by Terry Fallis
Just after the Second World War, a cursed family tradition began when EH2 returned from Europe and joined EH1 in the family business. When he crossed the threshold at Hemmingwear, the die was cast. It was inevitable. Eventually, EH1 retired and EH2 took the reins. From that moment onward, it simply became accepted and expected that the first-born son, who carried the patriarch’s name, would assume the mantle of CEO. Thanks a lot, EH2. This is on your head. Though it’s hard to tell if my father, EH3, has ever really been happy, he is doing his duty to the family as CEO. In a very few years, I’ll be expected to do mine. The pressure has been building for years. Shit.
There’s a line my father likes to cite, too often, when he wants to remind me of the path in life I’m expected to follow. His father, EH2, introduced its overuse in our family but claimed it originally came from the patriarch himself, Earnest Hemmingway I. Quoting those who came before him, my father simply says, “This family tradition is paramount and sacrosanct.” Over the years, it’s been abbreviated to just “paramount and sacrosanct,” and eventually to just two initials. Whenever my father wrote to me when I was away at summer camp, or later at college, he would always add “PS” below his signature. It did not signal that he wanted to add a few more lines. No, his postscript just sat there on the page, a final reminder of my future. No words were needed. His code was well understood. Paramount and sacrosanct. Those two heavy adjectives still hang around my neck.
While still honouring EH1’s founding business strategy, Hemmingwear remains strong and profitable. It’s given me financial security, though I’ve never touched my so-called trust fund, and it promises a steady job at the helm when EH3 is ready to leave. I won’t have to send in my resumé. I won’t have to go through a competition or interviews. I won’t need references. I just have to move my stuff back to Chicago.
It seems churlish to complain about my lot in life. I know, the world should have my problems, right? But I don’t want it, any of it. Yes, I am EH4, but running Hemmingwear will not be my fate. I will not fulfill my birthright. I do not ever want to occupy the corner office at Hemmingwear. I just want to write. Like Ernest Hemingway, no relation, spelled differently. I just want to write. Let someone else make the nation’s underwear.
It took me fifteen minutes to slide myself out of bed and assume an upright position. I hadn’t slept well at all. My tailbone was still killing me. Imagine a colonoscopy with a red-hot sickle, conducted by a doctor with a severe tremor. Yeah, that’s about right. I popped more Advil, but not enough. I stood at the kitchen counter to eat a bowl of multigrain Cheerios. Then I fired up my laptop, carried it to the bookcase in the living room, and placed it on one of the higher shelves. In this way, I could work on it while standing, in the hopes that the red-hot sickle might not be quite so painful. I checked my email with one hand and held a glass of orange juice with the other. My Macdonald-Clark email address had already been disabled, which was fine with me, so I opened my personal Gmail account. I scrolled through the spam until I came upon an email from my younger sister, Sarah, that had arrived moments earlier. All it said in the subject line was “WTF!”
I opened the email. The only content was a YouTube link. Without even hesitating to consider the implications, I clicked on it. Next time, I’ll hesitate a bit to consider the implications. There was something vaguely familiar about the scene that played out in the little rectangle on my laptop screen. It showed some crazed dude hollering at some kind of customer service rep and banging the glass behind which she was safely ensconced. It looked like the DMV. It was the DMV. It slowly came back to me. I’m kidding, I knew immediately what I was looking at. Shit.
Is nothing sacred? Can’t a guy have a public meltdown these days without the unholstering of half a dozen video-equipped smartphones? I remained completely calm. I didn’t even notice when the glass of orange juice slipped from my hands and headed for the hardwood. Luckily, it didn’t shatter when it hit. The glass wasn’t broken, but my big toe might have been. I forgot about my tailbone for the ensuing ten minutes or so and gave thanks for my nearly deaf neighbour.
