No Relation (18 page)

“We’re not there yet. But take heart, we’re not where we started, either.”

The torrential downpour rained out our second ball game. I suspect our opponents were more upset about it than we were. Still, all ten of us met at the Y for our third meeting, a few of us wearing our NameFame jerseys. I took it as a good sign that everyone thought it important enough to brave the monsoon to get there. Then, just as we were about to start, two new people arrived. Just like that we were an even dozen.

“Hey, new recruits!” said Jackie Kennedy.

The good-looking couple, a man and a woman in their mid-thirties I figured, looked at us and then at each other. The slim woman with long blond hair had a deer-in-the-headlights look as she scanned the room. The guy with the highlighted layered hair and chiselled jaw looked as if he’d just finished starring in the sequel to
Top Gun
, for which he had been ridiculously highly compensated. He just had that way about him. Though I tried, I could not deny his movie-star good looks, and I could see that all the women in the room were paying close attention. Including Marie.

“Welcome to our humble little group,” I said as I stood. “This
is the weekly meeting of the group we call NameFame. Are you in the right place?”

“Yes. I just saw the notice in the Y newsletter. Sorry I missed the first two meetings,” the blond woman replied. “Should I just take a seat?”

I waved her into the final vacant chair next to Marie and turned to engage the matinee idol. He was running his eyes over the group, lingering on Marie and the new blond woman beside her.

“Um, are you two not together?” I asked him.

“Not yet we’re not,” he replied, flashing her a Hollywood grin.

“Whatever do you mean by that comment!” Hat snapped as he bounced to his feet and then immediately threw himself back into his seat. “Sorry, so sorry. That was clearly an overreaction on my part. Pray, continue.”

Hat reached into his pocket, where I assume his butterscotch candies resided.

“I was just kidding. No harm, no foul,” the man said, his hands up as if at gunpoint.

Hat leaned over and put a candy on the arm of the new guy’s chair.

“Please, recommence your introduction but don’t eat that butterscotch until you’re finished. It makes it hard to speak, but it’s very, very tasty.”

We all smiled at him and nodded. Hat did, too.

“Um, right then, well, I’ll start again. Hi everyone. I’m John Dillinger, you know, the famous bank robber.”

“Ahhh, America’s first official Public Enemy Number One back in the thirties,” piped up Hat. “Am I not right? Tell me I am not right.”

“Bingo,” said John Dillinger, aiming and firing his finger gun at Hat, who looked very pleased with himself. “Anyway, I’m an actor, born in Georgia, but now living here. I was in the Y working out – gotta keep my physique in shape, you know – when I heard two trainers talking about this group. I sure enough know what it’s like to be named after an outlaw and a folk hero. Thought I’d check you out.”

“What have you been in?” asked Peter Parker. “Would we have seen you in any movies or
TV
shows?”

“Well, ah, no, not yet, but it’s only a matter of time,” he explained. “I’ve done a
TV
commercial to tide me over until I get my break.”

“Oh yeah, which one? Maybe we’ve seen that,” asked Clark

Kent.

“Nah, I doubt you’ve seen it.”

“Come on, don’t be shy. What was it for?” Clark persisted.

“Depends,” John Dillinger replied.

“Depends on what?” Jackie Kennedy said.

“No, I mean the commercial was for Depends. You know, those adult diaper thingies.”

We just looked at him, trying to picture the ad. At least no one snickered.

“You know, it paid well, and it got me in front of the camera. And I wasn’t that busy, so I took it.”

“I think I know that ad,” Hat jumped in. “Were you that handsome lad dancing in a disco, then skiing, and then bouncing on a pogo stick to prove the product’s superior efficacy?”

“Well, I guess at least one of you has seen it.” John Dillinger puffed out his chest just a bit.

“You were very convincing in it, I must say,” Hat commended.

“And you kept dry through all of that? Impressive.”

