At Town Hall the obnoxious clerk reviews the notarized form. He stamps it and scribbles on it, then disappears into another room, finally returning with another form that he hands to me. “That’ll be fifty dollars,” he says.
I pay him the money and he writes out a receipt.
“Go down the hall, left, to courtroom number one and wait inside. They’ll call you.”
“Today?”
The clerk looks at me as if I’ve asked exactly the wrong question. “I just said so, didn’t I?”
“You didn’t say anything.” I pick up my shopping bag to leave.
“Not tomorrow. Not yesterday. The judge will see you today.”
“Drop dead.”
“Same to you, Mister,” the clerk chimes back as I close the door.
Courtroom number one is a sleepy, windowless chamber. I sit in the rear, my bag between my feet, while the bailiff calls out name after name and the judge, a tired-looking gray old man, dispenses one by one with landlords and tenants, debtors and creditors, licenses and permits of all classes until, after a little over an hour, the bailiff calls, “Quintus? uh, Horatius? uh, Mr. Flaccus?” I am told to approach the bench.
The judge doesn’t look up from the papers he is reading but leaves me to stand suppliantly before him. At last he looks up and, appraising me from head to foot, says, “Expression of personal identity—would you mind explaining yourself a little more, ah, completely?”
“I don’t know that I can.”
The judge seems to regard this as an evasion. “You just feel like changing your name. Have I got it right?”
“I don’t feel like it. I want to do it.”
The judge pauses to consider this response. “And this new, ah, appellation, Lucian of Samosata. Why exactly have you chosen it?”
“Everybody needs a name.”
The judge nods. “Why not George or Harold, say, or even Lucian? Lucian’s a fine name.” Then, to demonstrate his fatigue and his infinite patience, he takes off his reading glasses and rubs his eyes. When he realizes that I am not ready with an answer, he puts them back on and looks at me over the rim. “What I’m asking, sir, is what exactly is it that you think will be, ah, conferred on you by this change?”
“A new identity.”
The judge leans back and regards me with a frown that rises over his brow and into the baldness of his pate. “You trying to run away from something?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“How about someone? You got someone chasing you?” No.
“No family?”
“No.”
“Creditors?”
“No.”
“Bankruptcy?”
“No.”
“I see here that you listed your occupation as ‘retired.’ Mind telling me what you retired from?”
“I’m retired from society.”
The judge glances up from the paper, then nods his head. “Fair enough. Sometimes I wish I was too. Ever been convicted of a felony?”
“No. I answered all those questions on the form.”
“I’m just making sure. Have you ever been married?”
“No.”
“You’ll have to explain yourself more fully. I’m having trouble understanding you. A name change is not something that this court takes lightly. Nor should you. So please tell me what you mean by, ah, a new identity.”
To appease the judge, who by his look seems the sort of man who will continue to listen to a complaint despite having formed an opinion, I reach for an answer from Selected Philosophical Essays. “Identity is a relation that obtains between the names of an object.”
The judge’s eyes shift from the paper he is holding back to me, then to the paper again. “Between names, you say?”
“Yes.”
“And you want to change yours,” he says, putting the papers down and taking off his reading glasses again.
“Yes.”
“From Quintus Horatius Flaccus, which, I see here, has been your name for, ah, five years. Before that you went by … William Blake?”
I nod.
“And did those feet in ancient time William Blake? William Blake the poet?”
I nod again.
The judge pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes. “Because …” he loses his train of thought, passes his hand over his brow. “Because …” He waves the docket of papers at me. “This is a pretty esoteric little hobby you’re practicing here, son. And I don’t find it amusing. This is a court of law, not a place for frivolous games. Now tell me: Why do you want to change your name?”
“Because I want to.”
The judge’s eyes narrow. “Tell me what you said about identity again.”
“A relation that obtains between the names of an object.”
“Between the names or the objects themselves?”
“Between the names.”
“Explain.”
“What kind of car do you drive?”
“A Ford.”
“If I had a Ford we would say that we both drive the same car, right?”
The judge nods and looks over at the bailiff, who is standing near the bench, smiling.
“But my Ford and yours are in fact two different cars. The relationship between the name, Ford, and the object, car, is purely a matter of convenience. In fact, it obscures the real relationship between your car and my car—which are in fact two entirely different objects sharing the names car and Ford. Strictly speaking, a thing can only be identical to itself, so identity can never obtain to the relationship between objects because no two objects can be the same object. Identity can only obtain to the names for objects.”
There is silence for a moment.
“And I want to change mine.”
