No Relation (9 page)

“He sounds like a real piece of work.”

“You’ll meet him when you come to see Dad, which you should do sooner rather than later.”

She changed the subject after that and forced me to recount, moment by moment, my ill-fated and broken-ass visit to the
DMV
. So I did. She called the YouTube video up on her iPhone to bring my words to life. Even though she’d already watched my performance several times, my colour commentary seemed to enhance the entertainment value. I don’t think I’d ever seen Sarah laugh so hard. She actually squeaks when her laughter crosses a certain threshold. I could hardly blame her. With twenty-four hours’ distance, the whole event now seemed almost as funny to me as it must have to the crowd of witnesses.

“Looks like you just lost it in a very big and a very embarrassing way,” Sarah concluded.

“Yeah, well, you have no idea what it’s like to carry around such a famous name.”

“Come on, Hem. Get over it. What’s the big deal? So you’ve got a famous name. So what. Who cares?”

“Spoken like a true ‘partial,’ ” I said.

“What the hell is a ‘partial’?” Sarah asked.

“It’s someone who only has half a famous name, like you. It’s one of the designations in the classification system I’ve been working on,” I replied. “I’m still noodling around with it.”

“I bet you are.”

Sarah caught a late afternoon flight back to O’Hare. She hugged me before she got into the cab. It was not the artificial squeeze I’d gotten when she arrived. There was more behind this one. That was a good sign. It had been a good day. I don’t think I’d spent that much concentrated time with Sarah, well, ever. I liked her more than I’d expected. She was growing on me. Bonding was easier when she wasn’t yelling at me.

I popped out again later in the afternoon and headed straight for my local florist. I sent a flower arrangement to arrive at Sarah’s office on Monday morning. Then I had them wrap up a bouquet of freshly cut flowers to take with me.

I grabbed the subway and was at my destination inside of fifteen minutes. I’d called earlier and lucked out. They were open a handful of Saturdays throughout the year to deal with the heavy demand rolling into the summer. This was one of those open Saturdays. My good fortune continued. She was there. The lineup wasn’t too bad for a Saturday afternoon. When it was my turn, I had to let two people behind me go ahead until she was available. There was a flash of recognition in her face when I approached Window 10. I pushed the flowers through the opening in the window and gave her my widest possible smile without looking crazed. I kept my hands high and visible at all times. She didn’t touch the flowers but just left them lying there on her side of the glass. She didn’t seem thrilled and looked at her phone to confirm it had not moved and was still within reach.

“Hi again,” I started. “We got off on the wrong foot yesterday and I wanted to come back to apologize and try again.”

She had folded her arms across her chest.

“I don’t remember many of my customers, but I sure remember you,” she said. “If you’re gonna tell me the same story today, well, I don’t think we’re going to get along any better.”

I pushed my passport, my last two tax returns, and four pieces of official mail, all bearing my name and address, partway through the opening in the glass. For good measure, I also shoved through my Macdonald-Clark business card. She didn’t need to know that I’d just been turfed. She furrowed her brow but pulled the documents the rest of the way through the slot.

“I know it sounds far-fetched, but my name really is Earnest Hemmingway. I was named for my great-grandfather, who was born four years before the famous writer was,” I explained. “We’re not related in any way. Our names are even spelled differently.” I had one more card to play. “You’ve heard of The Hemmingwear Company?”

“What, the underwear people?”

“Right. Well, my family owns the company. I’m telling you the truth, I swear.”

She stopped looking at me and started examining what I’d passed through to her. Then she punched some buttons on her computer, typed in my name, and up popped my file, just like that.

“Why didn’t you bring these docs yesterday? It sure would have saved time and, you know, that little situation we had.”

I wanted to ask why she couldn’t have just typed in my name the day before, thus saving my tailbone from a very hard landing. I bit my tongue.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think to bring them yesterday. I honestly didn’t think I’d need them. I should have brought them. I know that now. It would have avoided so much unpleasantness.”

I hung my head in contrition, with my hands still up high where she could see them.

Fifteen minutes later, she’d taken my photo, processed the replacement request, handed back all my documents, and then slid my shiny new driver’s licence across the counter to me. She was the picture of public service efficiency.

“Thanks so much, and sorry about yesterday. I’d had a very bad day. I apologize for taking it out on you.”

She smiled. Hallelujah, she smiled.

“Can I let you in on a secret?” she asked, leaning closer to the window. “I know Hemmingwear only makes underwear for men, but I got a pair at home that I wear on the weekends, you know, when I do my power-walking. They’re a helluva lot more comfy than what I usually have to wear.”

“When I see my father next, I’ll be sure to mention your choice in unmentionables. Thank you for your help with my licence.”

“Thanks for the flowers, and sorry about yesterday. I’d had a bad day, too.”

My cellphone chirped as I waited for the elevator in the lobby of my building. The screen on my phone said “Private Caller.” I figured it might be Sarah.

“Hello?”

“Son, it’s your father. I’ve been trying to reach you for a few days now. Is everything okay?”

Shit.

“Hi, Dad. You caught me, um, in the middle of something here.”

“Perhaps, but the point is, I caught you,” he replied. “Tiring of the copywriting game yet?”

“Well, funny you should ask. I’m actually not at Macdonald-Clark any longer. I’m kind of in between gigs right now.”

