by John Barth
Dad's advice: "Forget it, pal. Teasing's part of every schoolkid's routine."
"Just remember how it feels," suggested Mom, "if you're ever tempted to tease somebody about their name or appearance or whatever."
"Your first and last names both are names to be proud of, son."
Mock-indignant Maddy then, "Not the middle?"
"Middle too!" her husband amended, and patted his wife's near knee. "For sure!"
"Did Grandpa get called Phil-up and stuff?"
Speaking to his son's image in the rearview mirror, "Not that he ever mentioned."
And Madeline, with a knowing small smile at her spouse, "Grandpa Phil was never one for mentioning things."
Their son then and there decided "I hate my name!"
"No!"
"I hate my name, too," offered four-year-old Marsha, who until that moment had never thought about her name.
"No you don't." Mom. "It's a lovely name."
"Is not." But in fact, like most people, she had no particular feelings about her name—her first name, anyhow—but simply accepted it as hers. As for Blank, while Marsha would be spared the degree of schoolmate teasing about it that her brother was subjected to, she wasn't sorry to abbreviate it to a middle initial nineteen Septembers later, upon her marriage.
Young Phil, however—although by second and third grade his classmates' jibes had become mere idle reflex—found himself unable to shrug off the twinge of dissatisfaction he felt at every roll call, every form that required him to fill its Name-blank with his Blank name. Neither popular with nor disliked by his fellows, he did his best not only to blend in but to ... not disappear, quite, but to draw as little attention as possible to himself and thus to his awkward name, which by fifth grade he was determined to change as soon as he became "his own man": perhaps when he left home for college? Even before then, when pupils from the area's several neighborhood and township elementary schools came together in Centre County Junior High and High School, he experimented with P. Norman Blank and Norman P. Blank—"Norm for short," he informed his classmates, entreated his parents, and threatened his sister. But while his new teachers and classmates readily obliged, and his family did their best, most of his old classmates either forgot or declined to use his new name, and a few explained the old tease to their new comrades. The unhappy result was more rather than less attention to the tender subject; by the spring of his freshman high school year he was, for the most part, back to being called Phil Blank.
"Whoever that might be," he said to himself in effect, if not necessarily in those words; for as the CCHS class of '71's hormones kicked in and cranked up the ambient sexual voltage, and numerous of his schoolmates took their behavioral cues from the still-modest contingent of long-haired dope-smoking war-protesting hippie undergraduates over at the university (as the college became in the 1960s), Phil/ Norm found it ever more difficult to decide who exactly he was, and to dress and behave accordingly. What he felt, but couldn't quite articulate even to himself, was that while one's name is not one's self (any more than one's life story is one's life), his peculiar name was a major determinant of his identity—whatever that might be. Its implicit directive—Fill blank!—led to both hyper-self-consciousness and abnormal self-uncertainty. The selves of his classmates seemed to him bone-deep and plain as day: Billy Marshall the taunting, newly hippie pothead and wannabe rock musician; Elsa Bauer the shy but not un-self-confident, really cute, and almost friendly sophomore class secretary, etc. His own self, on the contrary, seemed to him improvised, tentative, faint, and fluid: a masquerade. An act.
"Now, don't you worry," his mother worried when, in a moment of what had become unusual closeness between her son and anyone, he attempted to confide to her some of the above. "It's just a stage you're going through, honeybun. We all go through stages at your ... you know..."
"My stage?"
And not long after, "Now, don't you worry, son," his dad embarrassed him by advising, which meant that Mom had blabbed the whole thing. "One of these days you're going to be somebody. That'll show 'em!"
"Yeah, right."
Kid sister Marsha—who in most respects seemed both to herself and to Philip to be the elder sibling—rolled her self-possessed eyes, but refrained from comment.
As if prompted by the conjunction of an act, a stage, and be somebody, in his latter high school years the young man found himself drawn to theater in general and the school's Drama Club in particular. Alas, although he tried out for a number of productions, it was apparent early on, to him and to the drama coach, that he had no notable thespian gift (compared, say, to Elsa Bauer, whose shyness miraculously vanished when she played another). He managed a few member-of-the-chorus roles—which, on reflection, he found more to his taste anyhow than being one of the play's principals. Even more he enjoyed sitting in the audience in a darkened hall and losing, in some film or stage play, the self that he'd never quite found.
