just not sure which one.