“Actually, I was just the actor. I wasn’t really wearing the product at the time. Um, as I said, I was just the actor.”

“Well, I certainly thought that pogo stick looked like fun.”

John Dillinger nodded.

“Ah, thank you, Hat,” I intervened, lest our new member be scared off. “You’re welcome here, John. Grab a seat,” I suggested, pointing to the stack of chairs in the corner.

He picked a chair off the stack and, despite several spots with more room, sidled up right behind Marie and the new blond woman, forcing them to separate their chairs so he could squeeze between them, beaming the whole time. They didn’t seem to mind.

“Why don’t we hear from our other new member,” I proposed, gesturing with an open hand toward the very attractive blond woman.

“Oh, okay,” she said as she stood, smoothing out her dress. “I’m afraid my name is Julia Roberts, a perfectly normal and serviceable name until 1990 when a little movie called
Pretty Woman
changed my life. I’m a tax lawyer in Manhattan and I take fitness classes here at the Y. You have no idea how often I have to endure funny looks and comments because I happen
to have the same name as a Hollywood superstar. It’s been very difficult, especially when I’m in court.”

“A cracking movie,” noted Professor James Moriarty.

“Yes, and her boots were certainly memorable,” Hat said.

“Um, nice to have you here, Julia,” I said. “And to your point, I would just say that the people in this room may be among the only ones who actually do understand what you’ve been going through, because we’re going through it, too, every day. Let’s just go around the room quickly so that Julia Roberts and John Dillinger know who we all are. By the way, we tend to use complete names here. It’s a reminder that our names are totally acceptable and should be freely used.”

It took another ten minutes or so to circle the room. Julia and John looked a little shell-shocked by the end. Their eyes opened a little bit wider as each NameFame member stood to announce themselves.

“All right, so now that we’ve all been formally introduced, let’s get started,” I said. “At our last meeting we arrived at a consensus of sorts on our little NameFame taxonomy, a basic classification system to help us understand our own, and each other’s, situations. So tonight, I thought one of you could tell us more about the personal challenges your name has created, and then as a group we could brainstorm some strategies for making life a little easier. Next week, someone else would step up and be the focus. Make sense?”

There was much nodding around the circle.

“Sounds like a plan,” said Diana Ross.

“Okay, so who’d like to volunteer tonight?”

For the first time since the meeting started, silence reigned. No hands and no voices were raised to claim the floor. Finally, I saw Jesse Owens start to lift her hand. I jumped on it fast in case she was reaching up to scratch her nose or adjust her bangs.

“Excellent, Jesse. Thank you,” I said.

“Well, actually, I was going to suggest that as our fearless leader, you could tell us what’s going on with you, just as a way to kick-start us a bit. I’m sure by next week we can find someone else to step up.”

“Yes, I think that is a very wise proposal,” chimed in Hat. “Very wise, indeed.”

“Capital idea,” echoed Professor James Moriarty.

This was not what I had planned. But I felt my hands were tied, not to mention suddenly sweaty. I decided if I set a good example, we’d have clear sailing at future meetings.

“It sort of feels like I’ve done a lot of talking during our first two meetings. Are you sure no one feels ready to jump in with their story tonight?”

A second bout of silence descended.

“I guess it’s decided,” I conceded. “Rather than give you my entire life’s story, let me focus on one recent problem that is directly related to my name, Earnest Hemmingway.”

I stood up and moved a little toward the middle of the circle. I always think better when I’m on my feet and moving.

“The legendary writer Ernest Hemingway and I do not get along. Despite his undisputed status as a literary god, I have never understood the adulation and the idolatry he inspires. I’m convinced his fame is driven by the no-holds-barred life he led rather than by his writing. And to be clear, I have nothing against the way he lived. I just don’t like his writing. In fact, I hate it. So flat, so spare, so barren, so devoid of the richness and glory of the English language. When I open one of his novels, I feel like I’m reading from a Second Grade reader. Now some think his writing is pure and pristine, the ideal for which all writers should strive. I say no. Emphatically, no.

