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A Trip Down Memory Lane By Jerry Levy Things were a bit slow at Lowe Pension Consultants that Monday and I felt like taking the afternoon off. It was one of those mid-October days in Chicago when the temperature hovers near eighty. We used to call it Indian summer when I was a kid and think nothing of it. Some childhood memories are like that. Years later we realize there’s more to the story that may not be so innocent and we no longer think of them so fondly. The chief actuary gave me the afternoon off. No surprise there. I’m the chief, VP of sales, CEO and the only employee. I had to furlough the rest of my staff with little hope for return. The market meltdown was the last straw for my clients. Things weren’t so hot for small plan actuaries before then, what with a new set of laws called the Pension Protection Act. More like the pension kaput act someone say in a moment of gallows humor. Then the markets took the worst hit since the depression and most small companies couldn’t afford a defined benefit pension plan. I needed some time off to think about my next career, something that involved a tangible product that people could hold in their hands. Good day to go for a walk along the lake shore, I thought. Maybe cut through Lincoln Park Zoo, a short walk from my cubby-hole office on Clark Street. Odd how some things can come full circle in your life. I worked on Clark Street years ago for my dad, but not in an office. He had a mom and pop grocery store on what was then skid row and now is home to several upscale restaurants. I started working there in the summer shortly after my 13th birthday. According to tradition, I was now a man and expected to help out with the family business. I saw a lot of things most kids my age could not imagine. I kept most of it to myself. It would have been embarrassing to admit a lot of the clientele looked like they could have been models for the posters hanging in the school hallway that warned about the dangers of drinking and drugs. It wasn’t really necessary, but I recorded a message that said I would be back on Tuesday, and left the office. I walked passed a lot of empty store fronts. Lowe Pension Consultants wasn’t the only business that had lost its customer base. A few blocks north of my office one of the stores had a new tenant. The sign above the door said, Memory Lane. I stopped to look in the window. A man was hunched over with his palms flat on the counter looking back at me over silver wire rim glasses. He was wearing a black watch cap and vest. He lifted one hand, crooked a finger, and motioned for me to come in. Up close, his cap and vest were decorated with blue six-pointed stars the size of nickels. He smiled and I noticed blue eyes that did not seem to go with the reddish mahogany skin tone. What an interesting face I thought. “Welcome to Memory Lane,” he said, and held out a hand. “My name is Edom and whom do I have the pleasure of having in my shop?” I introduced myself and asked him if business was good. I soon learned that Memory Lane was the fastest growing chain in America. Edom started to give me his spiel. “Some very bright people doing behavioral brain research discovered that certain areas of our gray matter that hold memories can be stimulated.” There was a rack of headphones on the counter and he picked up a pair. “These headphones were adapted to help you dredge up those pleasant memories.” 2 My early days on Clark Street had witnessed all sorts of con artists and scams so my initial reaction was this sounded like scientific bullshit. My face must have registered that skepticism. “My friend, you are probably thinking this sounds like bad science,” he said. “I could give you the web site with the scientific explanation, but why bother? Rent these headphones for two hours and if you are not satisfied, I will gladly refund your money.” I picked up a pair of headphones and asked, “And how exactly do the headphones stimulate the memories?” Edom handed me a brochure from a pile on the counter. “You can read about it on our web site. I will point out that the headphones are UL approved and entirely safe as explained in this pamphlet. Perhaps you read about us in last month’s Time Magazine about us?” It was an interview with the CEO. In fact I had read it several times. “What do people do with these things?” “We call it a Memmy-Hanny which is short for memory enhancer. Most people go to a place where they had a pleasant experience years ago that they want to remember as if it happened yesterday.” The Time interview briefly mentioned the brain research that eventually led to the development of memory enhancing technology. “How do I work the controls?” He pointed to the plastic control box connected to the headphones that looked like a portable radio. “You stand in a familiar spot and turn this dial to the setting marked “H” as in happy.” “What’s this “G” setting at the other end of the dial?” “That, my friend, is for general memories, some of which may not be so happy. We do not recommend that setting because it may bring back some painful feelings. It is there because some people do not want a filter on their trip down memory lane.” It still seemed like a scam, but I was certainly intrigued. Edom had me fill out a release form. It was just a precaution, he explained, in the unlikely event I had a bad trip, Memory Lane had no liability. Edom took my Visa card and gave me final instructions. “Don’t turn on the device, my friend, until you are standing still. The memories are so vivid it’s like watching a movie and you may bump into something if you move. Of course driving is out of the question.” “Or operating heavy machinery,” I said with a smile to match Edom’s and walked out the door. I started to walk toward Fullerton, the street that led to the zoo. It was a little past noon and I decided it would be best to have lunch first. The food at the zoo wasn’t high on my list of culinary delights, so I turned around and started walking south where I knew of several good places. It was a good mile and a half, not far from the spot where Dad had his grocery store. A cab would be fast and not terribly expensive, but not on a beautiful day like this. The muscles in my legs loosened up after a few minutes and I started to swing my arms and walk faster. After 30 minutes or so I slowed my pace, the restaurant was just a few blocks away. I turned onto Ohio Street and stopped. I couldn’t pass this corner without thinking of the grocery store. Ohio was the exit we took from the expressway and we often stopped at this corner for breakfast. I put on the headphones and switched on the Memmy-Hanny. 3 I saw myself in a Volkswagen minibus on the expressway. Dad was driving, and I was sitting next to him with my hand over my nose. Dad used the minibus to pick up fruits and vegetables at the Randolph Street market so it had the smell of potatoes and cabbage that were past their prime and starting to rot. The minibus slowed as we exited the expressway at Ohio Street and parked in front of the Ohio House Motel and Coffee Shop. We only did this on Sundays when we worked half a day, from nine to two-thirty. This was where I learned to eat a man’s breakfast of bacon, eggs and grits rather than a child’s stack of pancakes. I spent many Sundays working when other kids my age were watching Gale Sayers set records at Wrigley Field—the Bears didn’t play at Soldier Field until 1971. I switched off the Memmy-Hanny. From Ohio I walked to Clark, stopped in front of the Rainforest Café and looked up at the address, 605. It was just two numbers off from 607, the address of our grocery which occupied this very spot. It was hard to imagine that this had been a skid row neighborhood. I switched on the Memmy-Hanny and saw our grocery store with the wooden bushel baskets out front supported by metal milk crates. A pair of legs hung over the stoop. One of customers was sleeping off a night of cheap wine, waiting for us to open. Other memories of working in the store appeared in a kaleidoscope of images. I saw myself behind the checkout counter waiting on customers, adding up their groceries on the back of a paper bag. We had an adding machine, but it was just as easy to use a pencil and paper for small orders. Dad prided himself on how quickly he could add up a column of numbers and would challenge anyone to do it faster. I saw just one person beat him—that was me, but not for a few years after I started working.

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