No Relation (10 page)

I’d given some thought to how I’d open the meeting, and now was the time. I stood up holding the clipboard to claim the floor. I could say that the room then fell silent, but it had already been silent for the preceding five minutes or so.

“Good evening. Thank you all for coming. This is very exciting for me, and I hope some of you feel the same way. You’ve all come tonight because, it seems, for whatever reason, we all share a similar burden. And we’ve been carrying it for as long as we can all remember. We’ve been bugged and bullied, and taunted and teased for most of our lives for something over which we have no control. And if your lives have been anything like mine, we endure it pretty much alone. It’s hard for anyone else to appreciate the ordeal, except perhaps for those of us in this room tonight.”

“Amen, brother,” said the
MTA
guy. Others were nodding now.

Everyone was now looking at me. Several were smiling. The awkward tension that had enveloped the room seemed to dissipate. I could feel it ebb.

“Now let’s not be too melodramatic about it. There are many whose lot in life is far worse than ours. What we have won’t kill us. But unless we live like hermits, I know that every day we are reminded of the particular cross we all bear, the cross that has brought us here tonight.”

“I certainly hope you will not be springing Christianity on us. That is not what I came for!” snapped the suddenly very angry muscle-bound East Indian guy, who had jumped to his feet. Then Mr. Hyde instantly morphed back into Dr. Jekyll. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I did not mean to raise my voice. Please have a butterscotch.”

He thrust a foil-wrapped candy toward me and held it there until I finally reached out and took it.

“Again, I’m so sorry about my outburst. I’m working on it.”

I slipped the candy into my pocket. He seemed perfectly gentle and happy again, smiling and nodding at the group as he sat down.

“No worries. My reference to the cross was just a metaphor. This is a completely non-religious gathering. Thanks for the candy. Butterscotch is my favourite.” I was trying to disguise how shocked I was, fully aware that the awkward tension had flooded back into the room like a tidal wave.

“Okay, I think the first order of business is for us to go around the room and introduce ourselves to one another. And just to add a little twist, why not tell us one dream and one fear you have. I’m happy to start. Believe it or not, my name is Earnest Hemmingway.”

That earned a few gasps, even a couple of chuckles.

“Oh, bless you, son. You have got it bad,” said the older teapot-shaped woman.

I smiled at her.

“Thank you. Yes, it’s quite a handle. I should point out, as I do almost every day, that it’s actually spelled differently from the famous writer’s name. But it really can’t be pronounced any other way, now can it?”

“Wait!” shouted the tall black woman. “I knew I’d seen you before. You were on the front page of YouTube freaking out in the
DMV
, right?”

“Hey, yeah!” echoed another.

By the intense nodding and looks of dawning recognition on
their faces, it seemed that almost all of them had seen the video, some of them several times. I guess that’s why they call it viral.

“It was not one of my prouder moments. I’ve actually been trying very hard to forget it happened. But some good has come out of it. That little incident is what finally prompted me to try to organize this meeting.”

“Well, we’re glad you snapped. And look, here we all are,” said the older teapot woman, holding both her hands up in the air.

“Right,” I said. “Anyway, I also have this belief that our lives are somehow affected in some way or shaped by the famous people whose names we carry. Sometimes it seems almost mystical. Maybe it’s just in my head, but there is a connection. For instance, in my case, what makes my situation all the more difficult, and perhaps comical in a way, is that for most of my life, I’ve dreamed of becoming a writer. Would I have had any interest in becoming a writer if my name were Lee Harvey Oswald? I’m not sure. But what I do know is I’ve been planning a novel for many years now and I’ve recently tried to start writing it. But I’m blocked. You know, writer’s block. It feels like Ernest Hemingway, the writer, is stuck inside my head, and I can’t seem to shake him. But that’s a discussion for another day.

“Let me wrap up. I was a copywriter for an ad agency here in New York for many years, but now my time is pretty much my own. Oh, and you can call me Hem. Everyone else does.”

I paused for a moment, about to sit down, when I remembered the one-dream, one-fear routine.

“Oh yes, one dream of mine would be that I’ll find the will and the wisdom to take charge of my own destiny, rather than letting other people and other forces guide my life. Up till now, I’ve tended to let things happen rather than make things happen. As for one fear, well, I hope we’ll all be open and honest here, because I’m about to be. You see, I have what I know is an irrational fear of small dogs, strangely enough. Yes, I know it’s weird, but there you go. Thank you, and thank you for coming tonight.”

