No Relation

by Terry Fallis

  “I’m really not the one who has to make sense of it, but I think I understand what you’re saying,” she said and then paused before continuing. “However, beyond the fact that I tend not to believe in ghosts as a general rule, I’m not convinced that there isn’t a more earthly explanation. We just have to find the right questions that will draw it out from between your ears.”

  We kicked it around for another twenty minutes or so before the session was over. I didn’t feel any closer to an answer. I just wanted to be able to write.

  Most of them were there already when I arrived. Some even had ball gloves with them and most wore running shoes. I put the cardboard box I’d carried in with me on the floor next to my chair.

  “Hi, Hem. Have a cookie.” Jackie Kennedy passed the tin my way.

  “Jackie, you’ve outdone yourself. Oatmeal raisin, my favourite.”

  She beamed. Everyone else in the room was busy chewing on what really were outstanding cookies.

  “I have butterscotch too, Mr. Hemmingway with two Ms, if you like.”

  “Thank you, Hat. I don’t mind if I do,” I said as I took the candy he proffered. “Now remember, we have a game in an hour, so let’s not eat ourselves into a coma just before we’re supposed to take the field.”

  Five minutes later, everyone had arrived. We had perfect attendance. Marie gave me a little wave and a big smile when she hustled in.

  “Okay, we probably only have about forty minutes before we should head to the park. So let’s get started. I thought what we might do this evening, if you’ll indulge me, is to talk about the various categories there might be of people who live with famous names. I’ve been thinking about this for a while now and maybe it’s helped me come to grips with all of this. So bear with me as I go down my list. Then we can talk about them and add some others if we can think of any more. Okay, see what you think of these.”

  I stepped up to the whiteboard, uncapped a black marker, and started writing down words as I defined what I meant by each.

  “Now, I don’t attach values, good or bad, to any of these. These are just categories for us to consider. First, we have the ‘Befores.’ They are people who had their names before someone else made it famous. So, for instance, there were probably plenty of John Glenns back in the early sixties before the astronaut helped that very plain and ordinary name rocket to fame. Pun intended.”

  I saw a few nods around the room.

  “Good one. ‘Rocket to fame,’ ” said Hat, chuckling. “Yes, a very good one.”

  A few other people were actually taking notes.

  “Then we have the ‘Afters.’ As you can probably guess, these are people either by design, accident, or through ignorance who were named after someone famous. Like our butterscotch-loving friend Hat here. He told us last time that he was named in honour of Mahatma Gandhi. Then we have Clark over here, whose mother, if I recall the story, may not really have known about Clark Kent, the comic book hero, when she named him. Both Hat and Clark would be considered Afters in this little taxonomy. Their namesakes were already famous.”

  “When you put it that way, I am very happy being an After,” noted Hat.

  “Okay, carrying on. ‘Projectors’ are those who start to emulate their namesakes in appearance, in behaviour, in beliefs, or in some other way, sometimes in ways that are beyond their control or their notice. So, with the greatest respect, Jesse, we might consider that you could be a Projector. You certainly have the athleticism of your famous distant relative, given your collegiate career. And in some ways, you resemble him physically. Um, that didn’t come out quite right. I just mean that you have the, um, lean and athletic build of a track star.”

  “Yes, I can surely see that,” Hat agreed, nodding with vigour.

  Jesse took me off the hook with a smile.

  “Well, boys, if you could have seen me at twenty-five, you would definitely have called me a Projector,” Jackie Kennedy piped up.

  “Madame, I certainly have no difficulty envisioning that,” agreed Professor Moriarty.

  Jackie Kennedy looked very pleased.

  “And I bet you bake better cookies, too,” said Peter Parker.

  “Thank you, gentlemen. Aren’t you kind,” she replied. “Well in my books, there’s no shame in being a Projector. Okay, what’s next?”

  “Well, then we have the converse, the ‘Rejector.’ Those who knowingly or unknowingly seem to reject aspects of their namesake’s character and/or life.”