He was, like the rest of his household, an indifferent secular agnostic who gave next to no thought to that noun or its modifiers. The Blanks celebrated Christmas, but observed no Sabbath, prayed no prayers, belonged to no church, and seldom spoke of religion. Son Philip, from age fourteen on, masturbated with about the same frequency as his male classmates, but had no way of knowing that. Managed a few dates in his junior and senior years—one with Elsa Bauer, who permitted him a ceremonial goodnight kiss but was already bespoken (by Billy Marshall) for the senior prom. Attended that function with Betsy Whitmore instead, a pleasant though plump and plain classmate of Marsha, who arranged the date. Neither partner much cared for dancing, but dance they duly did, a bit. Afterward, in the second seat of Billy's parents' two-tone green '69 Pontiac four-door, for appearances' sake they shared a reefer of marijuana and went through the motions of making out (he was permitted to squeeze his date's ample breast, under her blouse but not under her bra, and even briefly, with his other hand, to cup her crotch, under her skirt but not under her pantyhose—"And not a whit more," she seriously joked), to the distracting accompaniment of more vigorous grunts, moans, sighs, and thrashings in the vehicle's front seat. Betsy presently remembered a 1 A.M. parental curfew not previously mentioned; her date "called it an evening" too, forgoing the ritual sunrise breakfast at the class president's house after the all-night party at So-and-So's folks', out past the university's experimental farms.
"Talk about filling in the blanks!" Billy Marshall boasted next day re his and Elsa's front-seat shenanigans. Four years later, like several other high school classmate-sweethearts who elected to stay on at the local university instead of "going off" to college, that couple married, found suitable employment in the area, and raised their own brood in Happy Valley. Betsy Whitmore, however—with whom Phil more or less enjoyed one further date during the summer after his graduation—moved to Michigan with her family soon after, and the young pair did not maintain contact.
Philip himself, having done editorial and layout work on the staff of his high school newspaper, summer-jobbed as an intern with the county's Centre Daily Times and, without seriously considering alternatives, matriculated at "State" in September. His father had suggested a major in Business Administration as most likely to help a fellow without particular ambitions at least to earn a decent living, but did not protest his son's choice of General Arts and Sciences instead: "It's your life, not mine." His mother mildly approved: "Keeps your options open till you find yourself, you know?" Marsha rolled her eyes. Brother and sister were not at all close, but neither was there sibling rivalry or other ill will between them: Their relation was prevailingly cordial and passively affectionate, if somewhat stiff on Philip's part. She was not unhappy when after his freshman year he moved out of the house into the college dorms; but she defended, against her parents' complaints, his junior-year decision to change his name to Philip B. Norman. "Relax," she advised them. "At least he decided something."
For as a "Stater" herself and adjacent dorm resident by that time, she happened
to know that her brother had experimented halfheartedly with changing not only his name and academic major (from General A & S to Pre-Law, then to Business Administration after all, and finally back to General), but his sexual orientation as well. "Hey, Norm," she telephoned him one football weekend after happening to catch sight of her brother and his College of Forestry roommate holding hands in a booth in the Corner Room Restaurant on College Avenue after the Syracuse game, "are you gay these days or what?" Unalarmed by her question, he guessed he maybe was: "Not a word to Mom and Dad, okay?" More surprised and amused than dismayed, "Not to worry!" Marsha assured him, and added, "Better gay than nothing."
But that "stage" lasted no longer than one academic term, whereafter "Phil Norman"'s briefly Significant Other found a roommate/lover more to his liking, and Philip himself became involved with a Poli Sci ex-lesbian as tentative about her sexuality as was he re his. In this same period—between spring break of his junior year and graduation time for the class of '75—ever-cheery Madeline Blank succumbed to metastasized uterine cancer, and her comparatively impassive but now-devastated husband to an evidently self-inflicted deer-rifle shot to the head not long after, in the same state park where the family had often picnicked in Philip's and Marsha's childhood. With a competence that he'd scarcely been aware of possessing, Phil made the arrangements for his dad's cremation and (per deceased's written request, in a terse note found on his body) the discreet dispersal of his ashes along the county roads to which he'd dedicated his working life.
