February 27th, 2013
I spent forty minutes on the phone this evening with two friends, now a married couple, who I hadn’t spoken with in forty years. Paul Grissom and Ann Waldmann. I forgot to ask if they are the Grissoms, the Waldmanns, the Grissom-Waldmanns, the Waldmann-Grissoms, Ray, Jay, or You-can-call-me-RayJay. Who owns who, these days?
I have not seen either of them (nor a reasonable FaceBook facsimile) in forty years, yet a clear reproduction exists. But you’d have to be me to see it. That’s the weird thing about memory — I will see Paul and Ann in my mind long after I will remember their names. Much of our phone call was spent, “You know who I mean, the blond gal…” and “the reddish-haired woman who played the office manager. Why it was shot right in your hometown of Toronto…” and “…can’t remember his name, but I can picture his mustache and his name-tag. David E. Davis, it was.”
It turns out we got in touch because Ann came across my name on Google, skipped over to my blog, and read much of my recent biography. One thing I told them about — just so they can one-up you — Is the heart attack I had two weeks ago. No not the one I had in late October. The one I had two weeks ago. So that I don’t forget it, I will now write it out, beat for skipped beat: 1 a.m., Friday, October 14. Woke up, blinding pain. This time I had my nitroglycerin on my nightstand. Took two pills, relieved the pain, went back to sleep. (Should have gotten up, gotten dressed, and left for the hospital). 3 a.m. Awoke to pain. Took one or two pills. Went back to sleep (Should have gotten up, etc…) 4 a.m. Awoke to fairly bright light in my eyes. I was sitting, naked, in the living room chair. Found my way back to my bedroom, took two pills, got dressed. Knocked on roommate’s door. Discussed pros and cons, ambulance vs cab. Chose, wisely (it’s another story) the cab. Went to the VA hospital and walked out two days later, 1 and 1/2 stents heavier. And I am fine now.
It’s midnight in Toronto. Paul and Ann are, I hope, in bed by now. But I can’t picture them because I failed to have them describe their bedroom. Oh, I can picture them easily enough, cuddled up on one of the fourth floor couches at Campbell-Ewald Advertising, in the GM building in Detroit. But they’d still be in their twenties. Canada in their future, San Francisco in mine.