Fiction

The Man with Two Last Names

Jack Phillips Lowe

Davis Harris, quite spontaneously, had found himself a mantra. The mantra had popped into Davis’ head a month ago, when he had gone out to check his mailbox. Inside was a neatly printed post card inviting him to an informal high school reunion. This was when the dam broke.

The waves rolled in, hard and cold and in perfect chronological order. That first freshman day, the day they knocked the books from his hands and he didn’t fight back, the day they tagged him a target. The last senior day, their grand finale, when one of them stuck a foot out to trip Davis in the aisle as he went up to receive his diploma. Between those waves, there were insults and put-downs, noogies and wedgies, practical jokes and refused invitations, guest lists that didn’t include him, and too many hours alone. The post card unleashed a four-year flood of teenage nightmares, previously repressed by adulthood, which left Davis struggling to stay afloat.

“You,” boomed a Darth Vader-type voice from between his ears, “don’t need them!”

With that simple phrase, the waters subsided. A relieved Davis composed himself, and dumped the card into the trash.

It should’ve ended there. But the flood left behind a few puddles that kept Davis thinking. In college, Davis had briefly been a philosophy major. While he had dutifully flunked his philosophy courses (both of them), the Thinkers left him with one lasting impression—that life is a Journey, and we are all Seekers ever traveling in search of Higher Meaning. Davis had first pitched this concept as a scam to impress the few women who, since college, had actually consented to sleep with him. Although this scam typically followed several strong drinks, it was successful—at least, more than other ruses Davis had tried. Since you can’t argue with success, Davis gradually accepted this concept as fundamental truth.

So, like any good Seeker, Davis sat back to assess what had happened to him. What if, he wondered, this wasn’t a post card from the Alumni Board, but a challenge from a Greater Power? Fifteen years had passed since graduation. Davis felt that he’d changed greatly. Maybe this mantra was indicative of that. Had his classmates changed? Probably about as much as they changed between freshman and senior year. Those people never gave him anything but flak. They were probably still bashing him as a loser. Here, Davis decided, was the chance to show them that he’d grown and persevered. He would go to this reunion, and put certain people in their place, once and for all.

Davis’ Inner Voice went off like an air raid siren. “You don’t need them, you don’t need—” He had to ask it to shut up for a minute, so he could retrieve the post card, and pencil the reunion’s date and place into his Day Runner. You couldn’t just have a mantra, Davis thought, you had to live it, to take it out and test it in the field. The reunion would be a golden opportunity to do so.

In the weeks leading up to the reunion, Davis’ Inner Voice proved to be a regular blabbermouth. “You don’t need them!” woke Davis up in the morning. “You don’t need them!” wrestled his job for his attention at work. At night, it transformed into “YOU DON’T NEED THEM!” and drowned out the soundtrack to his dreams. Enough, thought Davis, I get it already! He wasn’t ungrateful; he just truly regretted missing what Eva Longoria said as they ran through that poppy field together.

On the night of the reunion, Davis was a warrior preparing for battle. He dressed in black, strategically chosen to hide his penchant for beer and junk food. He spritzed himself with the seventy dollar bottle of men’s “body spray” he had purchased from a trendy salon; it was intriguingly labeled “Alpine Blast,” but smelled suspiciously like Old Spice. After studying current issues of both Maxim and GQ, in addition to his high school yearbooks, Davis managed to gel and spray what remained of his hair into an amazing cross between retro and cutting edge. His last and best weapon was his briefcase, stuffed with physical evidence validating, he felt, his life since graduation. When the hour to leave for the reunion arrived, Davis strolled to his front door, grabbed hold of the doorknob, and...froze like a deer in a Ford Bronco’s high-beams.

“Don’t go,” pleaded another voice inside his head. It was high and squeaky, something like Darth Vader on helium. “They’ll be there! They’ll laugh at you, and make fun of your clothes! On Monday, they’ll catch you in first-period gym, and kick your ass in the locker room! Just stay home, and crank Tears For Fears on the stereo! It’s safe at home!”

It was Davis’ teenaged defense mechanism, the voice of a fat pimply kid who had become, through experience, an expert on humiliation. Within Davis, long-dormant gears began grinding. He obediently turned away from the door, and started humming the chorus of “Shout.” This was when his Inner Voice upped the ante.

“You don’t need them,” it cried, “what’s passed is past!”