Postponing his baccalaureate for one term, the young man then oversaw the settlement of Michael Blank's uncomplicated estate. Their father and mother having both been only children, Philip and Marsha were the sole surviving family members and equal heirs to their father's modest bank accounts, life insurance benefits, and property. The six-year-old station wagon went to Marsha, as Phil had his own car already; the proceeds from the family house (the sale of which Phil arranged through a local realtor who lived on their block), added to the rest of their inheritance, provided brother and sister with ample funds to rent small but comfortable and convenient apartments near the campus, to purchase whatever supplementary furnishings they needed after dividing their parents' belongings, and to support them comfortably through the remainder of their undergraduate studies and graduate school as well, if they elected to "go on."
Much shaken and saddened, though less than griefstricken, by the loss of their parents, and feeling as much at home in the college town where they'd lived since birth as they'd felt in the house itself, they went on with their not-unhappy lives. Marsha's senior-year high school boyfriend, who'd done his first two college years in upstate New York, transferred to his hometown campus to complete his degree in Electrical Engineering as she completed hers in Education, and eventually moved in with his reignited old flame. Like Mike Blank and Maddy Norman (and Billy Marshall and Elsa Bauer), the couple married not long after their commencement and found employment in the area. Philip—who shortly after graduation re-changed his last name from Norman back to Blank and took a job in the university's public information office—reverted as well from an ambiguous bisexuality to less and less sexuality of any sort: To their mutual old acquaintances, "Nor-man nor woman," Billy Marshall joked, "equals Blank."
And blank his life might be said to have been, by many people's standards and sometimes his own, over the century's ensuing decades: a competent if undistinguished career in various of the university's administrative offices; one more sort-of-relationship, with a female office-neighbor several years his senior, whose rebound from an acrimonious divorce presently impelled her far from the region where her ex-husband chose to remain, and ended the affair—Phil's final experience of other-than-solitary sex, and on the whole an enjoyable one, for him at least. Occasionally he lunched with old acquaintances or administrative colleagues; most Sundays he dined with his sister and brother-in-law and their three children, whose uncle he was pleased to be despite his natural aloofness. Sometimes with them, more often alone, he attended varsity athletic events and university-sponsored concerts or theater productions. For exercise he walked the campus or the town's so-familiar neighborhoods; in the long Allegheny winters he sometimes worked out in the college gym. Most evenings he was content to dine alone in his apartment (later, his condominium in a new development north of town), read news-magazine articles for an hour or so, and then watch television or some video recommended by Marsha. If asked, he would not have characterized his life as unhappy, while acknowledging it to be far from full; but no one asked, and he himself, from his thirties on, gave ever less thought to such questions. His sister took vacation trips with her family, as did Billy and Elsa Marshall—to Florida, Maine, California, Hawaii, Europe. Philip's job sometimes took him to the university's branch campuses in sundry Pennsylvania counties and, less often, to meetings and conferences in Cleveland or Indianapolis, Ann Arbor or East Lansing; his vacations, however, he preferred to spend at home.
"Doing what?" Marsha's husband asked her once. His wife rolled her eyes, shook her head: "The Sunday Times crossword puzzle, maybe? Filling in the blanks, as Billy Marshall used to say."
In his late fifties, to Marsha's surprise and somewhat to his own, Philip elected to take early retirement. With his university pension, the dividends from sundry annuities, and his considerable savings, he would scarcely notice the reduction in his annual income. "Lucky fellow!" most of his child-raising, tuition-paying acquaintances agreed. "But what are you going to do with yourself?" his sister made bold to ask him.
A quarter-century earlier, Philip might have responded, "Do with whom?" But over the decades he had lost interest in that question. "Whatever I damn please, I suppose," was his mild reply.
