entwined together, executing one of the more exotic positions from the Kama Sutra, several copies of which resided in the bookstore. He was immensely relieved when the pair broke off their embrace and restored an aura of propriety.
“We should have dinner to celebrate, and get to know each other better, um, Flam,” Gerald proposed. “Are you doing anything tonight?”
“Oh, not tonight, it’s Flam’s school night,” Mary responded before Flam could even open his mouth. “How about Saturday night, dear?”
Flam was grateful for the reprieve his night class offered, yet realized that dinner—and another discussion about his name—had only been postponed. He was greatly tempted to invent an excuse for Saturday night as well, but knew a celebratory dinner could not be avoided indefinitely. As unappealing as the prospect of spending an evening facing off against his mother and her overbearing new paramour seemed, he saw no escape. Ultimately, he told himself, the matter will have to be dealt with, and they will have to see things my way. But he felt far from valiant, dreading the encounter.
“Saturday night’s fine,” Flam relented, generating a pair of radiant synchronized smiles from Mary and Gerald. “The shop closes around seven.” He was going to suggest a nearby bistro that Page Turner recommended highly, but Gerald instantly took charge.
“Great,” the future stepfather beamed. “I’ll make reservations at Eddie Spaghetti’s. We’ll be like one cozy, happy family, just the three of us. That is, unless you want to bring someone . . . a date. She’d be more than welcome.”
Flam reddened, instantly embarrassed by the fact there was absolutely no one, not even a causal friend, he could call on to be an escort for the occasion. The bleak mantle of his loneliness wrapped itself around him once again, its familiar dark weight smothering his composure. But he could feel himself being watched, and forced a half-hearted smile, trying hard to make his reply sound casual.
“That’s okay . . . why don’t we just keep it a family affair?” Whether it was the exclusion of any strangers, or Flam’s reference to him as family, the reply had Gerald beaming from ear to lopsided ear.
The next day, when a lull appeared in their shopkeepers’ duties, Flam broached the subject of a possible name change with Page Turner. He supplemented the topic with a tirade about how much he hated his own name, and confessed the anguish and humiliation he felt it had caused him throughout his life.
“As long as I can remember, it’s caused me nothing but suffering, especially at school. You have no idea how much real pain can come from something as intangible as a name,” Flam complained, relieved to finally be unburdening his longstanding suffering. If he had expected unconditional sympathy from his boss, though, he was quickly disappointed.
“Oh, grow up! Do you really think you’re the only child who ever suffered in the schoolyard? With a name like Page Turner, don’t you think I encountered some serious abuse in my day? I think mostly it was because Page was considered to be a girl’s name, but I can’t remember for sure, it was a long time ago. All I know is that it doesn’t take much for a kid to become a target. There was a time when I would have given anything to have a so-called normal name . . . no matter what it was . . . just so long as I wouldn’t stand out . . . so I would be more like everyone else.”
Page stroked his beard as he digested the memories. “Now I’ve done a complete about-face on the subject. I may not have chosen my name, but I believe in a way it chose me. Certainly, I’ve come to accept that, in some not altogether insignificant way, it’s had an influence on the areas of interest I chose, and on where I ended up in life.”
“But Page Turner is such a cool name,” Flam protested, “not like this abomination that I’m stuck with.”
“That’s just the point, Flam, you’re not stuck with it. If you really hate it so much, then go ahead and change it,” Turner countered.
Flam reddened, earlier anger at Gerald’s presumptiveness and bossiness instantly flooding back. “Screw that . . . I’m not going to change my name to Flam Strait just because my mother’s getting herself a new husband.”
“No, that’s not much of an improvement,” Turner agreed, “and I certainly don’t think you should be forced to accept a stepfather’s name you don’t want, as if you’re a calf changing brands. But what I meant was that you can choose absolutely any name you want, and then adopt it legally. Well, almost any name. I know there are some oddities and obscenities even our enlightened legal system will not allow, but beyond that, the sky’s the limit, from Aaron to Zachary.”
The idea of acquiring a different name was not altogether new to Flam, but in the past, it had been only an abstraction contemplated during some of his saddest moments. That fantasy had provided an occasional escape from a sadistic universe. It was usually accompanied by imaginary rich and loving parents who turned up, like avenging angels, to take home the long lost son who’d been switched at birth with the real Flam Grub. Now, the reality struck him that there was, in fact, absolutely nothing preventing him from taking on any name he chose.
Flam spun on his stool and faced the lines of books, all categorized, alphabetized, and arrayed on their shelves. He thought of the thousands of characters he had encountered in his literary excursions, and about the authors who had created them. Perhaps from among this collection of names he might find or forge one for himself—give birth to a bold new label that reflected his beliefs and sensitive nature, and would serve as the harbinger of a new phase in Flam’s thus-far pitiful life.
Turner was apparently doing some contemplating of his own. “Good heavens,” he finally offered, “where would you begin? Think of all the possibilities . . . of all the names out there to choose from.”
“Mind you,” Turner continued, “you can probably eliminate 95 per cent of humanity’s names right off the bat . . . that is unless you’re planning to adopt another culture at the same time. I used to have a grandmother who loved to watch the closing credits of television shows just so she could show off her knowledge of the world by calling out the ethnicity of the names. ‘O’Brien—Irish. Goldstein—Jewish. Bertucci—Italian. Ramashandram—East Indian. LaFleur—French. VanVeer—Dutch.’” Turner chuckled as he remembered. “She was always a little hesitant with Lee, though—never knew whether it was someone Chinese or the descendant of a Confederate general.”
Turner swivelled to face his assistant. “What nationality are you, Flam?” he inquired. “I know your mother’s Irish, but what about your dad? What kind of name is Grub?”
Flam coloured at the mere mention of his despised surname. “I don’t think my father even knew for sure,” he replied. “He was raised in an orphanage, and that surname was all that was left behind when he was dumped there. There was some talk it was anglicized from Grubbini or Grubov or Gruber when his family first came over, but all that’s just speculation.”
“Well, half a family tree’s better than none. If you want to pay homage to your Irish roots, perhaps you can be an O’Something or a McSomething . . . hey, how about McCool, as in Finn McCool, the great folk hero of Irish mythology?”
“Hmm . . . sounds like an ice cream bar you’d find under the golden arches. Besides, doesn’t the ‘Mc’ actually mean ‘son of’ or something like that? I don’t know, I just wouldn’t feel right taking a name that overtly claims I belong by lineage to another Irish clan . . . it would be, well, a lie.”
Turner frowned. “You’re being too hard on yourself, I think. Any new name you adopt would in some sense be a lie . . . well, except ‘Stevenson’ I guess, since your father was called Steve, although I suspect you’d rather not pay that kind of tribute to him. But I doubt if you should take any name literally. After all, how many Fishers have ever cast a net, or how many Coopers have actually built a barrel? Funny, isn’t it, how so many of those basic Anglo-Saxon names are derived from old professions . . . Smith, Miller, Archer, Mason, Potter, Wright, Bailey.”
This last statement sent the pair back into contemplation, and they sat there silently, sipping their coffees and watching