Now this, any good maharishi will tell you, is quite against the rules, a measure attempted only with a particularly recalcitrant Seeker, and at the risk of a karmic spasm. This, however, was Davis to a tee, and under the circumstances, the Inner Voice accepted the risk. The revised mantra soothed Davis; he stomped defiantly out the door, and got to the scheduled place, the local Denny’s, at the scheduled time. The hostess seated him in a large semicircular booth near a window. There, Davis sat, drummed the briefcase in his lap, and waited for his former classmates to arrive.

“Excuse me, sir...” the waitress said, tapping her pen on her notepad, ready to take an order.

“No, excuse me, miss,” interrupted Davis. “This is the fifth time you’ve approached me in,” he glanced at his watch, “two hours! No, I don’t want any buffalo wings or cheese sticks. Yes, I know Denny’s serves breakfast all day. And no, I don’t want to start out with a beverage. I’m part of a private party. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?”

The waitress wrinkled her brow. “Yes, you can tell me what kind of private party leaves a guy sitting alone for two hours, acting like a sorry-ass prick to someone who’s only trying to help him.”

The remark left Davis stranded between insulted and interested. The waitress, he guessed, was around twenty-three years old. Nice figure, brunette hair streaked with red, and ponytailed. Her short nails were painted sky blue, and flecked with silver. She had a scrappiness and buoyancy about her that said, “Community College Student Council,” or perhaps “marketing communications major.” She was the kind of woman he would have, back in the day, mooned over in vain.

Davis was stuck for an answer. “Well, it’s…it’s a high school reunion, and I’m the first one here. Actually, I’m starting to suspect it’s some kind of a prank.”

“Why,” asked the waitress, “were you a dork?” She placed her pad and pen on the table, and sat next to Davis in the booth.

“I was branded one. I took a lot of punishment back then. It was a miserable time for me.”

“Wow, that’s strange, you seem normal now. Was everyone against you?”

“Just about. One group, three jocks and their cheerleader girlfriends, declared war on me. They actually called themselves ‘the Group,’ and they were the popular kids. Ours was a small school, and rumors spread faster than mono. I became the Group’s punching bag, and the others followed their lead.”

“Damn,” the waitress said, shaking her head. “How long ago did this happen?”

“We’re the class of ’87,” said Davis, sipping a glass of water.

“And you’ve been, like, carrying this around ever since? So why did you come to their gay reunion?”

“It’s a kind of catharsis, really. I just wanted to give up some old ghosts, and show them I survived.”

“And you’re like really successful now, and date a ton of hot women, and you want to rub their faces in it, right? What’s your job, and how much do you make?”

“No. Yes. I do okay. I’m a copy editor for a medical journal.” Davis chose to let her speculate about his love life. Three dates during the entire Clinton administration, he thought, were many pounds short of “a ton.”

Davis noticed a short, wiry man with thinning hair standing near the door. He wore a white shirt and a tie. A sports jacket was draped over one arm, and a Denny’s name tag was pinned to his breast pocket. The man cleared his throat loudly, trying to catch the waitress’ attention. She waved him off.

“Hmm. You could say you’re a publisher. Is there anything interesting about you?”

“Uh, maybe. I’m something,” Davis hesitated, “of a poet.”

The waitress snickered. “For real? Like Jewel?”

“More like Charles Bukowski, I hope.”

“Cool. You been published anywhere?”

“Yes,” said Davis, pridefully. “In Canada, mostly.”

“Wow,” she said, looking at the flecks on her nails. “You’ve, like, lived a John Hughes movie. You’d be a great subject for my sophomore Psych project.”

I was close, thought Davis.

The waitress rested her chin on her palm, and stared at Davis intently. “You’ve got a persecution complex, coupled with ruminative ideation—that means you keep reliving past wrongs, trying to make them right. There’s one of two things you can do.”

Oh boy, thought Davis, analysis from a minimum-wage psychologist. You get what you pay for.

“Either leave now before they arrive, or wait for them, and lie your ass off.” The short wiry man snapped his fingers three times, and pointed toward the door. The waitress waved him off again.

“Leave or lie? Those are my options?” Now Davis wrinkled his brow.

“If you go now, the Group will think you’ve got too much of a life to care about them and their high school bullshit, and they’ll feel like losers. Or you can wait, and play one-upmanship with them.”

“But why lie? I’ve done all right.”

The waitress rolled her eyes. “To make the Group feel inferior. Don’t match them, surpass them. Tell them yours is the most important job on that medical thingy.”

“But correcting manuscripts for brain surgeons who can’t master eighth grade grammar is important.”

“Make them know that. And tell them that, when it comes to poetry, you’re the Shit in the Great White North. Make them feel like they made you feel. There’s your catharsis for you.”

