CHAPTER 1

Whats in a name? For many, nothing. For some, not nothing, but not much. For a very few, blessed or cursed, its everything. Im one of those few. And if youre wondering, I usually count myself among the cursed. When I turned forty, I lost the desire, and even the ability, to sleep in. So I was an early riser. Yet, at 7:45, I still wasnt the first into the office that morning. I heard him as I crossed our marble lobby, past the futuristic reception pod where Angela and her headset would soon be stationed. He called out to me from down the hall. Morning, Hem. Um, you got a minute? Bob was standing just outside the corner office, the corner office, his corner office, at the end of the corridor. This was not good news. Bob was never in before 9:30. And when he eventually did arrive, it was to start a workday that was almost always devoid of any real work. Bob, bob, bob. Ive never really liked 1

TERRY FALLIS the name Bob. Its just so short. Simple. Primitive. Unrefined. In fact, I have a theory on the names origin. Six million years ago, when the early hominids first discovered their vocal cords, I think the sound Bob may well have been among their first harsh guttural utterings. Shortly after Grrrrr and Aaaah would have come Baaaahb. Short, simple, primitive, un refined. Much like Bob himself. Conveniently, I disliked Bob as a person as much as I did his name. Wed joined the New York ad agency Macdonald-Clark within weeks of each other nearly fifteen years ago. But wed been on different trajectories ever since. Over the years, I rose through the ranks as if I were sauntering up a gentle slope, stopping often to lounge at patio rest stations along the way. But soon after we started, Bob seemed to board the space shuttle, docking with the corner office after what seemed to me like a very short ride. How it happened so fast no, how it happened at all was more a mystery to me than Bigfoot. I still cannot fathom how Bob parlayed his principal assets of incompetence, paranoia, and mediocrity all the way to the top. But there he was, M-Cs general manager, waving me into his palatial enclave, with an expression on his face that suggested his next words just might be Grrrrr and Aaaah. On the other hand, despite its shortcomings, Id be thrilled to have a name like Bob. Sure, Bob. I turned and followed him in. 2

NO RELATION He led me to the couch and easy chair at one end of the office, far away from his barren desk, where very little work was ever done. I took a spot on the couch, lowering myself into what felt like upholstered quicksand. I sank in so deep that when I stopped, I could almost rest my chin on my knees. I wondered how I was going to get back out. Bob sat in the chair across from me. So, Hem, um, how have you been? Just fine, Bob. You? Awesome, thanks. Cue awkward silence. Bob shifted his position in his chair. I tried to shift my position but the couch simply wouldnt let me. Well, um, I guess youve heard the rumours, he continued. Actually, Bob, Ive been here too long for that. I make it a point never to pay attention to stray rumours or anything else I may encounter in these hallways. If I see a colleague crying in a corridor, or yelling at an intern, or moaning in a bathroom stall, I quickly make a show of checking my watch, turn around fast, and head back the way I came. Thats my policy. So, no rumours have reached these tender ears. So you really havent heard anything? No rumblings? Nothing? Not a peep, Bob. Should I have? His face clouded. Come on, Hem, youre not helping! he snapped. We plant those rumours for a reason. They help condition the staff and prepare them for bad news. Strategic rumours are an important 3

TERRY FALLIS part of our internal communications program. Youre a senior guy. Youve been here a long time. You should know that. Well, Im sorry, Bob. Had you flagged and tagged them as strategic rumours from the corner office I probably would have paid more attention. Shit. Bob, Im a copywriter. I sort of work on my own. I just follow the brief and try to think up the right words and how best to arrange them. Thats what copywriters do. I dont really hang out much with the account teams. Im generally oblivious when it comes to office gossip. Shit. Whats this all about? Bob sighed, then looked at the ceiling as he spoke. Youre out, Hem. Its over. We have to let you go. Today. Now. Im sorry. I laughed. Well, it was more of a chortle. Youre kidding, right? I looked around the office. Wheres the camera? This is for the Christmas party, right? I could tell from his face. No, this wasnt for the Christmas party. I just looked at him for a moment as the news settled over me like ash from an angry volcano. Bob, Im shocked. I dont understand this. Im hurt. You could have at least given me some warning. Shit, Hem, I floated the balloon last week. You seem to be the only one in the agency who didnt pick up on it. 4

NO RELATION Come to think of it, in the last few days folks had been kind of giving me the cocked-head, arched-brow, sad-eyes routine as they hustled by. Bob, Ive been here fifteen years. Ive won awards! You promoted me last year and gave me what I thought at the time was only a modest raise. But still, you did give me an increase! Hem, calm down. Calm down? That was a surprise. Incarcerated in that couch, how could I look anything but calm? I could move only my upper body. I guess I may have been waving my arms around a bit. I am calm. Calm and flabbergasted. Calm and furious. Calm and, um, apoplectic. What possible rationale can you have for firing me? Hem, were not firing you. Were just letting you go. Were thanking you for your years of service, giving you a generous settlement, and parting ways. Thats all. It happens all the time in the agency world. Well, its never happened to me, I said. And you still havent explained why. Hem, come on. You really dont know? Youre a long-form copywriter. Youre a relic, Bob said, waving his arms around a bit. The world has changed. In fact, it changed a decade ago. Im amazed you hung around this long, he said. Everything is short and punchy now. We live in the 140-character universe. Ad agencies dont need long-form copywriting any more. We held out as long as we could. Im sorry. 5

TERRY FALLIS But Im good at my job. Im in on virtually every new biz pitch. My writing has won the agency awards. Im . . . um, good at my job. Im great at my job! Come on, Hem, dont fight this. Dont make this difficult, he soothed. He pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and held it out to me. Hem, youve got a huge package. Well, kind of you to say, Bob, but Im really more interested in the settlement youre offering, I deadpanned. Perhaps I shouldnt have deadpanned. Bob was befuddled. I opened the envelope. The cheque was for the equivalent of a years salary. Wow. Its well above the legislated requirements. Dont bother trying to negotiate. This is as much as I could get for you. If you choose to push back, the offer will be withdrawn and you will receive the bare legal minimum. Bob said this part like he was reading me my Miranda rights. I know I should have fired back with both barrels blazing. But I really wasnt good at this. I was out of things to say. I had nothing. Hem, think of this as a gift. Youve got at least a year to do what you want. You can finally write your novel. Think of this as freedom. Freedom? Yes, freedom. I wanted to say, Fuck you, Bob, like they do in the movies. But I just couldnt get it out. My civility instinct prevailed. 6

NO RELATION Hem, you have to go see Marlene. She has all the paperwork. You need to sign it all if youre going to keep that cheque, he said, almost in a whisper, as if he were talking me off the ledge. Pop back here before you go. I nodded and tried to get up. Bob, do you mind? I reached out my hand. Sure, Hem. He pulled me up and out of the couch. It only took a few minutes to deal with Marlene and her stupid paperwork. She was Macdonald-Clarks human resources specialist, or as she was sometimes known among the account teams, Human Overhead. She was nice to me. I signed without even reading the termination agreement. The cheque stayed in my pocket. Its such a clich to load your personal effects into a cardboard box before making the long walk to the elevators. So I was relieved when Marlene actually gave me a largish clear plastic bag instead, in return for my key and security card. It didnt quite seem a fair exchange. I emptied my desk drawers and bookshelves of all the personal stuff that just seems to accumulate over a decade and a half spent in the same office. Marlene hovered outside my door as if I might steal a pad of Post-it notes on my way out. I could feel anger building. Finally, I picked up the framed shot of Jenn and me taken at Club Med in Jamaica four years ago, just before we moved in together. We 7