For an academic year or two thereafter (time's main measure in small towns with large universities, even among the non-academic), he experimented, dutifully if less than enthusiastically, with various activities recommended for new retirees by the appropriate campus office: joined an alumni tour group for a week's visit to London; tried to interest himself in such hobbies (he'd never had a hobby) as contract bridge and Elderhosteling; volunteered briefly (the retirement-office people were big on volunteering) in a Head Start program designed to help black inner-city youngsters overcome their academic disadvantages, but directed locally, faute de pis, at their poor white Appalachian counterparts. But London overwhelmed and the game of bridge intimidated him; "at his age" he took no pleasure in learning complicated things from scratch and going places with groups of strangers. And while he pitied the young hillbilly left-behinds, he had no knack for motivating them to attempt what they themselves evinced little interest in. By the end of his first retirement year he looked forward to none of those activities. Midway through his second he dropped them all and settled into a routine of reading front to back the Centre Daily and New York Times through breakfast and beyond, then going for an extended walk if weather permitted or pottering about the condo if it didn't; perhaps lunching in town (sometimes with ex-colleagues), doing afternoon errands, or strolling the vast campus a bit. At five, back at the condo, he took a glass of red wine on his small screened porch or before the gas fireplace, then sipped another while preparing and eating his simple dinner. And finally—unless there was some interesting public lecture or other university event on the calendar—he settled down among his parents' furniture in his tidy living room to entertain himself with magazine or library book, television or desktop computer.
Was he bored? Of course he was, now and then, though not acutely. Anyhow, he was accustomed to the feeling and didn't much mind it; wasn't overly bored by boredom. Depressed? He had his ups and downs, neither of much amplitude; was and had prevailingly been of placid, equable disposition. Lonesome? Not especially, nor reclusive either, just solitary. On any stroll or shopping errand, he would likely exchange cordialities with one or more familiars; if he had no real friends, he had old acquaintances aplenty, some dating back to kindergarten. Happy? Not particularly,
but (as afore-established) not unhappy either: more or less content.
And so we find him—one fine mid-May afternoon shortly after the university's spring commencement, when the wholesale exodus of tens of thousands of students leaves the town and campus spookily evacuated until various summer programs kick in—driving his high-mileage chalk-white Toyota Corolla out toward a nearby shopping plaza after lunch, with the aim of picking up a few groceries and maybe a DVD to spectate over the next two evenings, there being nothing listed in the TV Guide of much interest to him. Who can say why, upon reaching the plaza, he canceled his turn signal and drove on past the entrance? Perhaps with the object of replenishing his wine rack first, at the state liquor dispensary a bit farther on? Reaching it, he slowed and resignaled, but once again didn't stop; found himself continuing north another dozen miles through assorted hill and valley villages until the state two-laner T-boned into Interstate 80, which from that point crosses central Pennsylvania, east to New York City and west to Ohio and beyond. On some impulse beyond his articulating, he turned west, set the Corolla's cruise control to (as it happened) approximately the speed matching his age, and, under a fair-weather cumulus-clouded sky, steered through Allegheny hills green with young deciduous leaves, old hemlocks, and newly sprouting farm fields, without wondering (as if on cruise control himself) where he was going or why, or for that matter who it was, exactly, at the wheel.
Not having planned an extended drive, he hadn't topped off the car's fuel tank. Already by exit 22 (Snow Shoe), just a couple of dozen miles along the interstate, its gauge showed barely enough gas remaining to get him back home. He registered that datum, but drove on. He had with him no water bottle or other refreshment, and felt some thirst, but drove on. Not far from where I-80 crosses the winding headwaters of the Susquehanna's West Branch—which loops north and east from there up to Williamsport before commencing its long run south past Harrisburg and down to Chesapeake Bay—in a forested stretch between exits for Clearfield and Du Bois, the Corolla's four-cylinder engine sputtered dry. Fortunately, there was scant traffic just then on that stretch of highway; moreover, he happened to be on a downgrade, with enough momentum to give him ample time to steer out of the traffic lanes without obliging others to slow down or swing out to pass. His foot still uselessly on the accelerator of the stalled engine, he coasted down the wide shoulder until the slope bottomed out and the Corolla rolled to a stop without his having pressed the brake pedal. So as not to endanger vehicles approaching from behind, he activated the hazard flasher, but didn't bother to shift to Park or switch off the ignition. From the roadside woods a lean brown rabbit ran onto the highway shoulder just before him. It paused, sat up on its hind legs, regarded the unmoving vehicle, and scuttled back.