The YouTube clip had been uploaded the previous evening under the title:
“Famous Writer Flips Out at the DMV”
Very funny. It had been posted just about twelve hours ago so there were only about 309,000 hits so far. I clicked over to the YouTube home page and confirmed my worst fears. The clip was one of YouTube’s featured videos. I’d gone viral.
I clicked back and played the four-minute video in its entirety. I was impressed with the cinematography of the shooter. He’d done a very nice job. And the audio was outstanding. You could hear every word I uttered perfectly clearly. As luck would have it, the guy’s smartphone was also equipped with a digital zoom and he knew how to use it. So not only was the sound great, but on the tight shots toward the end, at the height of my tirade, you could actually see the spittle flying off my mouth and hitting the glass. Powerful stuff.
Then the scene shifted as I exited, stage left. The shooter stayed abreast of the three security guards who were carrying me out. There was none of the grainy, hand-held, home-movie feel of the Zapruder film in Dealey Plaza. It was as if this guy just happened to be holding a Hollywood high-def Steadicam. Then he perfectly framed my brief flight, my tailbone touchdown, and my final breathless exchange with the security guard. The video then faded to black as I lay on the sidewalk. Very nice.
My mind drifted to what soundtrack music might underlie the sequence – perhaps something from Les Misérables, or even Camelot. Then I felt sick. So to help ease my pain, I scrolled down to see if any comments had been left. Yes, there were a few. Well, relative to the 309,000 views, 234 comments constitute “a few.” The first twenty comments could all be categorized as negative, with subheadings like insulting, hostile, ridiculing, and unstable. But the twenty-first read as follows:
Leave him alone! Do you have any idea what it’s like to live with a famous name? Do you? Trust me, it ain’t great. So cut the guy some slack.
J. Stalin
J. Stalin? You’re kidding. I kept scrolling through another twenty-six negative comments before reaching this one:
Get the fuck off the poor sap’s back! Try walking a mile in his shoes, you assholes!
Anne Boleyn
I know a pattern when I see one. I tracked through all of the comments. Of the 234, there were only nine positive ones. Beyond our friends J. Stalin and good old Anne, supportive messages were also left by an F. Sinatra, Gerald Ford, S. Holmes, D. Beckham, Margaret Thatcher, and two other names that I didn’t recognize as famous at all, but I suppose could have been. Interesting.
The ringing phone brought me back.
“Hello.”
“Holy shit! What the hell was that? Were you on something?”
“Sarah?”
“No, it’s Beyoncé,” my sister Sarah replied. “Who did you think it was?”
“Sorry, but I’m more accustomed to the standard telephone opening. You know, the one that goes ‘Hi, Hem, it’s Sarah.’ Something like th – ”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” she cut me off. “Anyway, Hem, you were amazing! It was quite strange and disturbing, but you were still amazing. Oh, and I’m really sorry about your job and about Jenn.”
“How did you find out about that? Did she call you?”
“Hello! Is this thing on?” she mocked tapping her phone. “I found out about your job and Jenn the same way 312,000 other people around the world just did. You’ve gone viral.”
“Shit. Right.”
“Hem, are you all right? What happened, I mean before the DMV?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I have a bruised ass and ego, and I may never sit down again, but I’m fine. I just had the day to end all days. The video sums it up quite nicely. I got laid off and escorted out of the agency I’ve been with for fifteen years. Then I came home and found Jenn and her suitcases in the hallway, with her brother driving the getaway car. And, oh yeah, I lost my wallet the day
before. So to comfort myself, I thought, ‘Well, there’s always the DMV.’ So I went uptown. It was kind of a bad news/good news scenario. I did not get my new driver’s licence, but I’m now on the YouTube home page. Other than that, things are great.”
“Shit, that is one bad day,” she said. “Look, I want to hear everything but have to bail now. I’m coming to New York tomorrow to see you. I should be at your place by eleven.”
“Whoa, um, I’m kind of tied up tomorrow, um, like all day. Rain check?”
