Suburbs of Our Discontent

Et tu, Fluté?

Last weekend my daughter and I participated in a 5K walk to benefit the Doug Flutie Jr. Foundation for Autism. Doug Flutie is, by all accounts, a wonderful person who is making a real difference for an important cause.

But in my little teeny tiny world, he haunts me.

Picture, if you will, a tired youngish mother who has been commuting for three years between her job in Columbus, Ohio and her husband's apartment in the MetroWest Boston area. Now imagine that she has finally landed an interview at a good school ten miles from his. She's made it through the day of presenting her work, meeting students, and talking with Department members. Now it's time for the final dinner with three of her potential future colleagues. She senses that the conversation is starting to drag, that she's losing the advantage, so she pulls out the ultimate sure-thing topic.

“Tell me about the sports at Boston College!” I blurted. (Okay, it's me.)

I hate college sports, but it's a good, neutral topic that always brings out some kind of school spirit crap. I was coming from Ohio State, home of the Buckeyes, so I knew a thing or two about this. I’d watched young men burn couches and cars in the streets of Columbus during Michigan-OSU games. I knew that a Buckeye was a seed nut. Yeah. Sports. I could turn this thing around.

The newest hire stared off into space, probably scrolling mentally through the “T” schedule, wondering how soon he could bolt. But the most senior member of the group seemed engaged.

“Well,” she started. “BC’s football is, of course, nationally known. We have Doug Flutie to thank for that.”

Doug Flutie! I knew that name! I didn’t know any other college players, but I knew him. We even had a road called Flutie Pass in Columbus, named after his famous “Hail Mary” throw that saved some game some time.

“Well, he was at Ohio State, you know,” I said, flush with renewed confidence. I can turn this around. I can turn this around.

They looked at me like I was a lost child.

“He played for BC,” she assured me.

“Well, maybe at some point,” I replied, “but I know he was at Ohio State because we have a whole road named after him: Flutie Pass.”

She hesitated for a moment, torn between her commitment to BC ‘s most famous alumnus and her consideration—or was that pity I saw in her eyes?—for me.

“Flutie Pass is in Natick,” she said. “That’s where Doug Flutie went to high school.”

Natick. Oh, God, of course, Natick. Two miles from our apartment. I drove past Flutie Pass every week on my way to Target and Trader Joe’s. I took it to get to the AMC movie theater.

A panicky clench started gripping its way up my intestinal track. What I experienced probably has a name somewhere in the annals of psychiatric journals: “Multi-Geographical Ephasic Transference” or something. I’d been living in two places for so long that I couldn’t parse their details anymore. Street names, phone numbers, favorite take-out places, all were jumbled inside my brain like a set of Yahtzee dice. I thought I’d thrown my own “Hail Mary” pass, and instead I’d thrown a bunch of useless ones and twos.

I sucked down my glass of wine, and we all spent the rest of the dinner fascinated by the various pasta shapes and fatty cream swirls in our never-ending bowls.

I did eventually get the job, but I remain haunted by the ghost of Doug Flutie.

And then, last weekend, as I was leaving the check-in desk for the Flutie walk, some guy started pointing at my number:

"946! 946! We've almost hit a thousand!" he exclaimed.

"Yeah, yeah. That's great," I'm thinking, as my New Yorker avoidance of stranger conversation kept my eyes averted, propelling me out the revolving doors.

Later, as they were announcing the awards, the same man took the mic and began talking about the foundation.

I had dissed Doug Flutie again. This time to his face.

Which leads me to conclude that in a past life he must have betrayed me and I am destined to misrecognize and disrespect him for the rest of this lifetime. Maybe he was Brutus to my Caesar, or Macbeth to my Duncan.

Or maybe I just need a good night's sleep.