Your Boyfriend has an Alternate Identity: Part III

LC had a standard, English name. To make this entire explanation simpler let’s use John, which is what I called LC in the comedic stage play I wrote about our relationship. When we had initially met in Capri, I had questioned him about the origin of his name. I remember it distinctly. We were in the Quissina elevator coming down from his hotel room to take a moonlit walk by the pool. I asked why he – a half-Italian, half-German, had the name John? It seemed strange, especially since his last name was vowel heavy and undoubtedly Italian.

“John’s short for the German name xx?” I inquired, answering the question for myself. He nodded and we slipped out of the elevator, me never thinking about the oddity of it ever again. In the months we’d been seeing each other, I’d seen LC’s British passport (he did his PHD in London and earned British citizenship) with, “John His-Italian-Last-Name” printed crystal clearly under the lamination.

So flash forward to our Florentine dinner and imagine my surprise when I see the name “Mario His-Italian-Last-Name” stamped across his credit card.

LC met my wavering gaze: “You saw my credit card.”

“Yes.”

“What did it say?”

Me: “Mario.”

Awkward silence.

LC leaned forward into the table.

“I’ve been John for the past ten years. And I’ll be John for the rest of my life.”

I did a mental double take before managing to sharply spit out:

“Who were you before?”

LC scoffed, “I’ve tried dozens of names. I encourage my patients to choose a name for themselves. A name that they think represents their true identity. A name that they can’t wait to introduce themselves as to the next person they meet. An name that makes them happy.” LC was getting passionate now. “Think about how random and unjust it is that our parents decide how we’ll be addressed for the rest of lives, before we’ve even come into our own. When we’re infants.”

OK, as true as that statement might be…trying on names like hats in a boutique?

I melodramatically met his gaze over our candlelit table and leaned toward him: “Who are you?”

LC laughed and leaned back into his chair. I pressed on.

“Who the hell are you? This isn’t funny. Tell your real name.”

“Never.”

“Is it Mario?”

“No. I tried Mario for about a year and a half and still have some Italian cards with it. Mario wasn’t a good fit.”

“Isn’t that illegal?”

“No. As long as your last name stays the same it’s really not an issue.”

“Who the hell else have you been?”

“I’ve always been me! It’s about finding the name that I felt best represented who I am. A name that unites my personality.”

Me (incredulous): “And you chose John!?!?!?!?”

“When I first went to the states in high school I became Brian. I made everyone call me Brian, but it wasn’t right. When I first went to school in Britain at a polo match I met this kid called Andrew. I really liked the way he walked. He seemed so solid, powerful. So I became Andrew.”

“Didn’t this get confusing for your friends?”

“It’s not like I was changing everyday. Every year or so.” Okay. Then I also remembered that LC didn’t really have that many friends. “Everyone calls me John,” he continued. “For the past ten years I’ve been John. It’s on my passport.”

“I know, I saw. What does your family call you?”

“Ah, well they still call me the name they gave me.”

“Which is……?”

“You know I was talking on the phone with my father the other day. I told him about you…and well, he asked me ‘what’s the name of this girl?’ and I froze up. I couldn’t tell him. So I said Elizabeth.”

OK readers: I have a unisex name. Actually, it’s more of a male name. See, my parents were both journalists and knew I was going to be a writer. They never wanted my journalistic work (which I’ve failed to ever produce) to be turned down because I was a woman (not that I really think that would really be a problem in this day and age, but they wanted something gender neutral. Whatever). LC strongly disliked my name, and often told me so:

“You’re so feminine. This name doesn’t fit you. You should change your name.” To which I’d retort: “You change your name.”

Then he’d just smile smugly. Now I understood why.

Elizabeth is my middle name. And apparently that’s what he was referring to me as, since him having a girlfriend with a gender neutral real name was just too embarrassingly horrific to handle.

“How about Rachel?” He proposed to me as we left the restaurant and began a long walk through Florence’s smooth cobblestone streets.

Rachel!?!?!? I vetoed it.

“How about Laura?”

A nice name like Laura for a girl as wildly inappropriate as me? Uh-un.

“How about Lauren?”

These suggestions slowly ceased and we ventured through the silent beauty of piazza Santa Croce. We laughed later about this entire revelation and the look on my face over dancing and hot chocolate at a nearby café. And he told me his real name – an Italian name – but I’m sworn to secrecy.