As I sat down, someone in the group applauded and rest of the room eventually joined in. I turned and looked at the person to my left. The quick-mood-change East Indian guy stood. His English had just the faintest trace of an accent.

“Hello. I’m very happy to be here. Again, my apologies for what happened earlier. You can call me Hat. My full name is … wait for it … wait for it … okay, now, Mahatma Gandhi. No, I’m not jesting. I was born in India forty-five years ago. My parents, in homage to the great pacifist leader who helped liberate India from the colonial yoke, named me for Mahatma Gandhi.”

“The skinny guy in the movie? No way. That’s terrible! That’s just cruel! What morons! What tools!” said the scrawny, rough-looking guy.

“You shut up!” Hat yelled and pointed at the culprit. “My parents were wonderful people who loved me and … Oh no, I’ve done it again, haven’t I. I’m fine. I’m sorry. I’m fine. Please have a butterscotch, please take one,” Hat implored as he pressed the candy into the skinny guy’s hand.

I thought I’d better jump in before the riot police were called.

“Okay, why don’t we get back to the story at hand, and let’s all be careful in how we react to one another, shall we?” I said, looking first at Hat, hoping not to set him off again, and then at our little group. “Carry on, Hat. The floor is still yours.”

“Thank you for your patience with me. I have no ill will toward any of you. I am in a struggle with my own temper, but I will prevail, God and butterscotch permitting,” he explained. “So, back to my story. When I was eighteen, I came to America on a scholarship to study electrical engineering at Cornell. Until recently, I worked at the Con Ed cogeneration station on the East River at 14th. I have recently been relieved of my duties, partially due to my own demons, but I will restore my honour and work there again, God willing. I know it. In the meantime, I work the New York Jets home games as an audio technician. I’m the guy on the sidelines aiming that parabolic dish so the
TV
viewers can all hear the players’ profanity and the crunch of the tackles on the field. Even though cricket is really my game – I’m really quite good at it, I assure you – I do love my Jets.

“Really, my only dream is to lead a happy, productive, and normal life. Of course, my fear is that I won’t always be able to control my temper and that I might hurt someone I know or love, or even someone I don’t know. That fear haunts me even as I get better at self-control. Hmmm, that is quite a downer. My apologies. Okay, enough about me. I’m just so happy to
meet all of you, and to know that there are others who face the same challenge as I do. Um, I mean the challenge of our very special names, not my little anger issue. That is mine alone. Thank you. Thank you. I have lots more butterscotch if you wish. They are so good.”

“Well, thank you, Hat. Nice to have you and your butterscotch with us,” I soothed in my most calming of voices. He bowed and sat back down.

Applause from the circle.

I turned to the teapot woman and she stood, drawing herself up to her full five feet.

“Hello, friends. Isn’t this fun?” she began. Hat and several others smiled and nodded. “Drum roll, please. My name is Jacqueline Kennedy. Yes, it is. But my friends call me Jackie. And they were doing that when the more famous Jackie Kennedy was still little Jackie Bouvier. While it’s an honour to carry her name – I loved
JFK –
I still like to say that I was Jackie Kennedy first.

“My husband, Walter, died much too young twenty-four years ago from a heart attack. He was just fifty-two. Fifty-two! He was replacing the linoleum tiles in the kitchen when he just slowly sank to the floor, and that was it. He was gone. I’m seventy-three years old now and I’m still not over him. But I’m trying every day, because that’s what you have to do in this life. You have to carry on. We never forget, but we move on.

“I’ve lived in beautiful Brooklyn all my life. I’m a diehard Dodgers fan, even though they abandoned us for the wrong
coast back in ’58. But I was there as a kid in the stands in ’47 when Jackie Robinson broke the colour barrier. I’ll never forget that game or what it meant. I have a daughter who lives in California, but I’ll never leave my Brooklyn.

“As for fears, well, I don’t much like heights or Republicans. One of my dreams came true in January 2009 when a black man became president. I didn’t think I’d ever live to see that day. Now I’m waiting for a woman to take the oath of office. Then I could die happy. Oh also, I’d like to take back, by any means necessary, the words ‘Tea Party’ from the fascist brigands who stole them.”

