Wanna know my greatest strength? The fact I possess a forgettable face. It’s true, I swear – just look at me. Late thirties, white, suburban American male – I am the human equivalent of a toast-sliced loaf of white bread. A caricaturist would struggle to find a single feature they could exaggerate on this head of mine and, quite frankly, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Handsome men stand out, which means they can’t do what I do; and men unfortunate enough to be uglier than me also tend to stand out.

So here I am. Somewhere in the middle. Mercifully plain. Perfectly forgettable. My haircut is unremarkable, shortish back and sides, and there’s a hint of stubble on my cheeks. I keep fit, but not too muscular.

Maybe the one feature that is in any way distinctive is a slightly crooked nose. Courtesy Ricky Olsen, tenth grade. It’ll never be straight again.

I’m invisible in a crowd, but there’s still no accounting for the power of the human memory when it comes to facial recognition. You can plan out everything but someone with a keen eye and the memory of a supercomputer will still recognise you. It happens the moment I step into the tiny reception area of the motel. The woman at the desk says, ‘You’re back.’

It stops me cold.

I could turn and leave, but of course I don’t. I look around just to be sure she’s definitely speaking to me. There’s no one else other than us two and the people on the TV screen. She’s perched on a tattered office chair, looking at me with tired but kind eyes.

‘I think you got the wrong guy,’ I say, trying my smile on her.

‘I don’t forget a face. You stayed here before. Two, three years ago?’ She frowns, focusing to recall the exact year. ‘You look a little
different this time around. It was raining.’

Ah. I did stay somewhere after Mom’s funeral two years back, almost to the day. I was drunk, I paid cash, left as the sun was still rising, walking out to the highway where my car was parked.

I didn’t look back.

Mom never told me how bad her lungs had gotten. I should have visited more; I know that now. We spoke a lot on the phone, her mostly calling me, but it wasn’t the same as hugging her and seeing her face in person. If only I’d moved her out near me, but she never would have left Manson, and we couldn’t have afforded a retirement home in the city. I can barely afford my one-bedroom walk-up in a neighbourhood the real estate agent optimistically called up-and-coming…

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