by Terry Fallis
“It looks to me, and to everyone else in the room, that he’s taken a shine to more than the great food.”
“Underneath his act, he’s actually pretty nice. He made some good suggestions as we refined the exorcism tour idea. It’s just tough to get him to step off the stage for any length of time,” Marie observed.
“Do you want me to try to get him out the door for you?”
“No, he’s fine, but thanks. He’s taking me out later on anyway. Besides, he may actually order something soon and I don’t want to miss the sale.”
“Wow, he moves fast,” I said as I headed to the door. “Thanks again for bringing this crazy tour idea forward. I’m grateful. It actually means a lot to me that you and the others would go to that trouble.”
“Well, we NameFamers have to stick together,” she said before going back over to John Dillinger’s table.
Just before I opened the door, I looked over at him.
“Thanks for your help on the trip idea, John. Very kind of you.” I waved to him.
“No worries, bro. Happy to help. I hope it quiets the voices in your head. If not, well, I’ve got a special jacket you can wear when you get back. But you’ll need help putting it on.”
“Thanks anyway, but you keep it. You may need it again sometime. You never know,” I replied. “Oh, by the way, we could use whatever baseball skills you may have for our Thursday game this week. Are you in?”
“Well, it’s true, quite a bit of my youth was spent tearing up the diamond. So let me just check the old schedule to make sure I don’t have an audition that night. You know, I’m juggling quite a few of them right now.”
As he checked his BlackBerry, he sighed heavily, nearly overcome with the trauma of managing so many audition requests.
“Oh well, will you look at that, I’m clear that night, so I guess I can play.”
“Just our luck. I’ll bring your jersey to the game.”
By this time, Marie was standing next to him. I saw him put his hand on the small of her back as he spoke to her, presumably to place his long-awaited order. Then I was out the door.
When I revved up my laptop, there were separate emails waiting for me from Professor James Moriarty and Hat with more information about dates and flight times. They were very well organized and seemed quite committed to this journey. I’d already sent separate emails to James, Marie, and Hat offering to cover the costs of their respective portions of the tour. I thought that was only fair. Marie and James turned me down flat. Marie had already booked her Paris trip for the pastry course and would be staying with a friend who had an apartment in Saint-Germain. James said that he’d always wanted to visit Toronto anyway as they have an extensive collection of Sherlockiana and Arthur Conan Doyle artifacts at the main branch of the Toronto Public Library. Besides, he had plenty of frequent flyer miles he could cash in for his flight. Mahatma Gandhi, on the other hand, was not quite so quick to decline the offer though he was clearly uncomfortable with the idea of “freeloading,” as he put it in his return email. I hit Reply and told him that I appreciated his support, and just to leave it to me. I think he was relieved.
Two hours later, the entire trip, you know, the EHEWT, was planned and booked. It’s amazing what one can do on the Internet with a Visa card. Here was the basic itinerary:
Thursday, July 4: I fly to Toronto with Professor James Moriarty.
Friday, July 5: I fly from Toronto to Paris to join Marie Antoinette, who will have arrived for her pastry course a few days before.
Tuesday, July 9: I take an overnight train on my own from Paris to Vitoria, Spain, and then a bus to Pamplona, arriving early Wednesday morning.
Wednesday, July 10: I retrace the same overnight journey from Pamplona back to Paris, arriving Thursday morning.
Thursday, July 11: I fly from Paris to Miami, arriving midafternoon, local time, where I meet Hat. Then we catch a connecting flight to Key West, Florida.
Saturday, July 13: Hat and I fly back to Miami, where we separate. He heads back to New York while I catch a flight to Boise, Idaho.
Sunday, July 14: I drive my rental car from Boise to Ketchum, then back again to Boise in the evening.
Monday, July 15: Fly from Boise back to New York, having shed the judgmental and conceited spirit of Ernest Hemingway somewhere along the way.
Here endeth the Ernest Hemingway Exorcism World Tour.
