I spent a fair amount of time as a youte lying on the couch in my mother’s basement in front of the TV. The best times were the weekends when Ted Turner was rocking out with The Guns of Navarone or The Quiet Man or Big Jake or The Greatest Show on Earth or Sargeant York. Man. What a great way to kill a couple hours.
One of my most favorite films was Spartacus. I think of it now every time I see Braveheart or Gladiator. Kirk Douglas rocked the burlap slave garb better than anyone! Even Tony Curtis! But I digress. The best part of the film was the scene in which Spartacus’ men — after being captured at last by the Romans — all stand up by turn and proclaim that they are Spartacus. It’s great stuff. Spartacus merely sits there on the hillside, tears welling in his eyes, and lets his faithful cohort express their admiration of him. It’s a heck of a thing to take another man’s identity as your own, especially when there’s a crucifixion at the end of the line for all your trouble.
Which brings me to Paul. Paul is my alter ego. My nemesis. Paul has been around as long as I can remember. He first showed up sometime around junior high, I think, when there were two guys in my class named Paul. My long-held theory was that people started calling me Paul because I was called by my last name almost exclusively in those days, and the beginning of my last name is, after all, Pal-.
There was a lull for a while after high school and before I met Leah. Without those other two Pauls around, it seemed it was a lot easier to remember me as Mark. But once I got to know Leah’s parents, Paul reared his ugly head again. There’s a Paul in Leah’s dad’s family, and there’s apparently enough of a resemblance between the two of us (temperament? Appearance?) that Harvey often calls me Paul. He’s gotten a bit better now that Leah and I are married and have a child together; it looks like I might be around for a while. But last night the specter of Paul returned in an e-mail from a total stranger.
I’ve been going back and forth with tech support at my bank, who are trying to figure out why I can’t log in. Last night’s e-mail was short and pointed, like a dagger:
Paul. We are still having issues. We will press again tomorrow.
What is this? Am I Paul to you people? What is it about Paul, that essence of Paul, that I embody so clearly? Perhaps I should embrace my Paulness. It could be worse.