for a moment through his view carried a name with its own associated history, each one not only a chain intertwined with the past, but also staking a unique presence in the here and now.
I doubt if any of these people hate their name as much as I do, Flam thought. Maybe some are immigrants, or the children of immigrants, who have opted to change their names, or adopt another for everyday use . . . but they probably hate the prejudiced society that forces them to do so, not the name itself. Most people probably don’t even give their names a second thought, even if they have to publicly reveal them many times a day. Oh, why was I so accursed?
As Flam lamented his fate, Turner had come up with another idea. “How about choosing a name that ties you in with that natural world so often lauded by poets, say like Hill, or Woods, or Waters, Stone, Forest, Lake . . . or, for that matter, Night or Day. They’re all simple and common, but I think they’re also very strong—one might almost say primal.”
Flam mentally explored these new possibilities, and then abruptly laughed. “Well, technically speaking, Grub ties me to the natural world too . . . the world of insects.”
“Okay then,” Turner persisted, “what’s your favourite colour? There are several popular surnames based on colours—Brown, Green, Grey, Black, White.”
Despite Turner’s sincerity, again the options ended up making Flam laugh. “Actually, my favourite colour is purple . . . but I don’t think I’d pick it for a surname, although it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if there were hundreds of people out there bearing that name. Still, I suppose I’d gladly take any one of those other colours for a name instead.”
Turner seemed pleased they had made a modicum of progress, and took another slurp of his coffee before moving on to address the other part of the equation. “Then, of course, there’s the matter of the first name. Again, there are so many to choose from. Is there any one, perhaps, you have long harboured a preference for?”
“Anything’s better than Flam . . . but I can’t say I’ve ever favoured one in particular.”
“Historically speaking, many of our most popular names come from the Bible, although some of the Old Testament prophets that were all the rage a couple of centuries ago, like Ezekiel and Jebediah, have fallen out of favour. No, I think you’ll perhaps want to turn to the Apostles and the writers of the Gospels for the most popular choices—Thomas, John, Peter, Paul, Mark, Matthew, Simon, Luke, James—all solid, familiar, no-nonsense names. Well, except for Judas, of course . . . not a name you would voluntarily take on, even if his role was perhaps the most important, in many ways, of the whole entourage.”
Flam shook his head. “No, I’d almost prefer Flam, although I suppose you could go by Jude for short. Hmmm, I guess even a James has to decide whether he’ll go by Jim, or Jimmy, or Jamie . . . or Jimbo, for that matter.”
“Depends on the environment they’re from, or even the profession they choose, I guess,” Turner offered, “although I suppose it’s often just what you get used to, or whatever becomes habitual to those around you. Still, it’s somehow hard now to think of Jimi Hendrix as James Hendrix . . . or James Joyce as Jim Joyce.”
“Just one more factor for me to consider,” Flam sighed, “and technically, it only increases the number of options I’d have to consider, since my name wouldn’t have a lifetime to naturally evolve from, say, a Richard to a Dick.”
Outside, the sun had shifted during their conversation, so that the rays were now reflecting brightly off a second-storey windowpane somewhere across the street, and spilling in unabashedly through the north-facing store window, bathing the conversationalists in a rare solar splendour.
“Ah, and we haven’t even touched upon middle names,” Turner pointed out, closing his eyes to bask in the surprising gift of sunlight. “Some people have several . . . I seem to recall reading about a man who fully had a dozen middle names, each one with some special significance to family history.”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I never had one, but middle names have always struck me as a way to appease relatives, or as a consolation prize to the runners-up in the name-choosing game.”
“You are wise beyond your years, my young friend,” Turner chuckled, raising his coffee mug in a toast, “although middle names shouldn’t be so easily dismissed. In Russia, for example, the middle name is often patronymic . . . meaning it’s based on the father’s name, so a boy whose father was called Ivan might have Ivanovich as a middle name, or the daughter Ivanova. At the same time, the middle name forms part of the most familiar form of address. The mother might then call her daughter fully Natalia Ivanova at those times when she’s being most loving and intimate. But, if nothing else, a middle name can certainly provide an instant substitute to those who dislike their first name. Like you, my folks never gave me one . . . maybe they thought it would spoil the Page Turner gag . . . but I might be standing before you as a Tom or Frank if I’d had a second choice beyond Page.”
“Of course, there’s also the tradition of providing an alternative form of a name by just using the initials, like T.S. Eliot, or e.e. cummings,” Flam added. “But, damn, that just makes a choice that much more complicated!”
He returned to silently scrutinizing the volumes that ran in rows before his eyes. “Maybe you’re right. The answer for me might very well lie somewhere in those books. Perhaps I could combine a couple of my favourite writers to create a new name that pays tribute to them. Hmmm . . . let me see. How about Marlowe Shelley? Or Blake Chaucer?” His lips tightened as he mentally journeyed through the legions of authors and poets he had encountered over the years.
Some of the names that surfaced seemed to stir Flam’s thoughts in a new direction. “Mind you, some of those names still deserve to be avoided, no matter how famous their owners may have become. Why do you suppose parents do what they do, I mean giving kids a name that’s obviously going to be problematic? Like giving a boy a girl’s name . . . Joyce Cary, or Evelyn Waugh, for example. Can’t the parents see they’re going to cause embarrassment and suffering to their child? Don’t they actually sound the name out loud and picture the reaction it’s going to have with the other children?”
“It’s hard to say whether they’re simply oblivious, or perhaps they’re actually trying to bestow some deeper lesson upon their children about the nature of individuality,” Turner offered. “After all, both of the writers you mentioned managed to succeed despite their names. Some might even suggest because of them. And perhaps there’s the moral. When we’re young, we strive for conformity . . . we’ll give anything to fit in with the others. But for a lot of those who aspire to excellence in some field of human endeavour, say become a renowned artist or a famous athlete, they’ll ultimately bear any unusual name like it’s some special badge or title—the final crowning touch distinguishing them from the pack of mediocrity.”
Flam sighed, and pressed his palms against his forehead as if to stem a tide of thoughts that was threatening to overwhelm him. “Sorry, but I can’t see my name ever being something I’d be proud of. It’s caused me nothing but grief and suffering. I’m going to think seriously about changing it . . . if I can ever come up with a new one.”
Outside, the sun had moved on, and the bookstore returned to its habitual gloomier state. But the far side of the street was still bathed brightly in the waning sunrays, and Flam noticed the riot of names that seemed to be spotlit everywhere, on storefronts and the sides of trucks, on street signs and billboards, as if mocking him.
Out on the street, an older, dapperly dressed couple stopped and examined the books on display in the front window—a haphazard collection of literary jewels Turner had selected and arranged to entice upscale customers into the shop. After some contemplation and a quietly exchanged conversation, the pair entered the shop. Turner rose in anticipation of being of service. As he did so, he turned to Flam with a mischievous smile.
“I’ve got one for you, given your choice of profession,” Turner chuckled, “although I doubt I’m the first to think of it. How about Phil Graves?”
Chapter 11
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