No Relation

by Terry Fallis

  “And anyway, there is no handbrake in this car,” added Mario helpfully.

  Officer No More Mr. Nice Guy was not impressed.

  “I need the driver’s learner’s permit.”

  “Uh boy, here we go.” Mario sighed as he passed it to me so I could hand it over to the officer.

  The cop burst out laughing as he looked at it, which I think was better than some of the other reactions he might have had.

  “No, this cannot be true. You have got to be shittin’ me,” the officer said, laughing.

  “Believe me, I wish I were,” Mario replied.

  “Yes, I know it seems unlikely and, um, to some, hilarious that a guy with my young friend’s name here needs driving lessons, but however far-fetched it sounds, that’s really what’s going on here,” I said. “It’s the truth.”

  “Unbelievable. You can’t make this stuff up,” the officer said between snorts. “Okay, now I need to see some ID from you as well.”

  “Is that really necessary?” I asked.

  “You got somethin’ to hide, smartass? Hand it over.”

  Fan-friggin-tastic. I took a deep breath and dug for my wallet.

  “Officer, I really think giving you my ID is just going to, um, make matters worse.” I passed my driver’s licence over to him. He studied it for a moment. I watched closely and waited for the expression on his face to change, for the penny to drop, for that particular synapse to spark, for his mind to blow. When all four happened simultaneously, I delivered my standard pre-emptive strike. “No relation.”

  At first, he accused both Mario and me of, as he so delicately put it, “fuckin’ with me.” It took three more pieces of ID from each of us and long exchanges on his radio before he was satisfied that we might actually be who we claimed to be. Luckily, I’d managed to reacquire enough of my ID following the lost wallet fiasco to survive the situation. Twenty minutes later, having squeezed all the fun he could out of our entertaining encounter, the police officer finally drove away, bearing his precious cargo, a great story he could hardly wait to tell his colleagues at their post-shift beer-guzzling. We waited until he was out of sight around a bend in the road before switching seats. I drove Mario home.

  “I really think I learned something today,” Mario said when I pulled into his driveway. “About driving, I mean. Thanks a lot, Hem. I’ve got no one to help me get better, so that was awesome. Thanks.”

  “No worries. I could really see improvement by the end,” I lied, wanting to be encouraging. “Next time, we’ll do it on a sunny day when it’ll feel more like driving a car and less like helming a submarine.”

  As I pulled away, Mario waved from his front porch, so I waved back. Thinking more clearly on the drive home, I wasn’t sure there’d actually be a next time. Reviewing our little driving lesson, I realized I’d feared for my life the entire time. Yes, I guess a generous observer might conclude that Mario had improved over the course of our session. But successfully adjusting your mirrors and remembering only once to bring the car to a full stop before ramming the gearshift into Park was setting the improvement bar rather low.

  “So how goes the exciting and interesting life of Earnest Hemmingway the fourth?”

  Dr. Madelaine Scott was seated where she always was for our sessions, and I was in my regular chair.

  “Oh, you know, same old, same old,” I started. “I’ve managed to persuade nine other New Yorkers with famous names to show up for our little weekly pity party at the Y. We lost our first ball game so spectacularly that the Times may consider assigning a sports reporter to document our season. For weeks now I haven’t been able to put two words together on the novel that make any sense thanks to an arrogant literary spectre who’s trying to flatten my prose so much it would bore an entire English-as-a-second-language class. And, wait, there’s something else I’m forgetting. Oh yes, I was almost arrested this morning for teaching Mario Andretti how to drive. Otherwise, it’s been an uneventful couple of weeks.”

  “All right, then. I think our work here is done. Thanks for stopping by,” Dr. Scott replied.

  I just looked at her.

  “Hem, I’m kidding. Contrary to popular belief, psychiatrists quite often have a sense of humour.”

  “Sorry, I just hadn’t picked up …” I fumbled. “Um, your deadpan delivery was outstanding.”

  I took the next fifteen minutes or so to bring Dr. Scott up to speed on the NameFame group. I tried to be nonchalant about it all, but I think she noticed the pride I’d gained in the process.

  “Congratulations. I confess I was uncertain you’d find anyone to join,” she replied. “So what have you learned and how has it made you feel?”

  “Well, there was this almost instantaneous comfort knowing there were others in the same position. I could see they felt it, too. There was a sort of kinship among us that surfaced as the meeting continued. It’s hard to explain.”

  “Actually, it’s not hard to explain at all,” Dr. Scott observed. “Even disparate groups with diverse demography that share an unusual life experience quite often come together very quickly. I’m not surprised at all. It’s elemental group dynamics.”

  “Okay, so maybe it’s not that hard to explain. All I can say is, I wasn’t really expecting it to unfold that way. It was, you know, nice.”

  “All right, we have about twenty minutes left, so let’s move on to the third party in the room,” Dr. Scott proposed.

  On instinct I looked around her office.

  “Hem, I’m referring to the ghostly presence you believe is thwarting your efforts to write the great American novel. What makes you think the ghost of Ernest Hemingway is haunting you?”

  “Okay, I admit it’s a little weird. But I can feel him when I sit down to write. He, um, feels big, bold, brash, cocky, manly, and it’s like he’s taunting me.”

  “Do you see him or hear him at all?” she asked.

  “Of course not. I don’t believe in ghosts. I accept that it’s all in my head, but his presence feels real enough to stop my brain from assembling words the way I used to.”

  “You still speak in rather nice flowing sentences,” she noted.

  “Well, the words may be flowing, unimpaired, from my mouth, but they’re certainly not flying from my fingers.”

  “And what steps have you taken to manage this … situation?” she asked.

  “Well, I’ve tried to rid myself of any traces of Ernest Hemingway. All of my books by him or about him, my fisherman knit sweater, my History of the Spanish Civil War DVD boxed set, even the Paris etchings that hung in my hallway, are now all in my storage locker,” I said. “I’ve also imposed a personal moratorium on big game hunting on the African savannah, and I’ve cancelled my subscription to Bullfighter Quarterly.”

  “I see you’ve been very thorough. But do you think that’s a rational response? And even if we accept your premise, are you certain it’s Ernest Hemingway and not someone else?”

  “Who else would it be?” I replied.

  “Who else, indeed?”

  “Now that’s another one of your cryptic comments designed to turn everything back to me, right?”

  “Remember our roles here, Hem,” she replied. “My job is to pose questions. Your job is to remember, reflect, and respond. Just because you don’t yet know the answers doesn’t mean you don’t have them.”

  “That sounds great on paper, Dr. Scott, but I’ve been scouring my own brainpan for quite some time now and I’m not finding much.”

  “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.