Fierce Pajamas: An Anthology of Humor Writing from The New Yorker (56 page)

The lapses of memory that occur after fifty are normal and in some ways beneficial. There are certain things it’s better to forget, like the time Daddy once failed to praise you, and now, forty years later, you have to count the tiles in the bathroom—first in multiples of three, then in multiples of five, and so on, until they come out even—or else you can’t get out of the shower. The memory is selective, and sometimes it will select 1956 and 1963 and that’s all. Such memory lapses don’t necessarily indicate a more serious health problem. The rule is that if you think you have a pathological memory problem you probably don’t. In fact, the most serious indicator is when you’re convinced you’re fine and yet people often ask you, “Why are you here in your pajamas at the Kennedy Center Honors?”

Let’s say you’ve just called your best friend, Joe, and invited him to an upcoming anniversary party, and then, minutes later, you call Joe back to invite him to the same party again. This does not mean that you are “losing it” or are “not playing with a full deck” or are “not all there” or that you’re “eating with the dirigibles” or “shellacking the waxed egg” or “looking inside your own mind and finding nothing there,” or any of the other demeaning epithets that are said about people who are peeling an empty banana. It does mean, however, that perhaps Joe is no longer on the list of things that you’re going to remember. This is Joe’s fault. He should be more memorable. He should have a name like
El Elegante.

Sometimes it’s fun to sit in your garden and try to remember your dog’s name. Here’s how: simply watch the dog’s ears while calling out pet names at random. This is a great summer activity, especially in combination with “Name That Wife” and “Who Am I?” These games actually strengthen the memory, and make it possible to solve more complicated problems, such as “Is this the sixth time I’ve urinated this hour or the seventh?” This, of course, is easily answered by tiny pencil marks applied during the day.

Note to Self: Remember to write article about waxy buildup.

If you have a doctor who is over fifty, it’s wise to pay attention to his changing memory profile. There is nothing more disconcerting than a patient and a healer staring at each other across an examining table wondering why they’re there. Watch out for the stethoscope being placed on the forehead or the briefcase. Watch out for greetings such as “Hello . . . you.” Be concerned if while looking for your file he keeps referring to you as “one bad boy.” Men should be wary if the doctor, while examining their prostate, suddenly says, “I’m sorry, but do I know you?”

There are several theories to explain the memory problems of advancing age. One is that the brain is full: it simply has too much data to compute. This is easy to understand if we realize that the name of your third-grade teacher is still occupying space, not to mention the lyrics to “Volare.” One solution for older men is to take all the superfluous data swirling around in the brain and download it into the newly large stomach, where there is plenty of room. This frees the brain to house more relevant information, like the particularly troublesome “days of the week.” Another solution is to take regular doses of
Ginkgo biloba,
an extract from a tree in Asia whose memory is so indelible that one day it will hunt down and kill all the humans who have been eating it. It is strongly advised that those taking
Ginkgo biloba
label the bottle “Memory Pills.” There is nothing more embarrassing than looking at a bottle of
Ginkgo biloba
and thinking it’s a reliquary for a Spanish explorer.

SO, in summary, waxy buildup is a problem all of us face. Only a good, strong cleanser, used once or twice a month, will save us the humiliation of that petrified yellow crust on our furniture. Again, I recommend an alcohol-free, polymer-based cleanser, applied with a damp cloth. Good luck!

1998

STEVE MARTIN

THE HUNDRED GREATEST BOOKS THAT I’VE READ

1998

JACK HANDEY

REINTRODUCING ME TO MY HABITAT

I
WOULD
like to take this opportunity to urge conservation-minded people everywhere to pressure the government for the reintroduction of me to my native habitat.

My native habitat, of course, is the desert Southwest, where I used to roam wild and free. But, sadly, I no longer exist there. For several years, I have been largely confined to a small two-bedroom apartment in the Chelsea section of Manhattan.

It is clear that I do not belong here, as my neighbors will tell you. I am still frightened by car horns, and the fancy Eastern food I am fed is at odds with my natural diet of enchiladas and gingersnaps. Often I can be found pacing mindlessly back and forth in my cramped office, which I am told is a sign that I am insane.

Occasionally, there are scattered sightings of me in my old habitat—shooting a wet straw wrapper at someone’s kid in a restaurant in Santa Fe, then denying it; doing my funny cowboy dance at a party in Silver City until people make me stop—but these cannot be confirmed.

For all intents and purposes, I have been eliminated from my former range, the Rio Grande Valley. I used to be found from El Paso and Juárez in the south all the way up to Taos and sometimes beyond (if I missed the turnoff to Taos).

Once, I filled a vital role in the ecosystem. I would prey primarily on the weak and the old, who were usually the only ones who would hire me. Then, when their businesses went under, they were removed from the system, as nature intended.

My world was in harmony. But then, as often happens, man intervened. Ranchers would drive me from their lands when they caught me throwing a keg-party barbecue, maybe using one of their cows. Divorce and job dismissals took their toll. I found I could not coexist with my creditors. At one point, public sentiment against me was so strong that I was considered “vermin” and a “pest.”

But now, I think, attitudes are changing. People don’t automatically want to shoot me, like they used to. This is mainly because of my reeducation efforts and because they haven’t seen me for a long time.