It wasn’t exactly shaping up to be a leisurely vacation. Then again, it wasn’t intended to be relaxing. I considered it to be more akin to rehab without security and the shakes. I was trying to rid myself of a toxin that was preventing me from reaching a goal I’d set for myself a very long time ago. I was angry. I was motivated. I was ready. It’s quite possible, even likely, that I was deluded. But I was going to give it a shot.
I wasn’t certain about the idea of sharing this adventure with Marie, James, and Hat. But I never would have thought of this without them. This was their idea. I actually felt a little misty-eyed whenever I replayed their late-night visit to my apartment to “present” the solution they’d devised. It was thoughtful, generous, and kind. More accurately, they were thoughtful, generous, and kind. So there was no way I was going to question their notion that I be accompanied for as much of the journey as possible. That was part of the deal.
There was perfect attendance again for our NameFame meeting on Thursday. It all seemed to go very well. Jackie Kennedy told us more about her life and the challenges of carrying such a famous moniker. As I listened to her, I was reminded of how much easier it is to handle the baggage that comes with a famous name when you’re a confident and strong person to begin with. As well, unlike some of the other members, take me for instance, Jackie had lived until she was a young adult before her name was suddenly thrust into the national spotlight when JFK ran for president in 1960. I decided that if you can make it through childhood before someone else with your name becomes famous, it’s often easier to handle what follows.
We walked en masse to Central Park for our second ball game. We were facing the Spin Masters, a team composed of public relations professionals. They were all young and good-looking, even in their uncomfortable, plastic mesh jerseys. Having John Dillinger and Julia Roberts join the team meant that Professor James Moriarty could join Jackie Kennedy in our cheering section, still leaving us with one player in reserve on the bench in case we ever wanted to put in a pinch hitter or runner with the game on the line. Yes, with our roster up to an even dozen, we could now add those kinds of sophisticated baseball stratagems to our arsenal. And considering our rather pathetic hitting, fielding, and baserunning, we needed all the sophisticated baseball stratagems we could get.
John Dillinger was actually not a bad player, but he “acted,” in the truest sense of the word, like a major league all-star, or major-league ass, depending on your perspective. He’d gone out and purchased brand-new genuine baseball pants, spikes, and batting gloves. He had a tough time breaking the little plastic tie that kept the two batting gloves together, but he got it eventually. Then he wore them as he sprinted up and down shallow left field, lifting his knees so high on each step he was in danger of knocking himself out. Then he lay on the ground and stretched as he’d probably seen Derek Jeter do it in the Yankees pre-game warm-up.
“I hope the new kid plays as well as he stretches,” Jackie said, shaking her head.
I handed in our roster to the announcer behind the screen. It was the same man with a megaphone who’d had such fun with our names in our first game. Great.
NameFame Starting Lineup
Centre Field: Earnest Hemmingway #10
1st base: Jesse Owens #5
Shortstop: John Dillinger #1
2nd base: Peter Parker #8
3rd base: Diana Ross #4
Left Field: Marie Antoinette #9
Right Field: Mahatma Gandhi #6
Rover (4th outfielder): Clark Kent #7
Catcher: Mario Andretti #2
Substitute: Julia Rob
erts #12
Umpire Liaison and Senior Cheerleader: Jackie Kennedy #3
Assistant Umpire Liaison and Cheerleader: James Moriarty #11
Yes, it’s true. I had reluctantly agreed to John Dillinger’s request and given him the jersey with number one on the back.
Then Jesse Owens called us all in to the dugout for a pep talk as the Spin Masters took the field.
“Nothing fancy out there tonight, guys,” she started. “When you’re at the plate, we’re just looking for a little bat-on-ball contact. When you see the ball come off the bat, your eyes should be focused on one thing and one thing only …”
“The ball, right?” Hat interjected. “We always must watch the ball. Am I not right, Ms. Owens?”
“Actually, Hat, you watch the ball before you hit. But after you’ve connected with the ball, you should be looking only at first base. Concentrate and run for the bag as fast you can.”