  “Why is everyone looking at me?” Hat snapped, leaping to his feet, wild-eyed. Just as suddenly, he sat back down, rocking just a little. “Sorry, sorry. That was not good on my part. I apologize.”

  I jumped back in before anyone started explaining to Hat why a muscle-bound, temper-prone East Indian man named Mahatma Gandhi just might qualify as a Rejector.

  “If Mario doesn’t mind me using him as an example, I think he might be considered a Rejector although I think it’s unintentional. Mario Andretti has, unfortunately, and not for lack of trying, failed his driver’s test four times. The famous Mario Andretti is known as an, um, excellent driver. See what I mean? No offence, Mario.”

  He smiled and shrugged.

  “Okay, I’m watching the clock here, so let me fly through a few more. You’re a ‘Mask’ if you have a famous name but use a non-famous name in everyday life. You’re in hiding. And you’re ‘Out and Open’ or ‘O&O’ if you’re living like most of us seem to be, out and open with our famous name. We’re living openly.”

  “Right on!” said Clark Kent, with several others nodding in agreement.

  “Here’s one I just came up with a week or so ago. A ‘Coat-tailer’ is someone who actually changes their name to cash in on the profile of someone famous. I think we’d all agree that they would not be welcome here.”

  “You got that right!” Peter Parker said.

  “Yes, I could never in good conscience countenance a Coat-tailer, as you refer to them, joining us here. The subterfuge seems underhanded, unbecoming, and certainly would make one unwelcome among our small society here,” observed Professor James Moriarty.

  “The bastards!” shouted Mahatma Gandhi as he once again leapt to his feet.

  Jesse Owens put her hand on his wrist and gently eased him back into his chair.

  “It’s okay, Hat. We have no Coat-tailers here. We’re all legit,” she soothed.

  Hat nodded, and smiled at Jesse.

  “Okay, just a couple more before we throw open the floor for discussion,” I said, trying to get through my list before things got out of hand. “A ‘Partial’ is someone who only has part of a famous name, like a Brenda Sinatra or a Norman Hitler.”

  “Man, they have it easy,” said a usually quiet Mario Andretti. “How I’d love to be Mark Andretti. My life would be completely different.”

  “Two more. A ‘Carbon Copy,’ also known as a ‘CC,’ is a person whose name is exactly the same, as in carbon copy, of the famous person’s name. There are lots of CCs in this room. In fact, I think I’m the only one who isn’t a CC. So what am I? Well, I’m a ‘Sounder.’ My name sounds exactly like the famous writer’s name, but I have an extra ‘a’ in my first name, and an extra ‘m’ in my last name. I don’t think there are any other Sounders in the room, are there?”

  We all looked at each other and quickly confirmed that I was alone in this category. I stood back from the whiteboard to admire my handiwork.

  “So there you have my first stab at a taxonomy, or classification system, for people who live with famous names,” I concluded. “Thoughts?”

  Jesse Owens raised her hand to claim the floor.

  “All of that makes sense, but I think there’s at least one category missing. What about those who have simply given up and changed their name, moved away, and restarted their lives somewhere else? It’s not something I’d consider, but I bet it happens quite often.”

  “Kind of like the witness protection program,” added Diana Ross. “Down at the NYPD,
we put a bunch of people into that each year, but I guess their names are usually well known for all the wrong reasons.”

  “I think Jesse has raised an awfully good point,” commented Professor Moriarty.

  “Agreed. Why don’t we call them ‘White Flaggers,’ ” suggested Marie Antoinette with a smile. She seemed to be smiling most of the time. I loved listening to her voice.

  “White Flaggers. Not bad,” I said. “All in favour?”

  “Aye!” came the unanimous response.

  I stepped back to the whiteboard and added the new category and definition.

  We spent the next half-hour kicking around the various categories and citing examples we knew to help explain them. We then went around the room and tried to categorize each other. For instance, we decided that I was an “After ‘O&O’ Sounder.” The discussion ranged far and wide with pretty well everyone participating. At one point, I just sat back and watched as the group batted around ideas. I looked up to see Marie looking at me and gesturing to the animated discussion with a kind of “look what you’ve done” smile. I smiled back and shrugged.