TERRY FALLIS both looked deliriously happy. And I guess we were. I tossed it into my plastic bag where it landed photo side up and stared back at me. The bag was full and heavy. Being able to see my personal effects through the clear plastic made the whole scenario seem all the more pathetic. I left the plants where they were. Theyd die if they came home with me. It took some effort, but I thanked Marlene for her assistance, balancing curt and courteous call it curteous and headed back to Bobs office. True to form, he was sitting at his utterly empty desk, gazing out the window. Settle down, Bob. You have to pace yourself or youll just burn out, I said. Im sure going to miss your sparkling wit, Hem. Bob sighed as he stood. Did you sign off with Marlene? I did, but just now, when cleaning out my desk, I had a change of heart. You can tear up the paperwork, Ive decided that you cant terminate me because I resign, I said, staring him down. Bob smiled and held out his hand. It sort of looked like he wanted to shake, so I automatically reached out my hand. He shook his head. No, Hem, not your hand the cheque, please, he clarified. Since you resigned, you have to give back the cheque. There is no settlement when you resign. His hand stayed there, outstretched. I thought long and hard, for the next three nanoseconds. 8

NO RELATION Whoa! Hang on, I wasnt quite finished, I stammered. What I was about to say was that I resign, um, myself to the, um, decision and associated settlement that you and I agreed to earlier. Sound thinking. Bob smirked as he dropped his hand. Well, Bob, its been a real delight, I said as we shook hands a final time. Of all the colleagues Ive worked with in my fifteen years here, I will always remember you as, um, one of them. Then, without missing a beat, I spun on my heel and walked out, lugging my plastic bag. Man, I sure told him. I was in a surly mood by the time I made it into our apartment on Bank Street, almost at Bleecker, in the West Village. It wasnt just losing my job. Id remembered on the way home that Id lost my wallet on the subway the day before. Funny how losing your job can make you forget about losing your wallet. It was well and truly gone. Stray wallets dont last long on New York subways, and they never make it to the mtas Lost and Found. When the elevator opened, Jenn and her brother, Paul, were standing there in the corridor with a cardboard box and a couple of suitcases. Oh hi, Paul, I said. Are you moving in for a while? Jenn had kind of a dazed look on her face. Shit, she said. Believe it or not, youre the second person to say that to me this morning, I replied. 9

TERRY FALLIS Good to see you, Hem, Paul mumbled before turning to his sister. Ill wait in the car. Paul took the box and hit the elevator button. When the doors didnt immediately open, he and his box sprinted to the end of the hall and disappeared into the stairwell. Very odd, was all I said. Hem, what the hell are you doing home at this hour? Youre supposed to be at work. Are you sick? I wish I were sick. Instead, Im unemployed, I reported, trying to hold it together. I was just laid off. On the upside, I have a big cheque in my pocket that I can deposit just as soon as I can get a new bank card. This cant be happening, she said, almost to herself. Well, thats just great news, Hem. Your timing couldnt be better. It wasnt the sympathetic response I was looking for. She just stood there with this strange look on her face. Uh-oh. I figured it out. Shit, I said. Hem, um, look, heres the thing. Im really sorry about your job. That just sucks. But, Im leaving. I didnt want there to be a scene so I was going to call you tonight. What? Hang on. For a second there I thought you said you were leaving. I must not have heard you correctly. Just run that by me again. I made a show of leaning in to hear her better as my anger took over. 10

NO RELATION I obviously didnt expect you to arrive home in the middle of my . . . um . . . Getaway? Great escape? Betrayal? I offered. I always try to be helpful when people are searching for le mot juste. . . . departure, she chose, bobbing her head and scrunching up her nose. From experience, I knew it as the precursor to tears. Hem, dont make this difficult. Believe it or not, youre the second person to say that to me this morning. Hem, its time. You must have seen it coming. Weve lived together for four years, but the last two weve really just been roommates. You know that. It all slipped away. You had to have felt it. How could you not? So you were just going to sneak away without saying anything and hope that I wouldnt notice. Were you going to leave me a note? I said, my voice rising. Jenn, this isnt public school. Were adults. We talk things through. Yeah, right, she countered with an eye roll. When have we ever talked things through? Whenever Ive wanted to talk about it, youve gone to ridiculous lengths to avoid a meaningful discussion. I know how you think, Hem. If we never talk about it, theres no problem. It doesnt exist. Well, I cant do that any more. Im done with that delusion. There is a problem, and Im solving it on my own. I realized we were still standing in the corridor where we could be overheard by curious neighbours with ears pressed to doors. 11

TERRY FALLIS Jenn, at least come back in and lets talk about it. Ive now got plenty of time on my hands. I cant. Its too late for that. We havent been in a real relationship for a long time. If I dont do something about it, youll just carry on, stuck in this rut, but unable to take any action to climb out of it. Youll just deny, avoid, distract, and crack jokes. Its what you do. Its what you always do. Well, its time to be a grown-up, Hem. She exhaled. It was a sigh of fatigue, not of sorrow, not of regret. I could tell. Again, I had nothing. Paul has his van loaded. Im staying with him for a few weeks until I find a place. I gotta go. She leaned in and kissed my cheek before bolting for the elevator, dragging her suitcases behind her. Mercifully, the doors opened quickly and she leapt in. Think of this as freedom, she said as the doors closed. Believe it or not, youre the second person to say that to me this morning, I muttered to myself. The apartment was pristine. She and Paul had worked hard and fast in the four hours since Id left that morning. I felt as if I were in some kind of a time warp. The rooms all looked almost exactly as they had before Jenn moved in four years ago. No, they actually looked better. Beyond a couple of framed photos of the two of us, every other vestige of Jenn was gone, as if Orwells Ministry of Truth had expunged the last four years. It was almost surreal. 12

NO RELATION I dropped into a chair in the living room. I loved our apartment. Hardwood floors. Big windows. Parking under the building. Blessed air conditioning. A fair chunk of real estate in the West Village for the money. And it seemed I was back to having the space all to myself. I loved my apartment. I may have been in shock right then, but I was thinking about my apartment and not about Jenn bailing out on me, on us. I took a moment to catalogue the woes Id collected in the previous twenty-four hours. I had no wallet. I had no job. I had no girlfriend. Losing your wallet is really no big deal. Its a royal pain in the ass, but its just inconvenient, not a threat to your mental stability. On the other hand, losing your job and your girlfriend in the same day is like getting beaten badly in both ends of a psychological doubleheader. I felt terrible. Miserable. Depressed. But to be completely honest, I probably should have felt worse than I did. Beneath the body blows to my ego that would ache for a long time, I was perched on the precipice of a brand-new start. A rare gift. I like my glass half-full. I had a years salary, a seriously simplified love life, a lovely apartment that hadnt been this neat and tidy . . . ever, a novel to write, and time on my hands. To coin a phrase, think of this as freedom. I opened my laptop on the kitchen table where I could look out the window and see the trees lining Bank Street below. The canopy of leaves dappled the June sunshine on the pavement. It was time to write. After I had surveyed the scene outside for fifteen minutes or so, I read through the file folder labelled 13

