A week or two ago I noticed something in The Wall Street Journal that gave me a start. Then this morning, I saw something else in that same publication that took things to a whole new level of seeming impossibility, prompting me to write this e-mail this morning to one Ben Worthen:
And I always thought it was unique. Then I see yours, which is SO close to mine it's freaky.
Then, to complete the trifecta, this morning your paper had on the front page a story featuring a line drawing of a guy named "Bill Worthen:"
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB123309302911621329.html?mod=todays_us_page_one
Something very odd is happening in the universe. I sense a disturbance in the force.
Anyway, we're probably cousins or something, like those people you occasionally run into named "Wathen" or "Worthin" or whatever…
So, hey.
Unless you are a Warthen — and unless you are a member of my immediate family, it's reasonably safe to assume that you are not — you have no idea how extremely rare it is to run into anyone with your name, even with an alternative spelling. (And for those who don't know, "Warthen" is pronounced the way "Worthen" is spelled. For those who have trouble remembering, I say it's pronounced as the two words "war" and "then," assuming you pronounce "war" the way most English-speakers do, and not the way Bob Dylan does. If I want blank stares, I say, "Think of 1945: First there was the war, then it was over.")
When I lived in Memphis in the 70s, there was a pitcher with the local minor league team, who later went to the Show and then coached in the majors, named "Dan Warthen," which was particularly weird, because my Dad's name is Don. His name frequently appeared in stories on the sports page. That stands still as the most prominent stranger I've run across with the name, and I'm 55 years old.
And now this, which is very startling. "Ben Worthen" and "Bill Worthen" are so close to my own name, right down to the monosyllabic nickname starting with a "B," that they sound like me in an alternative universe, or what a writer of fiction who based a character on me might use as the thinnest of fig leaves to be able to deny that it was me.
Whoa.
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I play a lot of golf. I was once a scratch player, before this blog destroyed my small muscle control.
Not too long ago, a player with my real name, not an everyday handle like Bob Smith, but with just one letter different, an alternate spelling, same pronunciation — showed up on the PGA Tour and won a tournament or two. I felt both cheated and vindicated. There I was, but it weren’t me.
Then, too, when I heard Bruce Hornsby, I realized I need not pursue the piano any more, or write any more songs, because his Scenes from the Southside album went where I would have wanted to go better than I could have ever taken myself there. Oh, for shame, but, well, ain’t it great somebody did it.
I know that’s not the same thing, and I’m not accusing Brad of having a Wall Street Journal fantasy, but it all comes together for me here:
From where she sits, everyone stands in judgment.
People watching as the curtain falls down.
See the lights do a long slow fade.
The show goes on, and the sad-eyed sisters go walking on,
Everyone watching all along.
The show goes on, as the autumn’s coming,
And the summer’s all gone.
Still without you, the show goes on.
And here:
Can’t you hear them calling?
Can’t you see them shine?
The city halls are falling.
The defenders drink their wine.
And when the party’s over,
Their stomachs start to sag.
Defenders, defenders of the flag.
The congregation’s waiting at the altar;
They can’t find the preacher anywhere.
They found him with the new girl from the choir
Where they store the boxes of the Book of Prayer.
If these guys are the good ones,
I don’t want to know the bad.
You wonder how it happened?
They just picked it up from dad.
While faded old glory is hanging like a rag,
Defenders, defenders of the flag.
And this:
Everytime I see her face
On the street in the hollow of on the hill
Another time and another place
I feel her in my heart still
Everytime I see her face
On the street in the hollow in the bend
I see her in my mind and then
I go down the road not taken … again.
And, finally, here:
There’s always another wall
Sometimes you feel so small
You could pick me up when I fall
Be the one to help me through it all
Be there when I call
Everything comes and goes
You try to believe but you never know
Anyway the wind blows
Somewhere, sometime
I will walk with you.
It ain’t Shakespeare, or Faulkner, but it goes places I’ve been.