  It did feel good to hear that others had experienced exactly what I had. The stories shared were always greeted with empathy, because we’d all experienced them. I guess that’s why support groups form. It actually seems to work. It makes you feel like you’re not alone.

  Okay, I know what you’re thinking. We’re not exactly a group that has suffered at the hands of some malevolent force. We’re not the victims of injustice. Nobody has been lined up and shot because they have a famous name. No one has earned less than a colleague doing the same job because of a famous name. No one has been detained by the police or imprisoned without trial because of a famous name. In other words, I don’t think we’ll be organizing a TV telethon or a star-studded NameFameAid benefit concert to raise money for our so-called cause. After surveying the group, I seem to have had the experience that outraged the group most when I was briefly denied a driver’s licence. No, a telethon was not in the cards.

  “Okay, folks, we’ve got to get over to the park for our ball game. We can continue our discussions next week, same time, same place. But right now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for.” I flipped open the cardboard box beside me, pulled out a jersey, and held it out to the group.

  The applause was long and loud. Jackie Kennedy slipped two fingers in her mouth and whistled, nearly perforating every eardrum in the room.

  The jerseys looked great. Green with yellow trim, like the Oakland Athletics uniforms, with NameFame in the lovely Lucida Calligraphy script font across the front. My friend at Macdonald-Clark had done a great job. The material was soft and comfortable cotton, not the ugly plastic polymer mesh that they usually were. It was worth the effort and expense to upgrade.

  I walked the box around the circle doing my best to give each person their choice of size and number.

  “Hem, what do we have to pay for these?” asked Peter Parker, the window washer, looking uneasy.

  “Peter, this is just one of the benefits that comes with being in this select group,” I replied. “Now, you’ll notice that we did not go with our own names stencilled on our jerseys. I hope everyone is okay with that.”

  We walked over as a group to our designated diamond in the North Meadow of Central Park. We gathered along the first base line and I filled out the game sheet with the positions and jersey numbers we’d hastily determined before leaving the Y. Like most rec leagues, you pitched easy under-handers to your own batters and were allowed a fourth outfielder called a rover.

  NameFame Starting Lineup

  1st Base: Jesse Owens #5

  2nd Base: Peter Parker #8

  Shortstop: Mario Andretti #2

  3rd Base: Diana Ross #4

  Left Field: Marie Antoinette #9

  Centre Field: Earnest Hemmingway #10

  Right Field: Mahatma Gandhi #6

  Rover (4th outfielder): Clark Kent #7

  Catcher: James Moriarty #11

  Umpire Liaison and Senior Cheerleader: Jackie Kennedy #3

  I just made up Jackie’s position. Even though she wasn’t officially a player, I wanted her to feel included in the team. After all, she had her own jersey. I was feeling pretty good about our squad, on paper. Unfortunately, we were playing on a field. Only Jesse, Clark, Peter, Mario, Diana, and I had any real experience playing the game. Jesse was the real standout of our team, having been a star in college. As a kid, I’d played Little League for five years, so I’d also played my fair share of games. And of course, I played intramural softball at DePaul, though it was clear from the very beginning that the major leagues were not in my future. Marie was game to play but had assured me she would not be an asset and could very well lose us the game if the ball ever came her way. But she was still smiling as she said it. Professor Moriarty and Mahatma Gandhi were the wild cards. They’d both played cricket growing up, but since coming to the U.S. had really only appreciated baseball from the grandstands and on TV. Plus, the professor was sixty-nine and probably wouldn’t be tearing up the base paths if his bat ever managed to make contact with the ball.

  We agreed that I would serve as our outfield coach, talking incessantly to rookies Marie and Hat on either side of me. As our rover, Clark, who’d played in the subway league a few years back, would float over to whichever field the batter seemed predisposed to hit toward. In the infield, Jesse would be our, er, quarterback, making the fielding decisions and shouting the appropriate instructions to whomever had the ball headed their way. Yes, we were very well organized. If only we’d been able to practise our system for, say, three years, we might have been able to make it work on the field. Thankfully, it was only a rec league, where participation and fun were the main goals. At least, that’s what the brochure had said.