TERRY FALLIS Debut Novel. I had no title yet for it. Inside were files with names like Character back stories, Settings, Chronology, and Basic outline. There was also a subfolder entitled Manuscript. I opened the Basic outline file and shoved it up against the right-hand edge of my screen. Then I clicked on the Manuscript subfolder to reveal chapters one through eleven stacked in separate files. My mouse hovered over Chapter 11 and I double-clicked to open it. I spent the next twenty minutes or so rereading the words I had written in my last writing session a week earlier. They werent bad, I guess. But the prose read as Id been feeling when Id written it and the previous few chapters forced, listless, unfocused, rudderless, and utterly devoid of literary merit. But that was then. Now my world had been stripped of at least two of the principal distractions that have plagued writers since words were first etched on tablets. I had no job and I had no girlfriend. Suddenly taking their place were two commodities writers have always sought but seldom found. Time and money. If not now, when? So I laced my fingers, turned my linked hands downward, and pushed out, stretching and cracking my knuckles in the clichd way piano players do before duelling with the keys. I know. It must have looked lame, but it actually felt quite good. I opened a new document in Word and typed Chapter 12. Then I felt thirsty and got a drink. Okay, Chapter 12. Then I noticed a dustball Jenn had somehow missed in her guilt-encrusted vacuuming frenzy. I picked it up and tossed it in the garbage bin under the sink. Now, Chapter 12. I wrote a sentence. It was not a great 14

NO RELATION sentence. It was not luminous. It was not elegiac or incandescent. But it was a sentence. It was a start. I read it over, again and again. I flipped the front clause to the back and read it again. Then I put it back. Fifteen minutes later, like the Ministry of Truth, I backspaced through the entire sentence, eliminating any signs that it had ever existed. I looked over at my Basic outline for guidance, but found nothing of interest. Okay, Chapter 12. I shook out my arms like an Olympic swimmer just before the gun. Then I took a shower. Twenty minutes later I was back at my laptop feeling refreshed and enthused. Chapter 12. Whats in the fridge? No, that wasnt a new first sentence. That was the question that I simply had to answer before trying to write that first sentence. Writing always makes me hungry. Even trying to write, or avoiding writing, or wanting desperately to write but succumbing to distractions, or falling prey to simple, pure, unadulterated procrastination, all make me hungry. I made a peanut butter and peach jam sandwich. It was very good, with the perfect proportions of peanut butter and jam. Its hard to nail that balance. Writing and eating usually make me tired. Yep. I took a nap. I awoke two hours later and wondered what I was doing in bed. Then I remembered, and felt discouraged and depressed all over again. When I analyzed my post-nap feelings, I realized I wasnt really grieving Jenns departure. I wasnt a blubbering mass of emotion, but actually felt okay about it all, and was oddly motivated to get back to my novel. I was supposed to be 15

TERRY FALLIS hurting, but it hadnt hit me yet, and might never. What I did feel seemed more like relief than emotional angst. Strange reaction, I know, but there you have it. I hauled myself up and was soon back in the kitchen in front of the laptop, staring at a very intimidating screen. By this time, it was three in the afternoon. I decided I simply couldnt put it off any longer. Not Chapter 12, but replacing my drivers licence at the Department of Motor Vehicles. Driving without your licence is generally frowned upon by the nypd. I took the subway up to Broadway and 6th and eventually got myself in line at the dmv. I would have arrived sooner, but on the way I was forced to cross the street to avoid two leashed beagles leading their owner up the sidewalk toward me. If I havent already mentioned it, I dont like dogs. Not at all. Longhaired or short, brown, black, striped, or checked, I just dont like them. More precisely, Im scared of them. Smaller dogs in particular, for some reason. There was no terrier trauma that I could point to as the root of it all. Dogs just scare me. Im well aware that my fear is irrational, thanks very much. But that doesnt make a Shih Tzu any less frightening. The lineup was long. Right out the door, along Broadway, then wrapping around 34th. What a great day. Losing my job, losing my girlfriend, and now lining up at the dmv. The trifecta. At 4:30, I actually inched into the building. By 4:45 I was finally standing at Window 10, in front of a clerk who looked like she worked at the dmv dealing with cranky drivers eight hours a day. 16

NO RELATION How can I help you? she said in tone better suited for What the hell do you want? Um, I lost my wallet on the subway yesterday and need to get a replacement drivers licence, please. She had not yet looked up. Spell the first name. I did as I was told. Surname, now. Here we go. I leaned in a little closer and almost whispered the spelling of my last name. Her screen was angled so I could see it, too. She stopped typing at the w. I do not have the time for this. Do you see the lineup behind you, sir? I do not have the patience for this. By 2:30 today I had lost whatever sense of humour I brought in with me this morning. So either you spell your real surname, or move along. This was not the first time this had happened. In fact, I confronted it almost daily in one form or another. I could feel my stomach tightening a little. Im sorry. But I actually did give you my real name. Against all odds, that is actually my name. I said it and spelled it again for her. She wasnt typing. She pushed her glasses up onto her head. Let me see some id, right now! Arghhh. Yes, thats what I said, Arghhh, while scanning the ceiling for salvation. It seemed an appropriate response at the time. Look, Im here because I lost my wallet. So I have no id. Thats where I usually keep my id. Thats why Im here, 17

TERRY FALLIS I pleaded, doing my best to suppress my simmering anger. But my voice was starting to rise a little. Look, mister. You expect me to believe that any sane parent would give their son that name. I aint buying what youre selling. You got no id. Youre getting belligerent. Youre practically foaming at the mouth. So back off and go and get your jollies somewhere else. Were busy here. Try the passport office on Hudson. Theyre loads of fun. She pointed in a vaguely southerly direction as she said it. Next in line, please! Ive often heard of people snapping under the cumulative stress of a situation. All of a sudden a bolt pops loose and that nice, gentle man who gives to charity and volunteers at the food bank somehow steps off the deep end and turns into a raving lunatic. Well, it was different for me. You see, I volunteer at the Planned Parenthood Clinic down on Bleecker, not at the food bank. But everything else was just about the same. You know, the deep end, raving lunatic part. So much for my civility instinct. Wait just a second, I shouted, yes, shouted. Wait one second! That is the name I was christened with forty years ago. I am not impersonating anyone. The spelling is not even the same. Theres an a in my first name and a double m in the second. See, its a completely different name. Okay, now try to focus. Ive had a very, very bad day and I need a new drivers licence. Your job is to make that happen. Please do it now! Security to 10, was all she said into her headset. She sounded tired. 18