I scanned the room, worried that Jackie Kennedy’s political pronouncements might have put a few ideological noses out of joint. But no one seemed to be offended.

“Right on,” said the younger, well-dressed black woman.

“Thank you, Jackie. It’s nice to have you here,” I said before turning to the big
MTA
guy. He nodded and stood.

“Hi, everyone. I’m not great at public speaking, so I made me a few notes to help me out,” he said. He then put on black horn-rimmed glasses. “I hate these things but I can’t read without ’em. But, man, do I hate ’em. Ready? My name is Clark Kent. Yup, you heard me right, Clark Kent. My momma didn’t read too good, and we didn’t have a
TV
till I was a teenager. So she never really heard much about Clark Kent. She knew who Superman was, of course, but not so much about Clark. She just liked how the ‘Clark’ went together with the ‘Kent.’

“So I’m thirty-eight years old and I been driving the subway, usually the Lex Ave Express, for more than ten years. I figure I’ll be a subway lifer to get me that pension, but I don’t much like it underground, if I’m honest.

“Now you should know why I hate wearing these goddamn glasses. I’m always taking ’em off and putting ’em back on ’cause I don’t want to leave ’em on. I tell you, the guys at work love to razz me when they see me pulling off my glasses. They’re always saying shit like ‘Get outta the way, Clark is heading for the phone booth’ and stuff like that. They don’t mean nothing hurtful by it, but it sure gets on my nerves.”

“May I ask why you do not acquire corrective contact lenses? I hear they are quite comfortable,” inquired the older man in the corduroy jacket.

“I’d sure like to, but they cost too damn much for my blood. And I really only need ’em for up-close stuff. Anyhoo, I’m married to the best girl in the world and we got ourselves twin five-year-old boys that just take my breath away every time I look at ’em.

“My fear? You mean other than Kryptonite?”

He laughed and we dutifully joined in.

“Well, seriously, this can be one bad-ass city. I seen some stuff down below that scared me white. Ah, no offence. So I do fear for my wife and boys. My dream would be to earn enough scratch to give up the city and head out to the country where it’s safer and I don’t have to go underground no more. Thanks.”

He sat down.

The young scrawny heavily tattooed guy, who’d been bouncing around in his chair since Clark had started, then jumped to his feet even before the applause had died away.

“This is too weird. You’re Clark Kent? Wild! Well, get this. I’m Peter Parker. Yes, that’s my real name, Peter Parker. It’s crazy that Peter Parker is sitting right next to Clark Kent. That is some crazy shit right there. Who’s next? Bruce Wayne! Wow. Too weird.

“So I’m a window washer on high-rise buildings. You know, one of the guys who dangles from the swing seat down the outside of skyscrapers. I know that’s hard to believe that Peter Parker likes to hang off of tall buildings, but it’s a cold hard fact. It’s not because I’m trying to be like, you know, Spider-Man. It’s more that I kind of like to be by myself, so window washing is a good job if you like working alone.”

The group laughed.

“I don’t have too many fears. I don’t mind snakes. I don’t even mind those ugly-ass lizards. But if we’re telling truth here, now don’t anyone laugh, I really got a hate-on for spiders. They just totally creep me out. Always have. I think my own name fucked with my head. Oops, sorry. But there must be bad karma going down when Spider-Man is scared of spiders.

“So, my dream is to, well, I don’t talk about it much. But, see, I really like to cook. You should see the dinners I whip up in my little bachelor. One day, I’d like to work in a restaurant.”

He sat down and we, of course, clapped.

The middle-aged corduroy jacket man rose.

“Good evening, all. I’m Professor James Moriarty. Now in case you’re wondering why that name is significant, because not everyone in this country is quite as familiar with it, let me point out that Professor James Moriarty is the name of the most diabolical criminal mind in the history of literature. He is the arch nemesis of Sherlock Holmes, the greatest consulting detective in the history of literature. So in the proper circles, my name is utterly infamous. I’m sixty-nine years old, widowed, and a professor emeritus of mathematics right here at Columbia. As you can probably tell from my accent, I was born and raised in England, but grew so tired of the baggage my name still carries in the country of Sherlock Holmes, that we came to America some forty years ago, first to
UCLA
, and for the last twenty years here to Columbia.