Is There Something I’m Forgetting?

ONE OF THE disadvantages of living a long life is that you forget much of it. Parts of the past are a closed book to a deteriorating memory, although I do remember every single embarrassing moment when I should have kept my mouth shut but didn’t, falsely thinking at the time that a clever remark about, say, a person’s lamentable haircut would be both humorous and instructive, and generally enjoyed by all. Unfortunately, those excruciating social misdemeanors number, at last count, in the millions and lay in the forefront of my consciousness while other more important things—such as, what 8 times 7 equals—I have long forgotten. It’s the normal consequence of aging, but these days what you don’t remember could hurt you.

For example, have I ever lied to Robert Mueller?

I’VE NEVER MET Robert Mueller, and I’m pretty sure I’ve never been in the same room with the man. But I can’t be certain.

Unlike our president, I’ve never made payments to an adult film actress or Playboy playmate. But does memory really serve? I admit I have seen Playboy magazine, the first time when I was 12, well before the age of consent and possibly in violation of local morality laws at the time. But copies were just lying on the little table in the barbershop, and since I had already read the old issues of Field & Stream, I decided to leaf through a different publication.

Instead of seizing it from my fingers, quelling my innocent curiosity, and using the moment to teach an important life lesson about the clear demarcations of youth, the barbers just giggled.

Anyway, a young Robert Mueller wasn’t there at the time, observing with a stern eye, carefully documenting my actions for use in future judicial proceedings. At least, I don’t think he was. But can I really be sure?

TO REPEAT, I’ve never paid hush money, but I have paid for hush puppies. Would Mueller see the distinction? Or is his investigation so broad as to sweep up every malfeasance, every gaff, blunder, or snafu? Given my tendency for social indiscretion, it’s likely I have even slipped up in front of the FBI. (I once met an FBI agent at a party. I noticed the holster lump around his ankle and made a humorous remark about him being “glad to see me,” but he didn’t laugh. Is that in my FBI file? Do I even have an FBI file?)

And what about the Russians? Mueller has been poking around for the last two years, looking for connections to Moscow, investigating collusion by people in Washington, D.C.

I live in Washington, D.C., but my only connection to the former Soviet Union is the Russian nesting doll I keep in my study. I don’t recall where it came from, but is its possession evidence of collusion? It looks pretty innocent on that shelf, but I admit there’s more to it than meets the eye. There is a built-in covertness to this particular curio, one that reveals itself over time, in a methodical sequence of actions that slowly exposes the objects hidden within. All except for the last one, which I’m pretty sure rolled under the radiator a while back, its thick coating of dust a powerful deterrent to anyone reaching under there with a bare hand. Presumably, FBI agents will use synthetic gloves when retrieving this and other incriminating evidence when they come to my home. (I’ll try breaking the tension with another “glad to see me” quip. Maybe they’ll laugh this time.)

I KNOW, I’m taking this Mueller thing too far, second-guessing my own life. It’s a highly developed paranoia, fed by constantly checking my news feeds, grasping at each New York Times bulletin with the neediness of a child. I can’t sleep and can hardly do my work without logging in to political news. I’m binge-watching history in real time, and it’s Breaking Bad, but without the funny parts.

I need an antidote for this slow poisoning of the spirit, something to calm me down.

I know, I’ll just take a reassuring peek at my 401(k). That is, if I can remember my password ...