NO RELATION It felt like an out-of-body experience. I could hear myself yelling, but seemed unable to control it. As an observer, I was impressed with my coherence, despite the higher pitch and volume of my voice. Whoa, hang on! Ive been waiting nearly two hours. Im not leaving without my new drivers licence. Ive already given you my name. I live at 75 Bank Street in the village. So just process it now and Ill leave quietly! I didnt feel the need to utter the and nobody gets hurt line. It was implicit. For the first time, I noticed the crowd behind me backing away, some of them even surrendering their position in the line to get a little farther away from the whack job ranting at Window 10. I felt like I was among them watching this crazy dude melt down. Security to 10! I was still yelling. At one point I seem to recall banging the glass with my open palms. Excellent idea. I listened to myself shout some more at the woman at Window 10. Do you know what its like to go through life with my name? Do you? It builds a wall around you. It isolates you. Its harder to meet people. Fellow drivers in the dmv think youre crazy. And you know what the worst part is? Are you listening? Do you know what the worst part of the story is? Im a writer. Yes, thats right. What a hoot! Isnt that a laugh? I am a writer. Say, whats your name? Wheres your name tag? Come on, whats your name? I bet its a normal, average name that has never 19

TERRY FALLIS registered on any radar anywhere in the world. Brenda Cooper, or Linda Baker. Something like that, right? No spikes in notoriety, no front-page stories, no celebrity scandals to make your life difficult. You have no idea how lucky you are, whatever your name is. The words just flowed out of me. I knew the speech well. Id been mentally rehearsing various versions of it for many years. I just never thought Id ever say it out loud. I paused to look carefully at the ceiling again and tried to calm down a bit. That didnt really work. My throat hurt from shouting. I really dont know why I was shouting but it seemed the most natural thing in the world to be doing at that moment. You gotta help me! Just make this one little thing go right for me today, because nothing else has. In case shouting wasnt enough to make my point, I also went back to banging on the glass. But for variety, I pounded it in time with my words for added emphasis, as a crazed bongo player might. Yes, my breakdown was syncopated, almost rhythmic. You have no idea what Ive already been through today! Its been a nightmare and this is not the way I want it to end! This is not the way its going to end! Code 66! Security to 10! Now would be good! Look, whatever your name is, you are not helping turn my day around. Its your job to help me! And at least youve got a job! I lost mine this morning after fifteen years, and then my girlfriend moved out, all before noon! Thats gotta be some kind 20

NO RELATION of a record! Just give me this one little victory. Please! Just this one teeny-weeny win. Give me my drivers licence! Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom went my hands on the glass of Window 10, following the cadence of my words. It just felt so good to get it all out. How do you spell catharsis? I was caught off guard by what happened next. Or perhaps caught by guards might be the better way to put it. I felt them before I saw them. Hey, wait . . . what gives . . . get your hands off meee . . . I know my righhhhh . . . Heyyyyy . . . arrrrrllllllchshhhhh . . . After that, I was still making sounds with my mouth, but its hard to be articulate with a nightstick pressed against your trachea. Theres not a lot of give in those nightsticks. But I was gurgling as eloquently as I could. It took three of them to carry me, squirming and squealing, to the front door of the dmv. The hordes still waiting in line parted before us, as if I were infected with the Ebola virus. Now I had always thought that the phrase They threw him out on his ass was just a catch-all term to cover any kind of forcible ejection. Well, in my case, it really did mean They threw him out on his ass. Theres not a lot of give in those dirty sidewalks of Broadway either. And theres not a lot of give in my tailbone any more. I lay back flat on the pavement where Id landed. The big guard was on me in an instant, her knee pushing down on my sternum, her colleagues towering on either side. 21

TERRY FALLIS If youre still lying here in ten minutes, the police will be called. Youre lucky they arent here now, she said, her face pressed quite close to mine. She spoke to me like I was one small step up from a disobedient dog. Go home! Do not go back into the dmv! Do you understand? Go home right now! I pointed to her knee as politely as I could. Need to breathe here . . . I gasped. She lifted her knee a little and I sucked in all the air around me. Do you understand? she shouted at me again. Of course I understand, I replied calmly, lying flat on my back on the sidewalk at Broadway and 6th having been mounted by a burly security guard. Im not an idiot. She just shook her head, stood up, and led her team back into the building. I lay there for a while making sure I had feeling in all my extremities. I can report that I certainly had feeling in my ass. No one stepped forward to assist the innocent taxpayer unjustly abused by the state. In fact, Im really not sure any passers by even noticed me. A guy lying on the sidewalk, moaning, is nothing out of the ordinary in Manhattan. From my pavement-level vantage point, I noticed a black miniature poodle closing fast. So I got up, fast. I turned the key in my apartment door forty minutes later and plopped down on the couch. Then I shot back up again as a 22

NO RELATION tsunami of pain started in my coccyx and then washed over me. My, what a short memory I have. I discovered through trial and error that the least painful position was lying on my stomach. So I did that for a while, after popping twice the recommended dose of Advil. She was right. Jenn, I mean. Our relationship had been not so much strained, just pallid and pale for the last two years. Whatever spark had kindled the fire early on had become so anemic that the flames petered out before I even noticed. Jenn was right. I probably knew as early as she did, perhaps even earlier. I just couldnt bring myself to deal with it. It was easier not to. Not better, just easier. I see that now. Many relationships limp along because theyre convenient. And its inconvenient to do something about it, and end it. Im very good at pursuing the path of least resistance. Its what Ive always done. But Im also getting a little better at hindsight. Who knows, perhaps insight might not be far behind. I managed to get up, put the two pillows from Jenns side of the bed on a kitchen chair, and with considerable care lowered myself into a pseudo-sitting position. I stared at the screen some more. Chapter 12. I was unable to find any words that worked. I knew where my story was going. I just had to look at my outline. But the words would not come. It felt like they would never come. I Googled writers block and enjoyed twenty minutes of depressing reading as I matched symptoms. Finally, I surrendered, clicked open one of my existing Word files, and spent some time working on a taxonomy system Ive 23

TERRY FALLIS been developing to classify the various kinds of people who, for one reason or another, have famous names even though they are not famous themselves. Like me, for instance. It was my shrinks idea to do the analysis and develop the model. I found it interesting, even fascinating at times. Having thought about this topic for most of my life, I felt as if Id covered all the bases and had a pretty good handle on the different categories. I just didnt know anyone else with a famous name to test-drive my system. I couldnt sit on my tender tailbone any longer so I stripped down, then went to lie face down on our bed, on my bed. I reached for the phone on my night table, dialled, then I waited for the beep. Hi, Dr. Scott, its Hem. Im hoping youve got some time tomorrow. That would be Thursday. Im clear all day. Yep, all day. Look, some stuff has happened and, well, we need to talk. Just let me know when, and Ill be there. Thanks. Bye. I hung up. It was only 8:30, but I was exhausted after my big and busy day. I was just drifting off when the phone rang. I assumed it was Dr. Scott. But no, my fathers name appeared in the little liquid crystal caller id screen. No, no, no. No thanks. Not now. Absolutely not. Id rather head back to the dmv, perhaps even with a side trip to the dog pound. Not tonight. Still, it rang. Id been through enough already. I did not need a conversation with my father to top it all off. I already had a very big pain in my ass, thanks just the same. I just let it ring as I swallowed more Advil. I looked for a while at the empty 24

NO RELATION side of the bed Jenn had occupied for the last four years. I was feeling sorry for myself, but not really for very long. Then I assume I fell asleep, my ass still throbbing.