“Oh, I’m so stupid!” Hat shouted, slapping both his thighs hard enough that mine stung in sympathy. “Listen, Mahatma, listen!”
He looked ready to break something, and I hoped it wouldn’t be his legs.
“Hat, it’s okay. You’re okay. Have a butterscotch and breathe. That’s it, breathe,” soothed Jesse, her hands holding his hands to prevent a self-inflicted bilateral charley horse. “You’re right, Hat, watching the ball is very important when you’re at the plate and the pitch is coming toward you. By all means, watch the ball then. But after you hit it, run for your life.”
Then Jesse looked back to all of us.
“Remember, when you hear the bat hit the ball, think about nothing else but reaching first base.”
“That’s easy for me,” said a smirking John Dillinger. “I’ve spent a good part of my life getting to first base.”
Only John Dillinger chuckled.
Jesse had decided that we should front-load our batting order to try to get some runs on the board early. It actually worked, at least for a while. With Clark Kent pitching us easy ones from the mound, I led off with a double down the third base line. Jesse then pounded one out to right, as she had in our first game, bringing me home and earning herself a second triple in two games. Then John Dillinger spent a bit too long swinging in the on-deck circle and doing squats with his bat behind his head.
“Okay, superstar, get in the batter’s box,” instructed the umpire.
“Now at the plate, Public Enemy Number One, wearing number one, the very tough-to-catch John Dillinger,” intoned the announcer.
I was sitting next to Hat and grabbed the waistband of his red short-shorts to stop him from storming out of the dugout. I’m glad the shorts held together. Hat really did not like announcer-guy.
John settled in the box, took far too many practice swings, then signalled to Clark that he was finally ready. On the first pitch, he belted a triple into the gap between centre and right, bringing home Jesse. We led 2–0, with no outs. This was great. The team was thrilled to be leading. Jackie and James were hooting from the stands behind the plate. Well, Jackie was hooting. James stuck with “Bravo” and “Good show” and “Well played.”
As announcer-guy reached for the trigger of his megaphone, I put my arm around Hat, more in restraint than in affection.
“Now batting, wearing number eight, the absolutely perfect number for him, the shortstop, Peter Parker.”
I hugged Hat a little tighter, and he stayed put. I felt like a jerk for having given Peter number eight. The connection never occurred to me until the comedian at the scorer’s table gave voice to it. I’m not sure Peter had yet figured it out as he stepped up to the plate. I made a mental note to switch jerseys with him for our next game.
Peter smashed a grounder directly into the glove of the shortstop. Damn. But wait, the throw to first was high and sailed into the fence. Peter sauntered to second on the error as John came home, waving to the crowd, to make it 3–0.
Then, in quick succession, Diana Ross and Marie Antoinette both grounded out to the second baseman, bringing Hat to the plate for his swing at the ball. I looked over at the announcer and saw that Jackie Kennedy was standing next to his little table, holding his megaphone. I’m not sure how she’d relieved him of his precious PA system, but she had. Hat was not formally introduced before he cricket-hit a dribbler to the first baseman for our third out. Don’t mess with Jackie.
The triumphant first half of the first inning is what I choose to remember of our game against the Spin Masters. We were leading 3–0. We were winning. Really! Regrettably, no thunderstorms arrived to rain out the game. There was no power outage to throw the field into darkness. There was no brush fire in Central Park to send us fleeing for the subway. No, the game just continued. It ended after the fifth inning with the Spin Masters winning 50–3. The ten runs per inning mercy rule got another workout that night. There was no need for the PR pros who whipped our ass to “spin” their victory in any way. They didn’t have to search for a tiny sliver of positive news and then embroider it into a colossal victory. No, the 50–3 truth was quite convincing all on its own.