“Hey!” shouted the wiry man. He pointed furiously at his watch, and then shook his fist at the waitress. She smiled at him sweetly, and then gave him the Finger. The man cursed, exited the restaurant, and slammed the door shut.

Davis watched the man leave. “Miss, I think that guy had something to tell you.”

The waitress stood up, gathering her pad and pen. “Him? He’s just my manager and boyfriend—of the moment.”

“He seemed really upset.”

“Oh, piss on him. Our shift is over, and he wants me to clock out, or else he has to pay me overtime. Plus, he hates me talking to other guys. He’s too Freudian. That’s why I’m dumping him.”

“Freudian? It’s been a while since I took psychology.”

The waitress folded her arms. “That means he thinks with his dick.”

Davis coughed. “Oh, then I won’t keep you. I saw him shake his fist. He won’t hurt you, will he?”

“That little wimp? He took a swing at me once. But I kicked his ass so high, he needed a stepladder to smell his own farts. He’s all bluster.”

“Really? Good.” Davis’ eyes followed the curve of her body, tracing it down from her chest, past her hips, to where her skirt flared out. He knew shouldn’t be looking, but he did. “I’ve enjoyed our conversation. You give good advice.”

The waitress opened her notepad and scribbled something. She tore off a guest check and handed it to Davis. “I’m full of good advice.”

Davis read what she had written: the name “Sharon” and a phone number. “Thanks, Sharon,” he said. “I’m Davis, and that’s nice to know.”

“Bye, Davis,” said Sharon, her voice trailing off. “Keep in touch.”

Davis didn’t see Sharon leave. His eyes were glued to that paper. He half-expected the letters and numbers to fade and vanish, like invisible ink. He felt light-headed and giddy. He knew this wasn’t the right frame of mind for battling the Group. Davis needed to pull himself together. He carefully folded the guest check, put it in his wallet, and went outside to get some air.

The hostess’ eyes were daggers aimed at Davis as he reentered the restaurant. He attributed this to the fact that he’d sat in there for over two hours without ordering anything. He avoided her blades and scooted past her.

A busboy carrying two pitchers of ice water barged out of the kitchen. Davis stopped short, narrowly escaping a collision. He and the busboy did an Alphonse and Gaston “after you” routine. Davis finally stepped forward, and the busboy trailed him into the dining room. Davis skidded to a halt in front of his seat. The busboy rammed him from behind, and dropped both pitchers, splashing water and ice cubes everywhere. Davis didn’t care; he was ogling the woman sitting in his booth.

“Well, if it ain’t the Man with Two Last Names,” the woman chuckled.

Davis had trouble keeping his eyes from popping out of his skull. “P-Princess Di.”

She was captain of the cheerleading squad, and president of the Young Entrepreneurs Club. She dated the star quarterback straight through high school, and together, they were king and queen of the Group. Davis spent four years drooling over her, while she’d barely acknowledged him.

“Davis, you’re all wet,” she punned, sliding over in the booth. “Is this briefcase yours?”

Davis ignored the water running down his back, and stepped gingerly over the busboy, who was picking up ice cubes and cursing audibly in both English and Spanish. Davis settled into his seat, hugged the briefcase to his chest, and gawked at Princess Di. She leafed casually through a menu.

“It’s nice seeing you again, Di. Funny that I didn’t run into you outside while I was...stretching my legs.”

“Call me Diane. Nobody’s called me that since she died, because it’s weird. I snuck in while your back was turned. I thought you were some drunk staggering around the parking lot. Then, I realized it was just you.”

Time had treated Diane kindly. Same curly blonde hair and ruddy complexion. Her lips were still full and inviting, and her green eyes still flashed as she talked. She had maintained the aloof and regal air that inspired the nickname. The gold suit coat and brown slacks she wore disappointed Davis. Diane had always strutted through his dreams clad in the same acid-washed jeans and snug sweaters she’d favored in high school, as Bon Jovi’s “Bad Medicine” blared behind her. Just then, the restaurant’s Muzak was playing “The First Cut is the Deepest” by Cat Stevens.

A young Indian man in a Denny’s uniform approached the table. “Hello, I’m Chetan,” he said in a singsong lilt. “I’m your server this evening. Are you ready to order?”

Without consulting Davis, Diane ordered a selection of appetizers. “The others can order when they get here, and we’ll split the bill at the end.”

Once Chetan had left, Diane reached over and briefly touched Davis’ hand. “I can’t believe I’m actually in one of these places. Why would they hold the reunion here? It’s a hundred percent kitsch.”