25

CHAPTER 2
Youve probably figured it out by now. Well done, if you have. And if you havent, well, as my former ad agency colleagues might say, Heres the big reveal. My name is Earnest Hemmingway. Yes, it really is. I know, hard to believe, but true. I have absolutely no connection to the famous writer except we happen to have been born in the same city, Chicago. But thats just a freak coincidence. Beyond that fluke of geography, there is no link. None. No relation. In fact, as I tried to explain to my nemesis at Window 10, my name isnt even spelled the same way. I am Earnest Hemmingway. That other writer guy is just plain old Ernest Hemingway. I cling to my extra a and m to set me apart from the literary titan. Stripped of the extra a and m, his name seems simple and spare to me, like his writing. His name seems almost incomplete, abbreviated, truncated. Conversely, my name is more complex and flowing, like my writing. Its been hell living with a famous persons name, even one thats 26

NO RELATION spelled differently. It sounds the same, so to the world it is the same. When I say its been hell, dont misunderstand me. I fully understand that my plight pales when stacked against world hunger, global warming, geopolitical tensions, equality of the sexes, and doping at the Olympics. I like to think I have a sense of perspective, that I can put this into a broader context. Nevertheless, this very personal burden has profoundly affected my life. My name intrudes daily, with every person I meet. Every one. A laugh. A smirk. A glance tinged with disbelief. A snide remark. Even a well-meaning attempt at humour, without the slightest whiff of malice. It all has weight when it leans on you, day in and day out. There does not exist a line I havent heard. Some, very lame: I loved your books, ha ha. Others, more sophisticated: Sorry about your suitcase. Ive heard them all. I cannot recall ever meeting someone when my name did not prompt at least some discernible reaction that would never have occurred had Bob been my handle. To make matters worse, and yes matters can be made worse, I want to be a writer, a novelist, in fact. What a cruel hand to be dealt. Sad, isnt it? Life would be so much easier if my dream were to open a restaurant, or be a dentist, or build my own home by the ocean. I could probably handle that. Instead, because I want to write, I get jokes about shotguns for breakfast. I truly believe I could handle living with a different famous name that had nothing to do with writing. Basil Rathbone. Richard Nixon. Charles Lindbergh. George Foreman. Bring it on! Im not saying life would be easy with a different famous 27

TERRY FALLIS name. Far from it. But I ask you, if you wanted to be a writer, is there a worse name to bear than mine? Come on, try. F. Scott Fitzgerald? Not bad, but nowhere near Hemingway. Charles Dickens perhaps? Impressive, but still not quite there. These literary greats are inextricably linked to their works. Charles Dickens = Oliver Twist / A Christmas Carol / A Tale of Two Cities / David Copperfield F. Scott Fitzgerald = Tender Is the Night / The Great Gatsby But the name Ernest Hemingway conjures up something else, something greater. He transcends his books. Simply put . . . Ernest Hemingway = Writer . . . end of story. I know what youre thinking. Just change it! Change your name! People do it all the time for a host of different reasons. But its my name. Ive had it all my life. It would be a stretch to say I like my name. In fact, I often loathe it. But it is my name. Then why not use your middle name? you ask. I dont have one. Nor did any of the other first-born sons in the Hemmingway clan since the early part of the last century. I always thought it showed a distinct lack of creativity on the part of my great-great-grandparents. 28

NO RELATION But wait, theres more. Heres the kicker. I cant stand Hemingways writing. I really cant. I hate it. His spare, flat prose never fails to take something inherently interesting, or even exciting think bull fighting or war and make it sound, well, spare and flat. To me, the English language is something to celebrate, to explore, to splash around in. My writing, such as it is, is the polar opposite to Hemingways, which seems to make bearing his name even more of a burden. He haunts me. I feel him looking over my shoulder criticizing my intricate sentences, my lofty vocabulary, my swirling prose. It feels like hes in the room with me, or at least in my head. Or perhaps Im just obsessed, deluded, and deranged. Thats also an option. I havent yet explained just how I came to carry my name. Im no history buff, but you cant grow up in this family and not absorb its story, if only by osmosis. My younger sister is a dedicated student of the familys history. But I know enough to tell the tale. While its rarer today, back toward the end of the nineteenth century, Hemmingway was not an uncommon name. My greatgreat-grandparents, Theodore and Mary Hemmingway, were Christian missionaries in China in the 1890s. What a tough existence that must have been. Every few years they returned to the west to recover, visit family and friends, and report on their success, or lack of it, in converting the rural farming communities of China to Christianity. They often brought with them strange maladies, parasites, and fevers that would lay them low for a month or two before they felt up to heading east again, 29

TERRY FALLIS which they always did, eventually. To the extent that they had a home outside of China, it was in Boston. In the spring of 1895, Theodore and Mary were in London on their way from China back to the United States. Miraculously, this time around, they were in remarkably good health and could really enjoy a few days in one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world, before boarding a ship for the harrowing Atlantic crossing to Boston. One night in March, the young couple was given tickets to a relatively new play that had opened the month before to rave reviews. The famous fourbalcony St. Jamess Theatre was located near King Street and Duke Street, a short walk from where the couple was staying. They loved the play. They laughed until they cried. They had never seen such wonderful drama in such an extraordinary theatre. It is fair to say, they were entranced by the experience. Clearly the memorable night did not end when the curtain fell, for nine months later, almost to the day, my great-grandfather was born in Boston. The proud parents were overjoyed. To commemorate that special night they spent in London, the baby was christened Earnest Hemmingway. No middle name. Have you figured it out yet? The play they had so enjoyed that night in London was, of course, one of the first performances of Oscar Wildes The Importance of Being Earnest. If only Wilde had stuck to his original title for the play, Lady Lancing, my life, and that of my 30

NO RELATION father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, might have been entirely different. Damn Oscar Wilde. Theodore and Mary did more than name a son that December morning in 1895. They unwittingly sowed the seeds of an idiotic family tradition that plagues me to this day. Every first-born son in the three generations that followed was also named Earnest Hemmingway. No middle name. Curse Oscar Wilde. By the way, Ernest Hemingway you know, the famous writer guy well, he wasnt even born until 1899. In our family, the original Earnest Hemmingway, born nine months after a night at the theatre, has always been known as EH1. It follows that my grandfather became known as EH2, my father, EH3, and I, yep, EH4. I know it sounds more like a designation on a laser printer cartridge, but there you have it. Its just so much easier to go with EH4 rather than Earnest Hemmingway the fourth. You understand. Im a little hazy on EH1s childhood. I doubt its particularly relevant to this story anyway. But I do know that as a teenager, he worked in the garment trade in Chicago. He was an enterprising lad with an entrepreneurs creative mind and steely nerves. He came up with an idea to improve a particular garments strength and quality. Rather than share it with his employer, he kept it to himself and quit the company. Within days, on the outskirts of Chi-Town in 1916, EH1 started his own fledgling operation, still known today, as it was then, as The Hemmingwear Company. The product? Underwear. Yes, 31

