Читать книгу Flam Grub - Dan Dowhal - Страница 16

Chapter 12

As the Saturday dinner with his future stepfather loomed, Flam grew more anxious about the pressure he would face to take the Strait name. Reasoning he should be prepared to counter with a name selection of his own, he spent the next few days poring over literary encyclopaedias, authors’ indexes, and Internet name sites, before finally plodding page by page through the telephone book in an attempt to invent a new alternative.

The exercise proved far more tedious and difficult than Flam had possibly imagined, not from a shortage of potential new names, but rather from an overabundance of them. The clever and studious Flam had quickly devised scores of possibilities, but then had formulated hundreds of additional permutations and combinations by mixing and matching first names with surnames, so that he could not now decide among the rather daunting list of candidates. Instead of forcing himself to reach a verdict, he ploughed forward in search of more possibilities. This only exacerbated his dilemma, as the catalogue of prospective names grew steadily longer.

Flam would sit for hours studying his burgeoning list, sometimes sounding the names out loud to try to feel their verbal weight and impact. He also went through reams of paper, signing possible name choices on the pages in an attempt to intuit their suitability by the looks of the signature alone. Sometimes he tried to imagine the reaction others might have upon hearing each of the names for the first time. He acted out imaginary introductions in front of his mirror, which sat propped up to head height on a stack of books leaning against one of the walls of his apartment. “Hi, I’m Dale Valley. Hi, I’m Aldous Yeats. Hi, I’m Pierce Hart. I’m Othello Lear. I’m Gawain Scrivener. I’m Plato Copperfield. I’m Emerson Moriarty.”

Despite these efforts, he only grew more confused and overwhelmed by the sheer volume of possibilities. Whenever he thought perhaps he’d made a final decision, or had at least narrowed the choices down to a short list, more prospective candidates would materialize, and quickly drive him back to the frustration of uncertainty.

Somehow, Flam had always assumed his glorious new identity would prove to be self-evident, appearing from out of the pack of possibilities like some shining fairytale champion to soundly defeat all other contestants, and finally rescue him from the oppression and ignominy of “Flam Grub” once and for all. Alas, no such clear salvation manifested itself. Although any one of the names on the list would, in Flam’s view, be a more suitable and desirable alternative, there were simply too many of them. Each passing hour, instead of bringing a revelation, simply brought yet more choices to further fuel the dilemma.

Saturday night arrived, and even as he stood combing his black hair, which had grown long under Page Turner and Prentice College’s combined bohemian influences, Flam continued to unsuccessfully audition candidate names. Nor did he know precisely what he would say to his mother and her fiancé when they again raised the issue of the name, as he was convinced they surely would.

Flam solemnly drove across town to the designated rendezvous at Eddie Spaghetti’s, a gaudy franchised Italian restaurant known more for its décor and carnival atmosphere than the quality of its food, feeling the whole way like he was driving to his own funeral.

His mother and Gerald Strait were late, and as he stood waiting for them in the restaurant’s foyer, hoping they might not show up at all, Flam’s thoughts ascended towards the mercurial Angel. Despite being probably a decade older than Flam, and having only recently flitted into his life, she had now supplanted the treacherous Lucy Giles as leading lady of Flam’s bedtime fantasies.

When Gerald and Mary did show up, Flam thought he detected some sort of strain between the couple. They were certainly not the same giddy, touchy-feely couple they’d been when they had happily told him about their engagement, but he quickly dismissed any further thoughts on the subject. He was still far more concerned with his own personal dilemma.

Gerald grew loudly agitated when they were forced to wait at the bar for fifteen minutes, despite having a reservation, and refused to allow them to order any drinks. “It’s all a ploy by the restaurant to force us to spend extra money,” he complained, deliberately making his words loud enough for the bartender to hear, although she gave no indication of being in any way interested. “I’ll bet our table’s just sitting there waiting for us. I have a good mind to go and complain to the manager, not that it would do any good. But you’re not to order anything but water, do you hear? Two can play this game!”

By the time the trio had been seated, the atmosphere at the table was palpably tense. Even Flam, who was a lifelong habitué of solitude and quiet (and was profoundly grateful they weren’t yet discussing him taking on the Strait surname), ultimately found the awkward silence disconcerting, and tried to initiate some small talk. He eventually had success when he steered Gerald onto the subject of work. The pharmacist loved to talk about himself, and was soon bragging about his store’s prosperity, despite fierce competition from the large drugstore chains.

“Their volumes mean they’re always able to undercut my prices on the everyday over-the-counter stuff,” Gerald groused. “But I bring something to the table they’ll never be able to give their customers, and that’s old-fashioned service and experience. My regulars love me, and they wouldn’t think of going anywhere else for their drugs.”

Unpredictably, this last comment brought a strange gush of air from Mary, something between a sob and a snort, catching both men off guard. Mary dropped her fork onto her plate of lasagna, which she had barely touched, quickly excused herself, and headed off to the ladies’ room. Confused, Flam was sure he had detected the beginnings of tears in her eyes.

Now alone with Gerald, he felt certain the dreaded name-changing lobbying would begin in earnest, but after blushing slightly and issuing the singular exclamation, “Women!” which was obviously meant to sum up the entire situation, Gerald grew strangely reticent once again. By the time Mary returned, sporting freshly applied make-up, which nevertheless could not conceal a telltale redness in her eyes, the conversation had again ground to a complete halt. This time Flam was content to let it rest in peace.

All parties declined dessert and coffee, as if they had all silently agreed that they wanted to get the uncomfortable dinner over with as quickly as possible. To Flam’s surprise, and Gerald’s obvious consternation, Mary, instead of going off with her beau, asked Flam to drive her home, even though she obviously realized it meant him going significantly out of his way.

Flam extended a sheepish farewell to Gerald, but noticed that Mary, in turn, whipped her face to the side, almost in recoil, when Gerald proffered a goodnight kiss. Now Flam was positive something was seriously amiss between the lovers, and was determined to pry it out of his mother when they were alone in the car.

There was no need to initiate an interrogation. They had barely cleared Eddie Spaghetti’s parking lot when Mary started to bawl uncontrollably. “Oh, Flam! Flam! Why is God punishing me so?” she sobbed, burying her face into her son’s shoulder and causing the car to momentarily swerve.

“Mother . . . what’s wrong?” he demanded, shaken by the outburst of tears.

“It’s Gerald . . . I can’t . . . I won’t marry him! Saints preserve us, my good name, my good name!”

At first Flam thought they were back on the subject of adopting the Strait surname, but in between crying fits, the story emerged, albeit in a somewhat rambling and hysterical fashion. The straight-laced and oh-so-respectable Gerald, as it turned out, was under investigation for illegal distribution of narcotics and other prescription drugs. The beleaguered druggist was vehemently pleading his innocence, claiming he had had no knowledge or suspicion that thousands of prescriptions he had filled, all paid for via untraceable cash transactions, had in fact been forgeries.