More life coach stories at a later date …

Your Boyfriend has an Alternate Identity: Part II

“Wait,” I gasped still attempting an air of nonchalance. “She’s pregnant with her husband or …” He shook his head. “With you.” I stupidly finished my question and now felt as if I might throw up.

LC continued to calmly sip his water. “But she’s having taken care of,” he said reassuringly.

“Taken care of?”

“It was an accident. It was never meant to happen. We met up for an emergency session in Monaco to go over this. It’s the right thing to do. I got her to see that.”

First off, he was still referring to their dates as therapy sessions? Secondly, this man, who as a neurolinguistic programmer is fully capable of hypnotizing people, just convinced this woman to abort her baby?

“How old is this woman?” I asked for lack of anything better to say. I was trying to properly visualize this whole screwed up picture.

“Oh she’s a good deal older than me. Mid-forties.” LC was in his early thirties when we met.

“This woman’s in her mid-forties and you think she’s going to get rid of what's probably her last chance at a child with a man she adores?”

“It was an accident. We’re going our separate ways. I just hope she really does…you know…”

“You don’t KNOW for sure she’s having an abortion? You didn’t go with her?”

“She will,” he said almost as if to convince himself. He turned and began unpacking some dress shirts from his suitcase that needed to be hung.

As nycponderings chick commented on yesterday’s entry, I should’ve at this point packed my things and sprinted out of that hotel room like a cheetah on steroids. Sadly, I’m far too dysfunction to do anything that rational. Instead, I tried to swallow all the information I’d just learned like those oversize vitamin C pills and tried focus on the upside: This guy just proved my initial theory correct. I had predicted that anyone as wonderfully genius and inspirational as this man, a life coach who transformed the existence of thousands of unhappy people and executives, must inevitably himself be fucked up to the core. LC looked over at me nervously, still waiting for my official reaction. I stood up on our plush hotel room bed and proceeded to jump up and down like an exuberant child.

“You’re just as screwed up as everybody else, you’re just as screwed up as everyone else,” I sang bouncing around in a half-teasing half-serious manner. I pointed at him. “I knew it! I knew it!” I chimed. LC laughed and tackled me back into bed.

The rest of our time in New York was great. We were on my turf and I called the shots. We embarked on more insanely healthy dinners and more extraordinary discussion about life and career management. The whole "you're fucked up" revelation experience had bonded us somehow and we continued to meet up whenever our schedules allowed: A weekend in London, a conference in Florida, a night in Milan, a getaway in Florence. Often when apart we’d chat on the phone for hours, usually about a problem of mine and how I should tackle it proactively or about the places we wanted to visit next. I was mainly being lectured to. I usually didn’t care.

Before I go into the next story of LC absurdity, I want to make sure you readers understand what a truly strange creature this man was (and what a more pathetic weirdo I was by association).

He could only have sex once a day (twice would be to draining and he had to maintain his energy for his clients) and we absolutely had to sleep on separate sides of a king bed, not touching – otherwise his sleeping patterns were disturbed. Our hotel room also had to be on the highest floor possible so noise from the street wouldn’t infiltrate his delicate ears. We more than once changed hotel rooms midway through our stay somewhere since our initial abode was “unsatisfactory.” On a trip when I was especially jetlag, he asked if I was going to get up or move around in the middle of night. If so, he’d get me my own suite. The thought of being woken in the middle of the night was an atrocity too intense for him to bear.

LC wore a neck chain that contained a small nuclear force field at the end of it and while disgusted with pop culture, he loved the song “Turn the Beat Around” by Gloria Estefan and played it at his motivational conferences. He was painstakingly anal about what he ate and had to have a large serving of fresh greens at every meal. We went to five Milanese restaurants one night in search of broccoli. He once went into the kitchen at Del Binari, an extremely famous and fancy Milan restaurant, to discuss the details of his salad with the chef.

LC compulsively showered and instructed me to do the same. He was paranoid that hotel comforters harbored germs and always immediately removed them from the room. He’d then call down to housekeeping, asking them to bring up three sets of clean blankets which he’d inspect upon their arrival. He was a large fan of colon hydrotherapy (as is apparently Tony Robins) and often encouraged me to attend a session with him. I declined. It was one thing for him to be paying for my dinner, quite another for him to be financing the cleansing of my asshole.

At the end of a blissful dinner in Florence at my absolute favorite Florentine restaurant, La Giostra, I insisted on paying for the meal. Naturally LC protested, and threw his credit card on the table beside mine. While we waited for the waiter to come by, I glanced at the card in front of me and furrowed my brow.