The bailiff is still smiling. The judge picks up the docket of papers, puts his glasses back on, and skims through it once again. Then he looks back at me. “I don’t know if you’re trying to be funny or if you’re just nutty or what.” He picks up a pen and signs the papers. “I’m going to go along with you because”—he measures out his words—“because I want to. And because I believe in freedom of expression.” He hands the papers down to me. “But don’t expect to come back into this courtroom again with another frivolous request because I’ll send your logic-chopping carcass right back out.”
On the way out I stop to read the paper the judge has handed me. It is an Order of Publication and reads:
Quintus Horatius Flaccus, having filed a complaint for Judgement changing his name to Lucian of Samosata and having applied to the Court for an order of publication of the notice required by law in such cases, it is by this Court this thirteenth day of April, 19—ORDERED that all persons concerned show cause, if any there be, on or before the thirty-first day of May, 19—, why the prayers of said complaint should not be granted. PROVIDED, that a copy of this order be published once a week for three consecutive weeks before said day in The Sentinel newspaper.
I step out into bright sunshine. New clothes, new shoes, new name. Maybe the judge would have been more sympathetic if, instead of citing Gottlob Frege’s selected philosophical essay, I’d told him about the birds I watched out at the Indian mound, their existence defined by seasonal migrations and continual reconstruction of habitus. Now, walking down Oblivion’s Main Street and carrying my packages, I feel like one of them, an anonymous migrant inhabiting little more than an ostensible name—and that too subject to change.
The Sentinel Building is farther down Main Street. It is one of the larger buildings on the block, with a hammered tin cornice peeling green paint that names the building and dates it to 1919. The entrance is not off the street but in the rear next to an old loading dock that functions as the delivery entrance for the store called Purrfection on the ground floor.
I climb the steep stairs to the second floor, feeling like an intruder. At the top of the stairs is a glass-paneled door that reads Sentinel, Editorial Office. I kn
ock and enter a light-filled room that runs the entire length of the building. It is cluttered with desks and drafting tables and old letterpresses that have not been used in years. The walls are decorated with yellowed maps of country, state, and county. There are issues of the paper mounted in wooden frames and political posters dating back over decades, and the whole place smells of machinery and ink and bristling brittleness. A young man stands up behind a desk in the center of the room. He is wearing a shirt with sleeves rolled up in reporterly fashion and a dirty tie and looks as if he has been awake all night. “Can I help you?”
“I want to place an announcement in the paper.”
“I’ll take care of it, Brian,” a rusty-sounding voice calls from an office partitioned near the back of the room. An elderly woman puts her head out and beckons me over. “You just finish what you’re working on.”
The young man sinks back down behind the desk, and I make my way through the clutter toward the office in the rear. A small brass nameplate next to the door reads Muriel Maydock. A printed sign taped under the nameplate reads Don’t ask me why. I just own the goddamn thing.
“Come in. Come in,” the woman calls from inside the office. “What can I do for you?” She is standing over a drafting table where the next edition of the paper is being laid out. “It’s only Brian and me today. We’re down to four, and one is out sick and the other one is out chasing the only goddamn story we have for the week.” She talks without looking up at me. “If this paper goes to bed by Friday I’ll drop dead from amazement.”
“I need to run an announcement.”
The woman waddles over to a desk and picks up a paper and pencil. I hand her the announcement, which she glances at and puts in a box on the desk. “Are you a subscriber?”
“No.”
She glares at me from under her white helmet of hair, then dismisses me with a wave of the arm. “I should have guessed. You probably don’t even read. None of the young people do anymore. The flat fee for notices and announcements is thirty dollars,” she says, returning to the drafting table. “Since this has to run for three weeks I can give you ten percent off the total.”
“Twenty-seven ?”
“Twenty-seven times three. Eighty-one dollars,” she turns to me, “for three weeks. It’s a bargain.”
I reach into my pocket and take out the last of my cash, still damp from the pocket of the snowsuit. Muriel Maydock jots a note to herself on a slip of paper and takes the bills from me, noting their soggy condition. “I’ll get you some change,” she says.
“Keep it.” I turn to leave.
“Hold on a minute. I know you. You’re the fella walks all over town, aren’t you?” She comes around for a better look. “I almost didn’t recognize you in those new clothes.” She moves into the doorway and crosses her arms, blocking my way out. “You threatened one of my reporters last summer.”
“I did?”
“You did. You said you’d sue me if we printed your name in the paper.”
I lift my shopping bag up underneath my arm, not able to recall exactly what I had said but remembering an encounter in front of the police station.
Muriel Maydock stands in the doorway holding an elbow in the palm of one hand and with the other probing her scalp through taut white hair tied back on her head. “You have some nerve coming in here,” she says, looking up at me. “I heard the tape. Janet played it for me. You said you’d sue this paper if we printed your name or ever mentioned anything about you in print. Remember now?” Her look condenses into a frown. “Never mind the stupidity of it. The press has certain freedoms in this country, in case you weren’t aware.” She pushes past me into the office. “I’m sure I can dig up the tape somewhere. I made Janet give it to me.”