  I walked over to the scorekeeper, who sat behind the home plate screen at a card table, a megaphone resting next to his paperwork. I handed him our game sheet, and waited. Three, two, one …

  “Is this some kind of a joke?” he asked, waving the game sheet my way.

  “No joke. These are all our real names, I can assure you,” I explained. “We’re a group that meets at the Y to discuss coping strategies for living with famous names. And no, I’m really not kidding. We can all produce ID if you like, but save yourself the trouble. Look at the name of our team. We’re legit.”

  “Okay. Strangest thing I’ve ever seen. You guys are up first. Seven innings. In this league, we play a ten-run mercy rule in each inning. Everyone on the team has to bat. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Good luck against the Meteors. They’re all landscapers here at the park, so they practise a lot on their lunch breaks. They were league champs last year.”

  “That’s just awesome. Thanks.”

  I headed back to our dugout along the first base line. Communal gloves, helmets, and bats provided by the league were in a bag at my feet.

  “Okay, team, gather round. The Meteors are apparently quite good at this game. So keep your head up out there.”

  I handed out gloves to those who needed them. Hat, our right fielder, refused a glove.

  “Hat, I think you’re going to want to use one of these. It makes catching the ball much easier,” I suggested.

  “Mr. Hemmingway with two Ms, I assure you, as an experienced cricket player, I’m much more accustomed to bare-handing the ball. Just make sure you tell me where to throw it when I get it.”

  With that, he pulled off his pants to reveal bright red Adidas running shorts from the 1970s. I can report that these “shorts” really lived up to their name. They were tight, too. To add to the eye-catching ensemble, he also wore black dress socks and white canvas sneakers probably purchased when he bought the shorts, yes, in the 1970s. I figured he might actually prove to be an effective distraction to the other team’s batters.

  Everyone else looked good out there on the field, with perhaps the exception of Professor Moriarty, our catcher. He was st
ill in his dress pants and black brogues, a lovely formal contrast to his green and yellow jersey. He also eschewed the glove, citing Hat’s cricket rationale. I tried to persuade him that he’d be just like a wicket-keeper in his position behind the plate, so wearing a glove would be okay. No luck.

  I pitched for our team. Jesse approached me as the Meteors, in their rather bland black shirts with white trim, took the field.

  “I like them low and outside.”

  The umpire threw me the softball, which was really not soft at all.

  “Batting leadoff for NameFame, number five, Jesse Owens,” announced the scorekeeper on his megaphone, with all the audio fidelity of a first-generation tin-can telephone.

  There were a few titters among the small band of spectators upon hearing our leadoff hitter’s name. Jesse stepped into the batter’s box. The Meteor catcher held his glove at the ready. I delivered my first pitch. It was definitely low and outside.

  “It’s not bowling,” shouted the Meteor catcher as the ball rolled along the ground on the wrong side of Jesse. There was laughter in the infield.

  “Leave him alone, smart guy! It’s his first pitch of the season!” hollered a voice from our dugout that could only belong to Jackie Kennedy.

  With one pitch behind me, I figured I now had my range. Jesse, a right-handed batter, kept eyeing left field as if she were going to drive the ball right over third base. She even pointed her bat there once or twice during her warm-up swings. The Meteor outfield dutifully shifted toward left field. This time, my pitch headed just where Jesse wanted it, low and outside. She actually shifted her feet, turning slightly to her right, and blasted a line drive out over the first baseman’s head into right field. Because he’d already shifted over toward centre field, the right fielder was a long way from the ball when it landed. Jesse was on third when the ball came back in.

  Our bench erupted as if we’d won the World Series.

  “Now at the plate, number ten, um, Peter Parker.”

  “Ooooh, my spidey senses are tingling,” yelled someone from the Meteors dugout.

  “Yeah, like I’ve never heard that one before,” snapped Peter as he took a few practice swings in the box.