Dreamcatcher. Stephen King. Early 2000’s movie. Jonesy had what he called a “Memory Warehouse.” Basically, a photographic memory — or as Sheldon would call it, eidetic memory. His brain was so good an alien took over his body just to poke around. But Jonesy was so in control, he could lock stuff up and keep the alien out.

I like to think I’ve got maybe half that talent. I can remember back to before kindergarten — about three years old. My mom asked if I was wearing underwear before a trip. I said yes. She didn’t buy it. Gave me the mom wedgie check and told me to go put some on. I can still picture the Chrysler LeBaron we were driving and the creepy old house with the basement. But I couldn’t tell you if I actually went back in to put them on or just got in the car. No clue. That’s my earliest memory.

I remember starting kindergarten too. Not the first day, but moments. I was four — one of the youngest. Most kids were five, except Jamie H., born the same day as me. Didn’t know that then. Mary Beth taught me how to draw a star. That random detail is burned into my brain forever. Why? No idea.

Then there’s the one from when I was maybe seven or eight. Weird one. I was asleep — or thought I was. My eyes cracked open toward the window…

Three sisters in a three-bedroom house. They shared a room. I had my own. Logical call by my parents. I was an asshole. Not nice. Maybe it was the “only boy in a house full of sisters” thing. (More on that another time.) Anyway — eyes cracked open, and I see a man. Big guy. Face pressed to the glass. Dark outside, but I could make out the features.

I froze. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream. Finally, I broke free — tried to yell — nothing came out. Frog in my throat. I bolted, ran to my parents’ room, and finally croaked out, “man… window… bad!!”

Dad, muttering under his breath, stumbles into dad mode — cop mode. Checks my room, looks out the window. Nothing. “It was a dream. Go back to sleep.”

Yeah, okay Dad. I didn’t sleep right again until I was 14.

Then puberty hit. Life got harder — in more ways than one. I got a job (thanks, Jake). High school. Too tired not to sleep. We moved, same town, still had my own room. Sleep came easy again — and so did the dreams.

Some of those dreams are keepers, but that door’s locked. Go ahead, try it. I’ve got plenty of memories from 6th grade on, but before I get there… 5th grade is a real keeper of a story. Coming soon.

Anyway, the whole point here — dreams. Real? Did it happen, or is it just a dream memory? No idea. But I know this — not knowing is probably for the best.

Because if I had full control of my memory warehouse… there are a few rooms in there that are better left locked.

— Dick, keeper of the locked doors