The name on the credit card was not LC’s real name.

To Be Continued….

Guilt Over Fifty Fake Euros: Part II

After several weeks in London, I returned to Italy via a sketchy airline that flew me into Florence for a frighteningly cheap price. Upon landing, a friend of mine told me to meet him at Dolce Vita for an early afternoon drink. I hopped in a cab, my mission of passing Ivan’s evil fake 50 off into the universe hanging over me like an axe. My taxi pulled up by the Arno, I handed over the 50, and the cabbie began making change. I had done it.

Wait.

The cabbie was holding the 50 up to his windshield to catch the light.

“This isn’t a real bill,” he informed me in Italian. His voice emitted sympathy for me, a poor American who’d been swindled (which made me feel even worse for having tried to pawn it off on him).

“Really?” I feigned surprise.

“Where did you get this?” he asked with genuine concern. The answer to that question was WAY too long a story to get into. This cab driver was being FAR too nice. I paid him with other cash and took Ivan’s disgusting bill back, loathing its fake orange color and all it represented.

I poured out the story to my friend (we’ll call him Ape) over vodka tonic. Ape’s codename is extremely fitting since while he IS a very good-looking guy, he tends to walk/stagger kind of like a Neanderthal (especially when drunk) and has a voice scratchier than most dedicated two pack a day Marlboro smokers. With men’s voices there’s sexy gruff and gorilla gruff. My friend Ape was borderline, perhaps a little more the gorilla gruff, and often unintelligible (especially in English). The charm is that he sounds adorable and shit-faced ALL the time.

Anyway… he examined my bill against a real 50…

“Of course this is fake! It’s so obvious see the xx color, xx texture and xx markings.” Clearly he didn’t understand the bill was SLIPPED to me in the DARK. Now I was beginning to feel like a victim. A stupid, trusting, airhead who actually expected Ivan to pay her in REAL money (I mean, he always had before…) This adds further testament to my thesis about how Milan has gone seriously downhill in the past 5 years.

I accompanied Ape to get his hair cut by his childhood friend/barber. I forwent the scissors (those who’ve read my hair sensitivity entries will understand why) and opted only for a wash. Ape dropped me off at San Maria Novella train station where I’d catch a train to the Florence suburbs to meet my one of my best friends and number one partner in crime, Bartok. We’d spend the night at her boyfriend’s place outside of Florence and leave the next morning for August vacation.

After I bought my train ticket, I stood having twenty minutes to kill in the Florence train station (which is an epicenter for petty crimes, pit pockets victimizing foreigners etc.) and knew it was now or never. I didn’t want to carry Ivan’s fake bill with me into the August vacation period. This was my last chance to spend it. Before my train left. Now.

For those of you who don’t know, Italian cell phones function on a pay as you go system. At a Tabacchi (a kiosk which sells candy, cigarettes, and newspapers) you can buy a plastic card worth up to 100 euros. By entering the digits on the back of this card into your phone you activate your credit.

There is ONE Tabacchi in San Maria Novella. The line is long, and transactions are made frantically at lightening speed. I got in line. When I finally emerged in front of one of the many rushing sales men, I asked for a 50 Euro ricarica which he immediately slapped down in front of me. I took the card, slapped down my fake fifty (which he took) and fled the scene. As I ran off, I could see the salesman holding the bill up to the light with one of his co-workers, suspecting its ineligibility. Had I waited a moment longer, they would’ve stopped me.

I hurried into another area of the sweltering, crowded station panting. Would they come after me? The horrible fifty fake Euro girl? Just in case, I changed my hair style, put on a sweater and booked it to my train which thankfully arrived on time. Once I boarded, I knew I was safe.

I had the twenty minute train ride to the suburbs to think about what I had done. During the ride, I entered the card’s digits into my phone and listened to the TIM operator woman inform me that my credit has just been topped up by 50 euros. I remember feeling smug and victorious. I look back on this memory and cringe.

Bartok met me at the suburban station and as we lugged my bag to her place, I recounted this story. Bartok, who always encourages and rationalizes my unethical behavior, told me I was going to Hell.

I console myself with the fact that the owners of the ONLY Tabacchi in San Maria Novella (undoubtedly the busiest and touristy-est train station in all of Italy) have a monopoly on the best Tabacchi location in the planet, and are most likely rolling in dough. I wish I had concrete stats on this, since to this day, the fact that I stooped to Ivan’s level of pawning fake bills is a source of shame.