Uncanny Resemblances and Lacks Thereof
I have this problem that I've consistently been running into ever since freshman orientation almost exactly two years ago. Many of you are probably familiar with it, because you're probably fucking part of it.
At State, orientation is an overnight thing -- you stay in one of the dorms. In my case, it was Lee, which has a suite system. As a result, I was basically forced into hanging out with the same six guys (the other two in our suite interacted with no one) for two days. I didn't know any of them and, in retrospect, I had nothing in common with them at all. They were decent enough, though, so I didn't mind.
Until dinner on the first day.
We were sitting in Fountain, eating what at the time seemed to be passably good food. I marveled at how sex-crazed my roommate was. (He failed to eat the entire time we were there, so busy was he scanning the room for women. This is the same guy who is quoted as saying, "Dude, have you seen the hot deaf chick?") Something in the manner of my speech flipped a switch in another one of the guys' brains.
"Holy shit, you're just like that guy from 'American Pie!' What was that dude's name?"
This, in turn, set everybody else off on a desperate race to think of the gentleman's name, which I could already guess.
"Oh yeah, that guy who fucks Stiffler's mom! What IS that guy's name?"
They pondered and puzzled for a solid hour before being led to some other topic. Though I was by now certain that I knew the name, I dared not share it, lest it should be applied to me. Oh, had I known then how woefully awry my efforts would end up.
The inevitable came to pass several hours later when, out of the blue, my roommate shouted, "Finch!"
Fuck.
The litany of, "Finch!" began, each member of our party and some others repeating it in turn, bearing the countenance of men to whom the greatest secrets of the universe had just been revealed. My pitiful last-ditch efforts at avoiding a new nomer sputtered out quickly.
"Uh, I don't really do nickna-"
"Finch! That's you, from now on."
Goddammit.
It had begun.
---
Over the next few years, I worked tirelessly to try to prevent any future outbreaks of Finch-calling. There were sporadic flare-ups, as when someone from my old orientation group would see me around campus, smile broadly, and ask how I was doing -- but not failing to drop the name in there somewhere. On a couple of other occasions, someone else would stumble upon the supposed resemblance and mercifully forget about it quickly and before the trend had a chance to spread.
Eventually I grew complacent with my success, and by the end of April 2005 I had forgotten about the episode almost entirely. But fate, cruel, indefatigable fate, had been planning a reminder that has proven as relentless as itself.
***Note that the following will appear, in whole or in part, in my Peru memoirs to be released in September 2005. This will be the ONLY excerpt from that work to appear here***
It was the third night of the Peru trip. We were in Urubamba then, fresh off two plane rides and the bus trip from hell. That we were old enough to buy alcohol there was still a fresh concept to us -- in fact, looking back, the novelty never really wore off. So I walked, perhaps with too much confidence, to the hotel bar. One of my fellow wandering alcoholics, Quint, asked me, "Getting a beer?"
"Beer? No, sir. This is the cuba libre, the rum and coke, the drink of the cultured Latin American, sir."
I knew the expression that flashed across his face too well. Some men, when they bear it, shout, "Eureka!" But those in my presence unfailingly prefer, "Finch!"
Except it wasn't "Finch," this time. It was Finch's nickname, perhaps the only thing worse than Finch.
"Shitbreak!"
Oh, holy hell.
"Dude, you look and act exactly like that guy Shitbreak from-"
"Yeah, man, I know what he's from, this isn't the first time I've heard this."
And so it came to pass that for the next six weeks there was a group of several acquaintances who greeted me daily with, "What's up, Shitbreak?" I tried to lobby for my real name, or at least the real name of the bloody character, all in vain.
I didn't escape when I got back from the trip, either. Drunk girls around the house. My own fucking roommates. Only my parents claim not to see any resemblance, and they're just doing it to be nice.
Don't get me wrong, I don't have anything against the man. Matter of fact, I was always rather partial to his character in the films. I suppose he beats the pie fucker, the jock douche, and those two other gentlemen who are quite obviously homosexual.