TERRY FALLIS underwear for men and boys was the only offering. So what was the idea that gave rise to a four-generation family underwear empire? Well, a bit of background first. In those days, the ripper, sometimes called the yanker, was a standard schoolyard prank. The waistband of the unwitting victims underwear was grasped at the back and yanked upward quickly and forcefully. Invariably, the waistband ripped apart from the rest of the underwear, hence the aptly coined term ripper. Across the continent, for many years, the ripper was the tactic of choice for bullies terrorizing their prey. That is, until EH1 changed the game forever. In his spare time, EH1 developed a new cross-stitching technique that when combined with a wider waistband added considerable strength to the underwear. Throw a stronger but softer fabric into the mix, and EH1 had a winning product on his hands. Men and boys in and around Chicago loved the new product. When the new Hemmingwear underwear caught on, the ripper simply vanished, to be replaced by something arguably just as humiliating and painful, but certainly different. Instead of the waistband pulling apart from the rest of the underwear, EH1s innovative cross-stitching held fast, wedging the garment upward between the buttocks and dangerously compressing the genitals. This usually resulted in ephemeral sopranos and excruciating pain. In EH1s honour, the prank was initially known as the Hemming. However, much to his relief, a new term eventually supplanted it. It was apparently coined on a military base 32

NO RELATION somewhere in the southern United States when a new recruit was found hanging by his underwear from a fence post demarcating the munitions range. In considerable pain and in a somewhat higher-pitched voice, he declared it a wedgie. The name stuck. Yes, its true. My cross-stitching great-grandfather put the wedge in wedgie. Im not sure whether the bullies or their victims were pleased with EH1s innovation, but he called it the relentless march of progress. To be fair, Im selling old EH1 short. The new and stronger waistband was only a small part of his business savvy. He determined that the other garment companies were struggling and failing by trying to manufacture far too many different products. The manufacturing efficiencies and economies of scale could never be achieved when so many different undergarments were being produced in relatively small quantities. EH1s genius was in sticking to a simple yet powerful business strategy: 1. Focus on one set of customers: men and boys. 2. Make only one product line: underwear. 3. Make it in huge quantities to reduce the per unit price. And it worked. It worked very well. Two other factors helped to consolidate the fortunes of The Hemmingwear Company. The first was EH1s version of the more modern business axiom Location, location, location. In early 33

TERRY FALLIS 1916, at the age of twenty-five, EH1 bought cheap industrial land just outside of Chicago. Over the decades, he and his successors, true to his vision of mass production, expanded the Chicago operation rather than building smaller factories in other parts of the country. One giant factory is more efficient than five smaller operations, provided you can economically deliver your product to those more distant markets. Well, EH1 had thought it all through. Even in the early years of the twentieth century, Chicago was emerging as the largest and most important rail hub in North America. It was no coincidence that the land EH1 bought in 1916, and on which The Hemmingwear Companys massive manufacturing operation still sits, was and remains immediately adjacent to the enormous Chicago rail yards. It was a good idea back then to locate close to the railroad. Its still a good idea today. By building and expanding his manufacturing right next to the Chicago rail hub, EH1 maximized efficiency, minimized product costs, and secured continental distribution in one genius stroke. Smart. The second and perhaps even more important factor, at least in the beginning, was winning the exclusive contract to supply the U.S. Army with underwear as they were mobilizing to enter the Great War in 1917. In business, as in most things in life, timing is everything. It was a massive contract that played right into EH1s vision of a narrow product line, mass-produced for a specific audience, in this case, some four million soldiers. EH1 used the contract to lever investment in significantly expanding the Hemmingwear manufacturing operations to handle the 34

NO RELATION undertaking. Few companies in the history of business have benefited more from such a timely, lengthy, and sizable military contract. It carried EH1 right through the Depression when all around him factories were closing and workers were losing their jobs. Without the Army contract, who knows what might have happened to Hemmingwear. What I do know is that EH1 never squandered his opportunities. He dedicated his life to making the most of them. Just after the Second World War, a cursed family tradition began when EH2 returned from Europe and joined EH1 in the family business. When he crossed the threshold at Hemmingwear, the die was cast. It was inevitable. Eventually, EH1 retired and EH2 took the reins. From that moment onward, it simply became accepted and expected that the first-born son, who carried the patriarchs name, would assume the mantle of ceo. Thanks a lot, EH2. This is on your head. Though its hard to tell if my father, EH3, has ever really been happy, he is doing his duty to the family as ceo. In a very few years, Ill be expected to do mine. The pressure has been building for years. Shit. Theres a line my father likes to cite, too often, when he wants to remind me of the path in life Im expected to follow. His father, EH2, introduced its overuse in our family but claimed it originally came from the patriarch himself, Earnest Hemmingway I. Quoting those who came before him, my father simply says, This family tradition is paramount and sacrosanct. Over the years, its been abbreviated to just paramount and sacrosanct, 35

TERRY FALLIS and eventually to just two initials. Whenever my father wrote to me when I was away at summer camp, or later at college, he would always add ps below his signature. It did not signal that he wanted to add a few more lines. No, his postscript just sat there on the page, a final reminder of my future. No words were needed. His code was well understood. Paramount and sacrosanct. Those two heavy adjectives still hang around my neck. While still honouring EH1s founding business strategy, Hemmingwear remains strong and profitable. Its given me financial security, though Ive never touched my so-called trust fund, and it promises a steady job at the helm when EH3 is ready to leave. I wont have to send in my resum. I wont have to go through a competition or interviews. I wont need references. I just have to move my stuff back to Chicago. It seems churlish to complain about my lot in life. I know, the world should have my problems, right? But I dont want it, any of it. Yes, I am EH4, but running Hemmingwear will not be my fate. I will not fulfill my birthright. I do not ever want to occupy the corner office at Hemmingwear. I just want to write. Like Ernest Hemingway, no relation, spelled differently. I just want to write. Let someone else make the nations underwear. It took me fifteen minutes to slide myself out of bed and assume an upright position. I hadnt slept well at all. My tailbone was still killing me. Imagine a colonoscopy with a red-hot sickle, conducted 36

NO RELATION by a doctor with a severe tremor. Yeah, thats about right. I popped more Advil, but not enough. I stood at the kitchen counter to eat a bowl of multigrain Cheerios. Then I fired up my laptop, carried it to the bookcase in the living room, and placed it on one of the higher shelves. In this way, I could work on it while standing, in the hopes that the red-hot sickle might not be quite so painful. I checked my email with one hand and held a glass of orange juice with the other. My Macdonald-Clark email address had already been disabled, which was fine with me, so I opened my personal Gmail account. I scrolled through the spam until I came upon an email from my younger sister, Sarah, that had arrived moments earlier. All it said in the subject line was WTF! I opened the email. The only content was a YouTube link. Without even hesitating to consider the implications, I clicked on it. Next time, Ill hesitate a bit to consider the implications. There was something vaguely familiar about the scene that played out in the little rectangle on my laptop screen. t showed some crazed dude hollering at some kind of customer service rep and banging the glass behind which she was safely ensconced. It looked like the dmv. It was the dmv. It slowly came back to me. Im kidding, I knew immediately what I was looking at. Shit. Is nothing sacred? Cant a guy have a public meltdown these days without the unholstering of half a dozen video-equipped smartphones? I remained completely calm. I didnt even notice when the glass of orange juice slipped from my hands and headed for the hardwood. Luckily, it didnt shatter when it hit. 37