“Hem, tomorrow is Saturday. You just lost your job. Your girlfriend just bolted. You have no driver’s licence. And you can’t drive anyway because you broke your ass.” Sarah was now using her most patient voice. “You’ve got all the time in the world. I’m sure you could use the company. And we need to talk. See you tomorrow, and I’m sorry about your day from hell.”
Sarah hung up. Shit. At least I didn’t need to clean the apartment.
My sister and I don’t really get along that well, except Sarah doesn’t seem to know that. Thirteen years my junior, she arrived long after my parents decided one son was sufficient. Sarah dubbed herself “the afterthought.” I left home for college when she was just turning five, and just turning interesting. Since then, we’d never lived under the same roof, except for a day at Thanksgiving and a couple more over Christmas. To strip it right down to the wood, I really didn’t know my sister very well. But she scared me a little.
If my father had noticed, Sarah was actually the first-born son he never really had. She took to business like a morning DJ to coffee. She sailed through a business degree at the University of Chicago before finishing at the top of her MBA class at Northwestern. I was so proud of her. Mom was so proud of her. My father didn’t really seem to notice. He went to her convocation a couple years ago but spent most of the time haranguing me about doing an MBA and “taking my place” in the company. If this upset Sarah, she just channelled any frustration into her career.
Even before graduation, she was courted by all the investment houses and management consulting firms in New York. They offered her more to start than I’d ever make in the ad agency world. But she said no. Turned her back on them all to work at, yes, The Hemmingwear Company. The most single-minded, driven, aggressive, diligent, and pugnacious woman I’ve ever known was trying to climb up the corporate ladder in a men’s underwear company. My father did nothing to help her up. In fact, he sometimes seemed to be greasing the rungs. Our mother lived long enough to see Sarah join the family business, before the cancer finally took her. It was a slow and pain-ridden decline that was hard on everyone. Afterwards, our father, or using the more appropriate appellation, EH3, threw himself into the company to the exclusion of all else. But that wasn’t really much of a change.
I’ve been seeing Dr. Madelaine Scott for ten years now. Apparently, I have some issues. I like her. She’s thoughtful but blunt, and doesn’t speak much, even for a psychiatrist. She seems to keep a certain distance from me that I’m always trying to close. I know. She’s not supposed to open up. That’s my job. I’m the one on the couch. Her office is in a nice brownstone on a leafy crescent on the Upper West Side. She was in her early sixties, but didn’t look it. Her short auburn hair made her seem younger. She always dressed casually. I’d never ever seen her in a dress or skirt. Her office was formal but comfortable. Plush beige broadloom cushioned the feet. Lamp light replaced the traditional overhead fluorescent tubes. The art on the walls was nice but not interesting enough to distract you from the task at hand. You know, exposing your innermost thoughts and sifting through your memories, usually just for clues, but sometimes for real answers.
I used to lie on the couch in the sitting area while we spoke. But after I fell asleep for the third time in our first five appointments, we decided I should sit across from her in the same kind of leather armchair that she uses. I don’t think she ever fell asleep during our appointments.
“Dr. Scott.”
“Hello, Hem. Come in.”
“Thanks for squeezing me in.”
“No problem. That’s what I do,” she replied. “The next thirty minutes are yours. How have you been?”
“Well, funny you should ask. But a lot seems to have happened in the last day.”
“Yes, I know. Wallet, job, and Jennifer, all gone in twenty-four hours. I’m sorry.”
“Wait. I’ve never mentioned that in my voice mail. How did you know?”
I saw her eyes move to the laptop on her desk.
“You’ve seen it, haven’t you?” I said.
She just nodded.
“You just happened to be trolling through YouTube and stumbled across it?”
“Hem, I, like most psychiatrists, have Google Alerts set up for the names of all my patients. I viewed it shortly after it was posted.”
“Were you going to say anything about it to me?”
“I assumed we would come to it, and it seems I was right,” she replied.
