My two passengers, Sue Bird and Rebecca Lobo, looked at me with pity and contempt, knowing that I could instantly conjure their UConn uniform numbers but not the number of a boundless garage in which I'd left my car three hours earlier.
There's a scene in Jaws in which Richard Dreyfuss pulls, from the belly of a dead shark, a license plate, an old boot and a crushed beer can. That garbage-filled shark is my brain—never yielding the location of my car keys but rife with random refuse that won't biodegrade until I do: the score of Super Bowl IX, the roster of the '86 Celtics, the phone number of my first apartment. I have only to reach in and retrieve these things, though why on earth would I ever need to?
Beyond that, I cannot tell you anything about the human brain. Unless you mean wrestler Bobby (the Brain) Heenan. Him I can't forget.