The gesture carbonated Davis’ hormones. Diane was obviously impressed with him. He was pleased to see that her left ring finger was bare. But he thought it prudent to wait a bit before asking her out, and slipping her his phone number.

“I’ve been waiting here a while. I thought—”

“Do you remember that greasy spoon just up the street from school? We always used to go there after last period. Remember the old Greek lady who ran the place? She could barely speak English, and was as dumb as a rock.”

Davis shook his head.

“We used to scam her all the time. We’d sit near the door and eat a big meal. Then, while she was distracted, we’d sneak out one by one. We called it the ‘Dine and Dash.’ The old bag never caught on.”

“Like I was saying, I’ve been here a while. I didn’t think anyone else would show up.”

Diane focused on her menu. “Forever the teacher’s pet. You were always too early for everything. Other people have lives.”

Davis scowled, and hot blood rushed to his cheeks. It was the same abuse, fifteen years later. But it would end tonight. He would, like Sharon said, surpass them. He’d lived a John Hughes movie, and it was Hughes’ Law that in the end, the geeks always trumped the preps. He’d show them. He didn’t need them.

The Inner Voice groaned wearily.

“So, Di, I haven’t heard much of the Group lately. You guys ruled high school, and promised to be rich and famous someday. What happened?”

Diane shot him an icy glare. “Maybe you noticed,” she tugged on her lapel, “I’m a real estate agent. I run an office in St. Charles, just west of the city.”

“Ah, the ultimate Chicago girl has gone suburban! But didn’t the real estate business nosedive recently? I don’t suppose you’re selling many houses these days.”

“I only handle top-shelf clients. I sold Brian Wilson’s house after he moved back to California.”

“Really? It must’ve been tough clearing the sand out of the living room.”

“There wasn’t any—”

“But I digress. How are the other Mouseketeers?”

“We haven’t talked in ages, since we’re all so busy. Remember Brad Harmon?”

Davis recalled Brad as a burly kid who played varsity nose tackle. For four years, Brad made sure Davis felt the daily sensation of torn jockey shorts and chafing in unmentionable areas.

“Sure, I heard Brad works at the Hoover Institution. Something about designing the perfect wedgie.”

“Brad joined the Marines after graduation. He was killed in Kuwait in 1991. He received a posthumous Purple Heart.”

Davis’ words fell and shattered like glass. He was dumbfounded. Just then, Chetan arrived with the food. Davis figured the waiter sensed the tension at the table, since he simply laid out the platters and departed, wordlessly.

Diane started filling her dish. “You were saying?”

Davis drank some water. “How are your girlfriends?”

“Linda teaches at a junior high school in the city. Mandy is a stay-at-home mom with three kids.”

“Randy Mandy, the pom-pom girl? Down to being a hausfrau, eh?”

“Yes. She mentioned you, the last time we spoke.”

Davis sat up. “No kidding? What did she say?”

Diane salted a buffalo wing. “She was reminiscing about the time she punched you out.”

Davis rubbed his jaw, reliving the blow. It was senior year, days before the Prom. He planned to charm Mandy with a romantic poem, and then invite her to the dance. He barely recited the first stanza before Mandy clocked him. “I never understood why she did that.”

“You called her a prostitute. I would’ve hit you a little lower than she did.”

“I did nothing of the sort!”

“She said you said she looked beautiful walking through the night, or something.”

Davis winced. “‘She walks in beauty, like the night...’ That’s a famous love poem by Lord Byron.”

“Then Byron and you are both horn-dogs.”

“Never mind. How about the other two?”

“Jason and Craig? Jason took over his father’s landscaping company a few years back, and I hear he’s doing well. I thought you knew about Craig.”

“Your old boyfriend? No. He never had any ambition, did he? All he ever did was play football and golf. He must’ve had a tough time.” Davis searched Diane’s face for signs of irritation. She remained impassive.

“About ten years ago, Craig invented a new golf tee while working at a golfers’ pro shop. It’s made with an injection mold, using natural clay. Craig’s tees are cheaper than regular ones, and don’t damage greenskeepers’ lawnmowers. Craig sold them locally at first, and then, Wal-Mart came calling.”

“You…don’t say. I’ll bet Craig is—”

“Richer than God? So I’ve heard.” Diane cheerily munched a buffalo wing. “It’s too bad he and his wife divorced recently. I wanted to offer Craig my condolences, and maybe cheer him up with this.” She pulled a ring from her purse, a peridot set in a silver band.