Our Achilles heel as a team, although our weak spot covered a lot more than our heel, was our defence. In the entire game, we caught two fly balls, threw out two at first base, and managed a single force-out at second. We could have had another out when their cleanup hitter tried to stretch her single into a double. Hat made quite a good pickup of the looper into shallow right, catching the ball in his bare hand on the second bounce. But instead of throwing it to second for an easy out, he promptly threw the ball to me deep in centre field. I’m still not sure why, and neither is he. When I managed to return the ball to the infield, the batter had stretched her single into a triple, bringing in two more runs. Over the course of five innings, we’d only managed to get five outs against the Spin Masters. Without the aptly named mercy rule, we might still be playing the game.
“We’ll drive you home,” I said to Marie. “My car is here.”
Mario, Marie, and I had just walked back to the Y, where I’d parked. The others were headed for the bar.
“Very kind of y’all. I’ll take the lift. My legs are sore from running after all those balls,” Marie replied as I held the car door open for her. “Why can’t they just hit them closer to us?”
I considered it to be a rhetorical question and wasn’t sure how I’d respond anyway. I handed her the seat belt and closed the door.
“Do you think it’ll be safe?” Mario whispered. He was somewhat agitated.
“Of course it’s safe. You’ll be fine,” I assured him.
I got in the front passenger side as Mario slipped into the driver’s seat.
“Okay, Mario, you know the drill,” I said and waited.
Mario reached for the power seat control. A motorized hum accompanied the forward slide of his seat.
“Okay, that’s far enough!” Mario said, alarmed.
His seat just kept sliding forward, his knees pushing up against the steering column.
“Make it stop! That’s far enough. It’s squishing me!”
“Let go of the button,” I said. “Just let go!”
He did. He stopped.
“Sorry, lost my head,” Mario said. “I’m a little claustrophobic and it makes me forget what I’m doing.”
He worked the button again to move the seat back to where he wanted it.
“Bring it up a little closer, Mario. Remember where your feet need to be. Okay, stop,” I said. “How’s that feel?”
“Good, I guess.”
“Okay. What’s next?”
“Three Hail Marys?” he asked. I hoped he was just kidding, but he didn’t look like it.
“Mirrors,” I said.
“Right.”
He adjusted them.
“Okay, we’re set to go as soon as we’re all belted.”
“I’ll be having a belt as soon as I get home,” Mario replied. “Marie, are you sure you don’t want to catch a cab, or jump on the subway, or crawl on your han
ds and knees back to your place?”
“You’re doing just fine, Mario. I’m just where I want to be right now,” said Marie.
The traffic was reasonably clear. It was as if everyone had been warned that Mario would be on the streets that night. Ten minutes later we pulled up to Let Them Eat Cake! Well, to be a bit more precise, we pulled up on the sidewalk in front of the café-bakery. But it was a good try. He’d actually done quite well, staying in his lane for most of the trip, and twice remembering to use his turn signal before he’d completed the corner. And fortunately, when he ran that red, there was no cross-traffic in the intersection. Believe it or not, I could see improvement. And there still was not a scratch on my G35.
I hopped out, relieved to be on the sidewalk, albeit along with my car, and opened Marie’s door.
“Why thank you, sir,” she said, taking the hand I offered. I liked the feel of her hand.
“Keep her running, Mario, I’ll be right back.”
I walked Marie to the door that led to her second-floor apartment.
“It’s awfully nice of you to put your life and car on the line helping Mario get his licence,” she said.
“He just needs more practice. He’ll get there.”
“I know he will, but that wasn’t my point. You’re a good guy to do it.”
I didn’t really know what to say to that.
“So, um, how was your date the other night with Public Enemy Number One?”
She laughed.
“Oh, it was fine. It was nice.”
“What role was he playing?”
“It was a little hard to tell. I think it was changing over the course of the night. But eventually, I think he was actually playing himself. It takes a while to get there but it was worth the wait. He’s really quite nice – much more than just a very pretty face attached to a well-toned body.”
Awesome. Glad to hear it. Shit.
“So, um, you leave for Paris next Wednesday and then I’ll see you there Saturday. My flight lands in the morning,” I said.
“Yes, Hem. The plan hasn’t changed since we last discussed it at the game about an hour ago,” she said, but smiled just the same.