“Anyway, I’ve been trying to write a novel for several years now. It was all going quite well until a few weeks ago. I’ve come down with a severe case of writer’s block. I seem to be able to speak fine but the only writing I’ve been able to do is a weekly shopping list. Writer’s block is nothing new for many writers, but it’s never happened to me. I’m stuck.

“But the good news is, I actually think I’ve figured out what’s happening. I just don’t know how to fix it.”

“So what’s your diagnosis, doctor?” asked Jackie Kennedy.

“I hope I can count on you all for understanding and empathy, because this is going to sound a little strange. I’ll try to be brief. The bottom line is I believe the spirit of Ernest Hemingway has infiltrated my mind, staked his squatter’s claim, and stayed.”

Despite my promise of brevity, I talked for the next twenty minutes or so about how I could sense not only Hemingway’s
presence, but his rejection of my prose. It all came pouring out of me in one long torrent. I told them everything. It was close to cathartic. I explained how I’d excised all vestiges of Hemingway from my apartment and my life, yet nothing had changed. I conceded that I didn’t believe in ghosts but accepted that my name had somehow brought all of this on. Finally, I admitted that my psychiatrist was not persuaded by my Hemingway’s ghost thesis, though she declined to offer any viable alternatives. The more I spoke, the more depressed I became. The looks on their faces told me that few if any creative solutions would be forthcoming. Well, it had been a good try.

“I believe in ghosts,” Hat said in solidarity. “My great-grandmother appears now and again in a little snow globe that I keep on top of my dresser.”

“I sometimes hear noises at night when I’m closing up the café-bakery. I’ve been meaning to research the history of the building. Maybe it’s haunted,” offered Marie.

The debate over the existence of spirits and ghosts raged for another ten minutes or so. Occasionally, the discussion even veered within spitting distance of my particular problem. In the end, there was no shortage of suggestions, prescriptions, home remedies, and incantations, but neither were there any epiphanies that evening. A few suggested medication
(“SSRIS
are all the rage these days”). Others were interested in employing some kind of shaman or ghost-buster to send Ernest packing (“Who you gonna call?”). In one of the more thoughtful suggestions, Jesse proposed that I write about
the presence of Ernest Hemingway in my apartment, or perhaps even write to him. Marie thought I should try writing elsewhere, perhaps in the café-bakery. (Not a bad idea.) Hat even suggested I consider electroshock therapy (“Yes, it sounds scary, but I assure you, it really isn’t that bad”). Jackie Kennedy urged that I pray (“When I have a problem, I drop to my knees next to my bed”).

“What about yoga?” asked John Dillinger, who’d spent most of the meeting in what appeared to be intimate private conversations with Marie Antoinette and Julia Roberts on either side of him. “I do it sometimes to cleanse my mind before auditions so I can assume any role I’m assigned.”

I bet cleansing his mind didn’t take very long, I thought.

“Interesting idea, John Dillinger, but I think it’s going to take more than pulling a hamstring in a Downward Dog to clear Mr. Hemingway out of my mind. But thank you.”

I felt a little bad being so dismissive, but I didn’t really like the vibe I was getting from America’s first Public Enemy Number One. He had slipped into our midst a little too easily, a little too quickly, a little too smoothly. I wondered if anyone else in the room shared my reservations.

The discussion sort of petered out after Julia suggested filing a restraining order against Ernest Hemingway. I knew she’d said it in jest, but not everyone around the circle picked up on the joke. The meeting broke up shortly thereafter.

“Thanks, everyone, for the helpful suggestions. I’ll give it all some thought and keep you posted,” I said, drawing the meeting
to a close. “Think about who might like to share their situation next week. Sorry about the rainout, but the long-term forecast suggests that we’ll be back playing next week. Julia and John, you’re welcome to play on our softball team now that you’ve passed the initiation to join the group. We could use the support.”