“So you’ve got nothing on your plate. Why, that’s excellent news, son. Exceptional timing, too. Your return to Chicago is long overdue. It’s where you belong,” he said. “It was my father’s calling. It was my calling. Now it’s your calling.”

“Please don’t say it,” I pleaded.

“Paramount and sacrosanct.”

“You said it.” I sighed. “Yes, Dad. I’m quite familiar with the history, the tradition, the heavy expectations, the three-word family motto. I know all of that.”

“Then this can all work out very well. Yes, the timing is almost ideal.”

“Dad.”

“I’ve got an office waiting for you just next to mine. It’ll be easier that way. And there’s a lot going on right now.”

“Dad.”

“Yes, finally, this could work. I want you to meet Henderson Watt.”

“Dad!”

“Yes, son, what is it?”

“We’ve been over this before, many times. I’m sorry, but I’m not moving back. New York is my home. I have no plans and even less interest in working in, let alone running, Hemmingwear. It is not who I am.”

“Actually, son, it is who you are – just as it is who I am, or was,” he said. “So, you’re not quite ready. You haven’t quite outgrown this writing thing. The sand is running through the family hourglass, but there’s still time yet. Take a few more weeks, take a month, and you may feel differently at the end.”

“Dad, I know how I’ll feel in a couple of weeks. It’s not going to happen. We’ve gone over this many, many times.”

“Son, there’s no place in business for rash decisions. Continue to deliberate on the matter. You’ll come to see it as the right path, I know you will. Oh, and I’m going to send you the Q3 financial statements and draft annual report that Henderson has pulled together. I want you to see what we’re doing here so you can be up to speed.”

“Dad, you’re in denial. But if it helps at all, I am coming to Chicago this coming Friday for a visit. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’d actually like to talk about this issue and propose a solution that I think you’ll agree is in the best interests of all parties concerned.”

“Finally, you’re coming home.”

“Actually, Dad, I’m leaving home, so I can visit Sarah and you in Chicago.”

“I’ll make sure your office is ready for you.”

Shit.

I arrived just after 6:00 p.m., nearly an hour before the meeting was scheduled to start. I was nervous and excited, though I had no idea if anyone would show. The West Side Y on West 63rd, just across from Central Park, seemed like as good a location as any. It was central, easily reached by public transit, and had been a mainstay of the community for nearly a century. One of the Y’s community liaison coordinators had asked me to come in early so she could show me around and brief me on all the other activities and resources they offered. I made a mental note to use my membership more often. They even had creative writing classes. And if my writer’s block persisted, they had pottery classes, too.

The third floor room I’d reserved was a reasonable size, with two big windows overlooking the street. I could smell the faint scent of chlorine wafting up from the swimming pool in the basement. I spent fifteen minutes arranging the chairs in various configurations until I settled on the simple circle formation.
Someone looking in as they passed by in the hallway might have thought it was an
AA
meeting waiting to start. I put a sign-in sheet on a small table by the door. Then I sat down in one of the chairs and waited.

By 6:50, I was still alone in the room. Shit. But at 6:55 three people arrived in quick succession. An older white woman walked in first. Short and stout, yes, she was shaped not unlike a teapot. She was followed almost immediately by a young man who looked like he might be Italian, or maybe Spanish. He seemed very anxious and shy, as if a loud noise might induce some kind of a seizure. The third arrival was a tall, big-boned black woman. The three of them stood there and looked around the room.

“Hi, welcome!” I said perhaps a little too enthusiastically as I jumped to my feet. The young shy guy immediately backed away.

“No, no, please come in, you’re in the right place if you saw the ad in the
Times
,” I went on. “Please write your name and email address on the sign-in sheet, unless of course you’re a fugitive and don’t wish to be identified.”

They looked puzzled.

“Sorry, that was a feeble attempt at humour. Just trying to break the ice. So go ahead and add your name to the list if you don’t mind, and take a seat anywhere.” I waved my hand around vaguely.

They all signed the sheet and sat down in silence, leaving empty chairs on either side of them. The tall woman was staring at me with an odd look on her face. I nearly forgot about the doughnuts and drinks I’d brought that still sat in my backpack
on the floor at my feet. I grabbed them and the plate I’d carried from home, and made a lovely little doughnut arrangement on the table next to me, along with a rather fetching symmetrical array of the dozen or so cans of pop and juice. Finally, I took a moment to fan the napkins beautifully and lay them flat in front of the drinks, which I thought dramatically enhanced the visual appeal of our refreshment table. Martha Stewart would have been proud to host this meeting. Clearly I was quite wrapped up in my food styling, for when I turned back to the group, I was shocked to see another five people had arrived. Eight people had come! Nine counting me. Who knew?

The new arrivals each signed in and made their way to a chair. There was a younger black woman dressed as if she might work in a bank; a great big black guy wearing a Metropolitan Transit Authority uniform; a somewhat scrawny, rough-looking white kid with a buzz cut and plenty of tattoos; a rumpled older man in a corduroy jacket; and a muscular, athletic-looking East Indian fellow who smiled and nodded at everyone in the room. Still, no one was talking to one another. I checked my watch. Five past seven. I walked over to the table and grabbed the sign-in sheet, scanning the names in amazement as I returned to my chair in the circle. Wow.