I have also been accused by two people of having a passing resemblance to Spiderman, and one of the hobbits from the Lord of the Rings series.
At State, orientation is an overnight thing -- you stay in one of the dorms. In my case, it was Lee, which has a suite system. As a result, I was basically forced into hanging out with the same six guys (the other two in our suite interacted with no one) for two days. I didn't know any of them and, in retrospect, I had nothing in common with them at all. They were decent enough, though, so I didn't mind.
Until dinner on the first day.
We were sitting in Fountain, eating what at the time seemed to be passably good food. I marveled at how sex-crazed my roommate was. (He failed to eat the entire time we were there, so busy was he scanning the room for women. This is the same guy who is quoted as saying, "Dude, have you seen the hot deaf chick?") Something in the manner of my speech flipped a switch in another one of the guys' brains.
"Holy shit, you're just like that guy from 'American Pie!' What was that dude's name?"
This, in turn, set everybody else off on a desperate race to think of the gentleman's name, which I could already guess.
"Oh yeah, that guy who fucks Stiffler's mom! What IS that guy's name?"
They pondered and puzzled for a solid hour before being led to some other topic. Though I was by now certain that I knew the name, I dared not share it, lest it should be applied to me. Oh, had I known then how woefully awry my efforts would end up.
The inevitable came to pass several hours later when, out of the blue, my roommate shouted, "Finch!"
Fuck.
The litany of, "Finch!" began, each member of our party and some others repeating it in turn, bearing the countenance of men to whom the greatest secrets of the universe had just been revealed. My pitiful last-ditch efforts at avoiding a new nomer sputtered out quickly.
"Uh, I don't really do nickna-"
"Finch! That's you, from now on."
Goddammit.
It had begun.
---
Over the next few years, I worked tirelessly to try to prevent any future outbreaks of Finch-calling. There were sporadic flare-ups, as when someone from my old orientation group would see me around campus, smile broadly, and ask how I was doing -- but not failing to drop the name in there somewhere. On a couple of other occasions, someone else would stumble upon the supposed resemblance and mercifully forget about it quickly and before the trend had a chance to spread.
Eventually I grew complacent with my success, and by the end of April 2005 I had forgotten about the episode almost entirely. But fate, cruel, indefatigable fate, had been planning a reminder that has proven as relentless as itself.
***Note that the following will appear, in whole or in part, in my Peru memoirs to be released in September 2005. This will be the ONLY excerpt from that work to appear here***
It was the third night of the Peru trip. We were in Urubamba then, fresh off two plane rides and the bus trip from hell. That we were old enough to buy alcohol there was still a fresh concept to us -- in fact, looking back, the novelty never really wore off. So I walked, perhaps with too much confidence, to the hotel bar. One of my fellow wandering alcoholics, Quint, asked me, "Getting a beer?"
"Beer? No, sir. This is the cuba libre, the rum and coke, the drink of the cultured Latin American, sir."
I knew the expression that flashed across his face too well. Some men, when they bear it, shout, "Eureka!" But those in my presence unfailingly prefer, "Finch!"
Except it wasn't "Finch," this time. It was Finch's nickname, perhaps the only thing worse than Finch.
"Shitbreak!"
Oh, holy hell.
"Dude, you look and act exactly like that guy Shitbreak from-"
"Yeah, man, I know what he's from, this isn't the first time I've heard this."
And so it came to pass that for the next six weeks there was a group of several acquaintances who greeted me daily with, "What's up, Shitbreak?" I tried to lobby for my real name, or at least the real name of the bloody character, all in vain.
I didn't escape when I got back from the trip, either. Drunk girls around the house. My own fucking roommates. Only my parents claim not to see any resemblance, and they're just doing it to be nice.
Don't get me wrong, I don't have anything against the man. Matter of fact, I was always rather partial to his character in the films. I suppose he beats the pie fucker, the jock douche, and those two other gentlemen who are quite obviously homosexual.
I have also been accused by two people of having a passing resemblance to Spiderman, and one of the hobbits from the Lord of the Rings series.