Like the Back of My Hand
Come on! Let’s go get weiners!
It’s my handwriting; yet, I don’t remember writing it. Also, I know better than to misspell a simple word like “wieners”. Weiner is a town in Arizona; wiener is something one might eat. There’s more: I don’t think wieners are tasty, and would never organise a special trip to fetch some.
I canvassed a few friends, those most likely present when I shouted for wieners. R. gave it a fifty-fifty chance. “But please,” she urged, “if you figure out I was there, let me know!” H. confessed that, although she once spray-painted gold monkeys on her fence after too much bourbon, she’s never been drunk enough to crave a frankfurter. J. laughed and laughed, repeating “ha ha wieners!” each time she recovered, setting off another round of giggles. D. shrugged: if he was there, he’d probably just carried on pouring martinis.
This false enthusiasm for hotdogs is creepy, but most of all, it’s disturbing to forget something done by my own hand.