As a child, I was fascinated by
surnames. Was someone named King descended from royalty? How did
Carl come to have so many sons? Then I moved to a small town, where
the issue is not so theoretical.
Among my friends, for
example, are Dave and Sue The Writers and Tom The Guy Who Does The
Maps. There’s Lee From The Movie Theater and Lee Who Does The
Juniper Furniture. Curt, who tries to work as little as possible,
is thus known not by occupation but as Curt Of Curt And Carol.
Scott and Elizabeth seem such a perfect match that each
has gained the last name, Of Scott And Elizabeth. There’s Glen,
Who’s Married To Heather the Realtor, and Tim, Katie’s Brother, Who
Goes With Joy From The Bank.
The girlfriend of Andy From
Outward Bound is Amy, Emily’s Sister. Emily, of course, is known as
Emily, Amy’s Sister. It helps that both sisters are rabid Utah Jazz
fans with bright red hair. If somebody didn’t know Emily’s husband,
Jim The Baker, one might give Jim this alternative last name: “You
know, Emily and Amy, with the red hair. Emily’s husband. There’s
Amy and Andy From Outward Bound. And there’s Emily and Jim.” Sure,
it’s a mouthful, but it’s a lot more meaningful than some surname
passed down from somebody’s father, who almost nobody here has met.
Some are known by physical characteristics. Little Robbie
is well, small. Big Dave is a giant. One day Big Dave’s bride met
some of his basketball buddies in a non-basketball setting. She
tried to explain who she was, using Dave’s last name. Nobody knew
it. “You know, Dave, from basketball,” she kept saying. She kept
getting blank looks until finally someone said, “Oh! Big Dave!”
Everyone laughed and understood. “Now,” she says, “I’ve realized my
name is Mrs. Big Dave.”
Occasionally someone’s first name
is enough, and we get small town versions of Madonna or Twiggy. The
combination of a unique first name and unique personality means
that when it comes to people like Anner or Verlynn, either you know
them or you don’t. Any surname would be extraneous. I think my
friend Lexy is headed for this status: You Know Lexy — Everybody
Knows Lexy.
The new last names can make for interesting
“families.” Daryl The Pepsi Guy and Dean The Pepsi Guy are related
only through occupation. Jim Who Has The Little Paper and Lou Who
Has The Little Paper not only weren’t related but ran competing
publications. Meanwhile, who could figure out that Rigger The
Chocolate Sauce Guy and John Who Runs The Boys And Girls Club are
(biologically) brothers? When small-town surnames collide with
“real” surnames, complications ensue. For example, after a Boys and
Girls Club meeting, John Who Runs The Boys And Girls Club said to
me, “The kids want to get somebody named Rebecca Nesbitt (as a
mentor). You have any idea who that is?”
“Sure,” I said.
“That’s Rebecca From The Brewery.” His face fell. “She’d be
perfect,” he said. “But I didn’t approve it during the meeting
because I’d never heard of this Nesbitt character.”
Circumstances were reversed recently when I had to get my house
painted. I decided to use Tracey the Painter, whom I’ve seen around
town for years, though I’ve never known him well. I happen to know
his “real” last name because his sister works at the newspaper. Of
course, she’s known as Shelley From The News (indeed, if she calls
me on the phone, she says “Hi, John, this is Shelley From The
News”). But her byline, for some reason, features her “real” last
name. So I looked it up in the phone book, where I found her
brother listed as well.
Tracey and I traded messages,
then finally spoke directly. “John Clayton…” he mused at one
point. “I could tell from your message that you knew me, but I’m
embarrassed to say I can’t place who you are.”
“Oh, you
know me,” I said, and tried to describe myself. “Tall, skinny,
brown hair. I hang out at the coffeeshop a lot.” There was a pause;
I could picture him shaking his head on the other end of the line.
Then, as if a lightbulb went off above his head, he said, “John The
Writer?”
Subconsciously, I guess, I’d wished for
something flashier, say, John the telemark skier, but you can’t
choose your last name in a small town, any more than you can choose
your parents. “Yup,” I told Tracy The Painter, who probably has
similar unfulfilled identity fantasies. “That’s me.”
John Clayton is a contributor to Writers on the Range in
Paonia, Colorado (hcn.org). He lives and freelances in Red Lodge,
Montana.
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