“Craig’s class ring,” frowned Davis, who was beginning to think John Hughes was a bullshitter.

“Yeah, how did you know? I forgot to return it to him after graduation.”

“I just remembered.” Davis had seen the ring on Craig’s fist, right before it was raked across his scalp. He thought he could still see strands of his own hair sticking out of the peridot’s base.

Diane patted her lips with her napkin. “Enough about us. Tell me about you, Davis.”

Davis breathed deeply; opportunity had knocked. He opened his briefcase, and tenderly placed its contents in a neat row facing Diane. “This is how I’ve been spending my life.”

Diane knitted her brows. “What are these?” She picked up the magazines Davis had laid out, and paged through them.

“Copies of Instant Oblivion, an esteemed literary journal from Lancaster, Pennsylvania. I’m a frequent contributor. There’s the Davis Harris Issue they published last fall.”

“How much did they pay you?”

“Money’s not a concern. It’s the prestige that counts.”

Diane tossed the magazines aside. “What’s this little book in the middle?”

Davis carefully opened the slim paperback and placed it in her hands. “This is my selected poems, One Hand Clapping, a glowing success. It got a big write-up in the Small Press Review.”

“Who’s this publisher—Cashupfront Press?”

“It’s a Canadian house, based in Regina, Saskatchewan. The Canucks love me. I am, I’ve been told, the Shit in Vancouver.”

Diane turned to the author’s photo in back, and giggled. “You look like your yearbook picture. I forgot you wrote poems. You read one once, in senior English. Craig called you something afterward. I can’t remember, something from a song.”

“I don’t—”

“‘Tiny Dancer!’ That was it!” Diane exploded with laughter. “The whole class cracked up! Tiny Dancer!”

Davis turned to the window and stared blankly. He felt fifteen again, riding the bus home on Monday afternoon.

“Okay, Davis,” Diane sniffed as she wiped her eyes. “What’s this last part of your little presentation? Another poetry magazine?”

“No. This is the American Journal of Brain Diseases, a respected medical journal with a worldwide circulation. I serve as its publisher.”

Diane cracked it open. “You don’t say. In the staff credits, you’re listed as a copy editor.”

Davis scratched his head. “I was promoted just last month. That’s a misprint. Thanks for pointing it out.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I actually edited most of this issue. Turn to page forty-five. See that article?”

Diane turned a few pages. Her eyes widened, and she gagged. “Oh my God! Oh my God!”

“What?”

She threw the magazine back at Davis. “It’s bloody brains and creepy shit, and it’s disgusting!”

Davis looked at the page. “It’s just a color spread taken from the autopsy of an Alzheimer’s patient. Big deal.”

Diane pushed her plate aside. “This is a restaurant, for Christ’s sake! I’ll be seeing that revolting picture all night!”

“I’m sorry, Diane. I didn’t realize it would affect you that way.”

“Yes you did! You’re the same sick bastard you always were! This is why everyone hated you! You were either being weird, or playing the genius big shot! You purposely came here to do this, right? You came here to ruin our evening!”

Davis couldn’t look her in the eye. “I just wanted to touch base, show you there were no hard feelings. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He returned the book and magazines to his briefcase.

Diane pulled out a compact and checked her makeup in the mirror. “Look, people I want to see will be here soon. The only reason why I’m not calling the manager to kick you out is because I recognize your sad need to reconnect with us. But can the fruity poetry and bloody brains, unless you want a beating from Craig. Say hello, then say goodbye, and leave. Okay?”

“Okay.” Davis checked his watch. “Diane, will you excuse me for a minute?”

Diane was still primping in the mirror. “Whatever.”

Davis took his briefcase and trudged in the direction of the men’s room. He stopped, and looked back at Diane over his shoulder. She met his eyes with hers. He smiled and turned on his heels toward the exit.

“Help!” shouted Diane. “Dine and Dash! Dine and Dash!”

Davis broke into a run. He saw Chetan, who had been clearing a table nearby, rushing to tackle him at the door.

“Fuck you, Davis,” Diane screamed. “You’re not sticking me with fifteen bucks’ worth of finger food!”

Davis straight-armed Chetan into a wall, and raced outside. The theme from “St. Elmo’s Fire” echoed in his ears as he ran, and his mind was flooded again. But these waves were warm and gentle. These waves washed away all of his anger and his need to prove anything to the Group. These waves rolled outward toward the horizon, toward possibilities, most of which involved Sharon. What had passed was truly past, and the future looked bright, indeed.

Davis ran two blocks before he remembered leaving his car back at the restaurant.