Mindful of the time, I spent the next ten minutes giving her an abridged version of my big adventure the day before. Throughout, she said nothing, but nodded a few times, brushed some fluff from her pants, and took a couple of notes.
“That must not have been easy for you. Let’s start with your job. How are you feeling about being let go?”
“Oh, it’s been fantastic! A validation of my contribution to the firm. Recognition of my abilities and achievements as a leading copywriter. And the culmination of a successful and fulfilling career.”
“So we’re back to your standard ‘sarcasm as shield’ avoidance stratagem,” she observed. “Were you good at your job?”
Easy question. I know this one.
“Yes, Dr. Scott. I truly believe I was good at that job. I helped win new business. I wrote some award-winning campaigns. And at least for those early years, I was busy all the time. I was in demand. But the landscape has changed. Long-form isn’t hot now.”
“Okay. You were good at your job,” she summarized. “Now, tell me honestly, Hem, did you love your job?”
My tender tailbone was throbbing. I shifted very gingerly in my chair. I looked at the ceiling. I gazed out the window. I examined my fingernails. I cleared my throat. And when I could avoid it no longer, I actually thought about her very simple question.
I liked some of my colleagues. I liked some of my clients. I even liked wrestling with some of the creative challenges that were dumped on me over fifteen years. I turned it all over in my mind and really thought about it, perhaps for the first time. In my head and in polite conversation, I’ve always made a point of ducking that question. I guess I’ve gotten close to the answer before. But I’ve always managed to shut down before drawing the harsh conclusion.
“No. I’ve never really loved my job,” I replied. “I’ve never leapt out of bed on Monday morning so I could get to the office sooner to immerse myself in what I was truly meant to do on this Earth … write long-form ad copy. No, I guess I didn’t love my job. I’m not even sure I liked it much. The fact of the matter is, I think I can only go as far as ‘I didn’t mind my job.’ ”
“Were you aware of this before just now?”
I fidgeted. And look around the office a bit more.
“Maybe. Probably.” Silence. More silence. “Okay, yes.”
“Hem, just because we’re good at something doesn’t mean we’re meant to spend our lives doing it.”
I thought about that for a bit and nodded, not looking at her.
“You told me in our very first session a decade ago that your dream was to become a writer,” she continued. “Is that still true? Is that still your dream?”
“Yes.”
“Do you need to work right now to earn money to live?”
“No. As my former employer told me, ‘I have a huge package.’ ”
Dr. Scott smiled. I smiled.
“Hem, let’s shift to Jennifer,” she continued. “Did you love living with her?”
I looked at the clock. We
were running out of time so I shed the pretense of deep inner angst and turmoil. I think I knew the answer to this one, finally.
“I loved living with her for the first eight months or so but then I started missing the freedom of my old life. But doing something about it would have been a huge deal. So I did nothing about it. I was paralyzed. Or more accurately, I guess I chose to be paralyzed.”
That earned a nod from Dr. Scott.
“Living together just kind of became more of a routine, a habit, and less a real relationship,” I admitted.
“Good. It feels like you’ve thought this through. Okay, Hem, here’s a big one. Did you love Jennifer? Did you really love her?”
“No.”
“Okay, we’re nearly out of time. So let me skip to the end. Hem, on the YouTube video, you seemed like you were very upset and acting out in ways that are not consistent with your personality and beliefs.”
I just nodded.
“In light of your candid responses in the last half-hour, is it possible that your little episode at the DMV yesterday was not because you couldn’t cope with losing your job and your girlfriend, but rather because you just don’t know how to handle the unexpected freedom you suddenly now have?”
Five minutes later we both rose from our chairs and I headed for the door.
“Did you notice the comments on the video?” I asked her.
“Well, I scanned a few but didn’t really like what I was reading so I stopped. Why?”
“I know there were tons of vitriolic comments, but sprinkled in among them were a handful of supportive ones, most from other people with famous or nearly famous names.”
