TGA
by
David Sydney
It was a case of TGA (transient global amnesia), and it couldn't have come at a worse time. For Mel Fromkin, it came as he was about to attend a dry-cleaning convention. Yes, after five years of working at his Uncle Earl's dry-cleaning business, he was finally getting away. He’d invited his friend Rayette to join him. He wanted to impress her, sharing the weekend in Atlantic City, together with other dry cleaners.
TGA is a condition in which an individual recalls nothing about themselves or their identity. All memory’s gone, which would explain why Mel Fromkin drove past Ray's row home, past the Atlantic City Expressway, past any landmarks he recognized. He was lost – so lost that he ended up outside Trenton, New Jersey, in the parking lot of AL'S BAR.
That Thursday afternoon at 4:00, Al was behind his linoleum counter. A few of the usual customers were on barstools, a few at the plywood tables. That was pretty much it. The lighting was poor. Mel squinted as he walked in.
"What'll it be?"
How many times had Al asked that in the last 15 years of owning the place?
Mel drew a blank.
"Well, I don't know if I should serve you."
Customers certainly knew what kind of drink they wanted when they went to AL'S.
Naturally, no one understood that Mel was dealing with TGA. Alcoholic amnesia was the usual variety – especially the 4 o'clock version, even with the drinks watered down.
"Where am I?"
"You're here, in New Jersey.”
Mel glimpsed the owner's thinning hair at the back of his head, reflected in the mirror on the wall behind the bar. Al's face was round and red. He didn't say anything but, "What'll it be?"
Then it came to Mel.
"Any?... Stains?”
"What?"
Something had broken through. Mel could remember a phrase from his past, but that was it.
"Stains?... Look, this's a shots-and-beer bar.”
"I think he's talking about a Shingle Stain," offered Frank Bromley, one of the regular Thursday afternoon customers. “Years ago, there was a Tiki drink by that name.”
"I don't know what Tiki drinks are. In fact, I don't know who I am or where I am."
"I thought I told you, you're in New Jersey.”
"Stains, maybe a ketchup stain. That's it," repeated Mel.
Was he about to be thrown out on his ass? Al might ask Frank to help, if necessary.
"Wait a minute."
It was a woman's voice, from one of the back tables. She pushed aside her glass.
"Don't I know you?" she demanded.
Mel turned to look. Vaguely, he spotted the lined face, matted hair, and bloodshot eyes of a woman whose dress clearly needed dry cleaning.
"Aren't you the guy who ran off with Ray, my ex-husband?"
"What?"
"Don't worry about her,” Al explained. "She thinks everyone's the guy who ran away with Ray."
"Ray, huh?" asked the transient global amnesiac. "No, I can't say I recognize the name."
TGA is a condition in which an individual recalls nothing about themselves or their identity. All memory’s gone, which would explain why Mel Fromkin drove past Ray's row home, past the Atlantic City Expressway, past any landmarks he recognized. He was lost – so lost that he ended up outside Trenton, New Jersey, in the parking lot of AL'S BAR.
That Thursday afternoon at 4:00, Al was behind his linoleum counter. A few of the usual customers were on barstools, a few at the plywood tables. That was pretty much it. The lighting was poor. Mel squinted as he walked in.
"What'll it be?"
How many times had Al asked that in the last 15 years of owning the place?
Mel drew a blank.
"Well, I don't know if I should serve you."
Customers certainly knew what kind of drink they wanted when they went to AL'S.
Naturally, no one understood that Mel was dealing with TGA. Alcoholic amnesia was the usual variety – especially the 4 o'clock version, even with the drinks watered down.
"Where am I?"
"You're here, in New Jersey.”
Mel glimpsed the owner's thinning hair at the back of his head, reflected in the mirror on the wall behind the bar. Al's face was round and red. He didn't say anything but, "What'll it be?"
Then it came to Mel.
"Any?... Stains?”
"What?"
Something had broken through. Mel could remember a phrase from his past, but that was it.
"Stains?... Look, this's a shots-and-beer bar.”
"I think he's talking about a Shingle Stain," offered Frank Bromley, one of the regular Thursday afternoon customers. “Years ago, there was a Tiki drink by that name.”
"I don't know what Tiki drinks are. In fact, I don't know who I am or where I am."
"I thought I told you, you're in New Jersey.”
"Stains, maybe a ketchup stain. That's it," repeated Mel.
Was he about to be thrown out on his ass? Al might ask Frank to help, if necessary.
"Wait a minute."
It was a woman's voice, from one of the back tables. She pushed aside her glass.
"Don't I know you?" she demanded.
Mel turned to look. Vaguely, he spotted the lined face, matted hair, and bloodshot eyes of a woman whose dress clearly needed dry cleaning.
"Aren't you the guy who ran off with Ray, my ex-husband?"
"What?"
"Don't worry about her,” Al explained. "She thinks everyone's the guy who ran away with Ray."
"Ray, huh?" asked the transient global amnesiac. "No, I can't say I recognize the name."