TERRY FALLIS The glass wasnt broken, but my big toe might have been. I forgot about my tailbone for the ensuing ten minutes or so and gave thanks for my nearly deaf neighbour. The YouTube clip had been uploaded the previous evening under the title: Famous Writer Flips Out at the DMV Very funny. It had been posted just about twelve hours ago so there were only about 309,000 hits so far. I clicked over to the YouTube home page and confirmed my worst fears. The clip was one of YouTubes featured videos. Id gone viral. I clicked back and played the four-minute video in its entirety. I was impressed with the cinematography of the shooter. Hed done a very nice job. And the audio was outstanding. You could hear every word I uttered perfectly clearly. As luck would have it, the guys smartphone was also equipped with a digital zoom and he knew how to use it. So not only was the sound great, but on the tight shots toward the end, at the height of my tirade, you could actually see the spittle flying off my mouth and hitting the glass. Powerful stuff. Then the scene shifted as I exited, stage left. The shooter stayed abreast of the three security guards who were carrying me out. There was none of the grainy, hand-held, home-movie feel of the Zapruder film in Dealey Plaza. It was as if this guy just happened to be holding a Hollywood high-def Steadicam. Then he 38

NO RELATION perfectly framed my brief flight, my tailbone touchdown, and my final breathless exchange with the security guard. The video then faded to black as I lay on the sidewalk. Very nice. My mind drifted to what soundtrack music might underlie the sequence perhaps something from Les Misrables, or even Camelot. Then I felt sick. So to help ease my pain, I scrolled down to see if any comments had been left. Yes, there were a few. Well, relative to the 309,000 views, 234 comments constitute a few. The first twenty comments could all be categorized as negative, with subheadings like insulting, hostile, ridiculing, and unstable. But the twenty-first read as follows: Leave him alone! Do you have any idea what its like to live with a famous name? Do you? Trust me, it aint great. So cut the guy some slack. J. Stalin J. Stalin? Youre kidding. I kept scrolling through another twenty-six negative comments before reaching this one: Get the fuck off the poor saps back! Try walking a mile in his shoes, you assholes! Anne Boleyn I know a pattern when I see one. I tracked through all of the comments. Of the 234, there were only nine positive ones. 39

TERRY FALLIS Beyond our friends J. Stalin and good old Anne, supportive messages were also left by an F. Sinatra, Gerald Ford, S. Holmes, D. Beckham, Margaret Thatcher, and two other names that I didnt recognize as famous at all, but I suppose could have been. Interesting. The ringing phone brought me back. Hello. Holy shit! What the hell was that? Were you on something? Sarah? No, its Beyonc, my sister Sarah replied. Who did you think it was? Sorry, but Im more accustomed to the standard telephone opening. You know, the one that goes Hi, Hem, its Sarah. Something like th Yeah, yeah, whatever, she cut me off. Anyway, Hem, you were amazing! It was quite strange and disturbing, but you were still amazing. Oh, and Im really sorry about your job and about Jenn. How did you find out about that? Did she call you? Hello! Is this thing on? she mocked tapping her phone. I found out about your job and Jenn the same way 312,000 other people around the world just did. Youve gone viral. Shit. Right. Hem, are you all right? What happened, I mean before the dmv? Yeah, Im fine. I have a bruised ass and ego, and I may never sit down again, but Im fine. I just had the day to end all days. 40

NO RELATION The video sums it up quite nicely. I got laid off and escorted out of the agency Ive been with for fifteen years. Then I came home and found Jenn and her suitcases in the hallway, with her brother driving the getaway car. And, oh yeah, I lost my wallet the day before. So to comfort myself, I thought, Well, theres always the dmv. So I went uptown. It was kind of a bad news/good news scenario. I did not get my new drivers licence, but Im now on the YouTube home page. Other than that, things are great. Shit, that is one bad day, she said. Look, I want to hear everything but have to bail now. Im coming to New York tomorrow to see you. I should be at your place by eleven. Whoa, um, Im kind of tied up tomorrow, um, like all day. Rain check? Hem, tomorrow is Saturday. You just lost your job. Your girlfriend just bolted. You have no drivers licence. And you cant drive anyway because you broke your ass. Sarah was now using her most patient voice. Youve got all the time in the world. Im sure you could use the company. And we need to talk. See you tomorrow, and Im sorry about your day from hell. Sarah hung up. Shit. At least I didnt need to clean the apartment. My sister and I dont really get along that well, except Sarah doesnt seem to know that. Thirteen years my junior, she arrived long after my parents decided one son was sufficient. Sarah dubbed herself the afterthought. I left home for college when she was just turning five, and just turning interesting. Since 41

TERRY FALLIS then, wed never lived under the same roof, except for a day at Thanksgiving and a couple more over Christmas. To strip it right down to the wood, I really didnt know my sister very well. But she scared me a little. If my father had noticed, Sarah was actually the first-born son he never really had. She took to business like a morning dj to coffee. She sailed through a business degree at the University of Chicago before finishing at the top of her mba class at Northwestern. I was so proud of her. Mom was so proud of her. My father didnt really seem to notice. He went to her convocation a couple years ago but spent most of the time haranguing me about doing an mba and taking my place in the company. If this upset Sarah, she just channelled any frustration into her career. Even before graduation, she was courted by all the investment houses and management consulting firms in New York. They offered her more to start than Id ever make in the ad agency world. But she said no. Turned her back on them all to work at, yes, The Hemmingwear Company. The most single-minded, driven, aggressive, diligent, and pugnacious woman Ive ever known was trying to climb up the corporate ladder in a mens underwear company. My father did nothing to help her up. In fact, he sometimes seemed to be greasing the rungs. Our mother lived long enough to see Sarah join the family business, before the cancer finally took her. It was a slow and pain-ridden decline that was hard on everyone. Afterwards, our father, or using the 42

NO RELATION more appropriate appellation, EH3, threw himself into the company to the exclusion of all else. But that wasnt really much of a change. Ive been seeing Dr. Madelaine Scott for ten years now. Apparently, I have some issues. I like her. Shes thoughtful but blunt, and doesnt speak much, even for a psychiatrist. She seems to keep a certain distance from me that Im always trying to close. I know. Shes not supposed to open up. Thats my job. Im the one on the couch. Her office is in a nice brownstone on a leafy crescent on the Upper West Side. She was in her early sixties, but didnt look it. Her short auburn hair made her seem younger. She always dressed casually. Id never ever seen her in a dress or skirt. Her office was formal but comfortable. Plush beige broadloom cushioned the feet. Lamp light replaced the traditional overhead fluorescent tubes. The art on the walls was nice but not interesting enough to distract you from the task at hand. You know, exposing your innermost thoughts and sifting through your memories, usually just for clues, but sometimes for real answers. I used to lie on the couch in the sitting area while we spoke. But after I fell asleep for the third time in our first five appointments, we decided I should sit across from her in the same kind of leather armchair that she uses. I dont think she ever fell asleep during our appointments. Dr. Scott. 43