“I meant it in connection with the rape case.”
But Muriel Maydock is already rummaging through her desk. “This paper has never, ever been sued, and it’s been around since 1919. And nobody has ever threatened us with a lawsuit as far as I know either.” She slams the drawer. “Never mind, I can’t find it.”
I stand in the doorway ready to leave, holding my package. Muriel Maydock strides toward me, holding out the money I’ve just given her. “I won’t take it,” she says, waving the bills at me. “You intimidate one of my reporters. You threaten to sue this paper for printing your name. And now you want to pay me to print it? Forget it, Mister.”
“I don’t want it.” I turn to leave.
“I don’t want it either. Take it back.” She follows me through the office. “How dare you come in here? What for the love of Christ were you thinking? Ever hear of freedom of speech? We didn’t take your little threat too seriously, I want you to know. But we didn’t print your name either. Janet wanted to, but I said no. Not because I was afraid, Mister. Oh no, I wasn’t. Only because it didn’t matter one way or another.”
I yank open the door and start down the stairs, wanting only to get away from the woman’s carping voice. “Go find another paper to print your goddamn announcement!” She is standing at the top of the stairwell. “And take your goddamn money back. It’s no good here.” The office door slams. At the bottom of the stairs I glance back to see the soggy bills scattered down the staircase. For a moment I consider retrieving them, then decide to leave them. I know that Muriel Maydock will do it after I’ve left. Or she’ll send Brian to.
When I arrive back home the neighbor’s kid is waiting for me.
“I got some news,” he says eagerly.
“Okay, let’s have it.”
“Miss Foster is pregnant.”
“Who?”
“Miss Foster, the gym teacher in the high school.”
“That doesn’t sound like big news to me, kid.”
“I’ll tell you who did it to her for fifty cents.”
“What do you mean, did it to her?”
The kid flashes a dirty grin. “You know, who made intercourse with her. She ain’t married.”
“I don’t know about this, kid. Do you even know what intercourse means?”
“Sure I do. It’s fucking.”
“I asked if you knew what intercourse means.”
The kid senses a trap and says nothing.
“It comes from Latin. Inter, between, and currere, to run.”
“Will you pay me if I tell you?” The kid resumes as though I haven’t spoken.
“Tell me what?”
“Who, um, ran between Miss Foster?”
“Very funny, kid.” I try to keep a straight face but find that I’m failing. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“It’s none of my business.”
“But you said …”
“I said I’d pay you for news. Not dirty rumors.”
“It’s not a rumor!” The kid sees me smiling and thinks he has me. Or gossip.
“It’s not gossip, I swear. Everybody knows about it.”
“Well, I’ll be the only one who doesn’t, then. Haven’t you ever heard of invasion of privacy?”
“But it’s in the paper!”
“The paper?”
The kid nods.
“The Sentinel?”
Another nod. “They arrested her and everything.”
“Arrested her? For what?”
“For, um, running between one of the seniors. The paper didn’t say who ’cause he’s only seventeen, but everybody knows who it is anyway. Want me to tell you?”
“I told you, I don’t want to know about it.”
“I’ll tell you for a quarter.”
“Forget it.”
“A dime, then.”
“Not interested.”
“Okay,” the kid says, bursting with the need to tell and unable to hide his merriment. “I’ll tell you for free!”
“I said I don’t want to know. Go find something else to tell me.”
“But it’s in the news!”
“I don’t care. Bring me something else. I don’t want to know about it.”
&
nbsp; The kid backs off a little. “Do you feel sorry for Miss Foster or something? ’Cause they arrested her?”
“Yeah, let’s say I do. So next time how about bringing me something a little further away from home.”
“My mom says they should abortion her. Not the baby.”
“The word is abort. What does Dad say?”
“Nothing. He said Miss Foster is cute.”
“What do you think?”
“She should name the baby Tiger.” “Tiger?”
“That’s the basketball team. The Tigers.”
I reach into my pocket and flip the kid a quarter.
“I thought you weren’t going to give me nothin’?”
“It’s not for the news.” I close the door.
“You want me to give you a definition of love?”
“If you’d like.”
“Well, there ain’t one, I hate to tell you. Not unless you’re talking about the love of Jesus.”
“I was thinking more about love in general.”
“You ever been in love?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Well, you’d know it if you had. I don’t think there’s any defining what that feels like.”
“Webster defines love as (1) an intense affection for another person based on familial or personal ties, shared interests and experiences, or (2) an intense attraction to another person based on sexual desire.”
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