TERRY FALLIS Hello, Hem. Come in. Thanks for squeezing me in. No problem. Thats what I do, she replied. The next thirty minutes are yours. How have you been? Well, funny you should ask. But a lot seems to have happened in the last day. Yes, I know. Wallet, job, and Jennifer, all gone in twentyfour hours. Im sorry. Wait. Ive never mentioned that in my voice mail. How did you know? I saw her eyes move to the laptop on her desk. Youve seen it, havent you? I said. She just nodded. You just happened to be trolling through YouTube and stumbled across it? Hem, I, like most psychiatrists, have Google Alerts set up for the names of all my patients. I viewed it shortly after it was posted. Were you going to say anything about it to me? I assumed we would come to it, and it seems I was right, she replied. Mindful of the time, I spent the next ten minutes giving her an abridged version of my big adventure the day before. Throughout, she said nothing, but nodded a few times, brushed some fluff from her pants, and took a couple of notes. That must not have been easy for you. Lets start with your job. How are you feeling about being let go? 44

NO RELATION Oh, its been fantastic! A validation of my contribution to the firm. Recognition of my abilities and achievements as a leading copywriter. And the culmination of a successful and fulfilling career. So were back to your standard sarcasm as shield avoidance stratagem, she observed. Were you good at your job? Easy question. I know this one. Yes, Dr. Scott. I truly believe I was good at that job. I helped win new business. I wrote some award-winning campaigns. And at least for those early years, I was busy all the time. I was in demand. But the landscape has changed. Long-form isnt hot now. Okay. You were good at your job, she summarized. Now, tell me honestly, Hem, did you love your job? My tender tailbone was throbbing. I shifted very gingerly in my chair. I looked at the ceiling. I gazed out the window. I examined my fingernails. I cleared my throat. And when I could avoid it no longer, I actually thought about her very simple question. I liked some of my colleagues. I liked some of my clients. I even liked wrestling with some of the creative challenges that were dumped on me over fifteen years. I turned it all over in my mind and really thought about it, perhaps for the first time. In my head and in polite conversation, Ive always made a point of ducking that question. I guess Ive gotten close to the answer before. But Ive always managed to shut down before drawing the harsh conclusion. 45

TERRY FALLIS No. Ive never really loved my job, I replied. Ive never leapt out of bed on Monday morning so I could get to the office sooner to immerse myself in what I was truly meant to do on this Earth . . . write long-form ad copy. No, I guess I didnt love my job. Im not even sure I liked it much. The fact of the matter is, I think I can only go as far as I didnt mind my job. Were you aware of this before just now? I fidgeted. And look around the office a bit more. Maybe. Probably. Silence. More silence. Okay, yes. Hem, just because were good at something doesnt mean were meant to spend our lives doing it. I thought about that for a bit and nodded, not looking at her. You told me in our very first session a decade ago that your dream was to become a writer, she continued. Is that still true? Is that still your dream? Yes. Do you need to work right now to earn money to live? No. As my former employer told me, I have a huge package. Dr. Scott smiled. I smiled. Hem, lets shift to Jennifer, she continued. Did you love living with her? I looked at the clock. We were running out of time so I shed the pretense of deep inner angst and turmoil. I think I knew the answer to this one, finally. I loved living with her for the first eight months or so but then I started missing the freedom of my old life. But doing 46

NO RELATION something about it would have been a huge deal. So I did nothing about it. I was paralyzed. Or more accurately, I guess I chose to be paralyzed. That earned a nod from Dr. Scott. Living together just kind of became more of a routine, a habit, and less a real relationship, I admitted. Good. It feels like youve thought this through. Okay, Hem, heres a big one. Did you love Jennifer? Did you really love her? No. Okay, were nearly out of time. So let me skip to the end. Hem, on the YouTube video, you seemed like you were very upset and acting out in ways that are not consistent with your personality and beliefs. I just nodded. In light of your candid responses in the last half-hour, is it possible that your little episode at the dmv yesterday was not because you couldnt cope with losing your job and your girlfriend, but rather because you just dont know how to handle the unexpected freedom you suddenly now have? Five minutes later we both rose from our chairs and I headed for the door. Did you notice the comments on the video? I asked her. Well, I scanned a few but didnt really like what I was reading so I stopped. Why? 47

TERRY FALLIS I know there were tons of vitriolic comments, but sprinkled in among them were a handful of supportive ones, most from other people with famous or nearly famous names. And . . . ? she prompted. Well, Ive never really considered that there are other people out there living with what Im living with. But of course there would be. Ive never in my life encountered anyone who might really understand what its like. It would be interesting to meet a few, have a beer, and compare notes. She paused for a moment in thought before responding. Well, you never know, New York is a big city. By the way, are you still working on your little famous names classification system? What do you call it again? she asked. I think of it as a taxonomy. Yep, Im still fiddling with it. Good for you. Sounds like an interesting project. Thanks for the time, Dr. Scott. Good session. I always said Good session when we finished. It was my standard parting line. But it really had been a good session. A very good session. I was up from the subway on the final stretch along Bank Street to my apartment when my cellphone chirped. Hello. Hi, Mr. Hemmingway, its Susan from the u of c library and archives. 48

NO RELATION Hi, Susan. You can call me Hem. Everybody else does. The Mr. always makes me feel a little nervous. Sure, Hem. Thank you. I just wanted to follow up on my letter asking about any papers or personal effects youd like to add to the Hemmingway Archive. Its been a while since weve received any new material from the family. Dont forget, its a tax-deductible donation. Right. Im sorry, I meant to call you back, I skated. Ive been, um, very busy the last few days. Ive got nothing to contribute right now but Ill certainly keep you posted. My sister is really into the family history. Id give her a call. Yes, Sarah is in here quite often looking through the archive. Ill ask her when shes in next, she said. Oh, and Im sorry about what youre going through right now. Bye. Great. When I got back home, I felt good. I wasnt trying to, I just did. It was strange having your live-in girlfriend bolt and not be broken up about it. But I wasnt. I ordered Chinese and tried for a while to work on the novel. Chapter 12. Nothing. No words. White screen, blinking cursor mocking me, Hemingways ghost somewhere nearby. Yes, I was quite sure. On the bright side, the apartment still looked great. Clean apartment = clean slate. In my minds ear, I could almost hear the cast of Annie belting out Tomorrow. While I brushed my teeth, I had a moment to wonder what it would be like to have pain-free hindquarters again, to be able to sit in a hard chair 49

TERRY FALLIS again, to sidestep a Broadway matinee lineup, accidentally bump my ass on a parking meter, and not yelp and tear up and bite a hole through my tongue. More Advil, then I went to bed, still on my stomach. It happened about six and a half hours later. I dont know how it arrived. I just know that it arrived.

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