Partly Cloudy, 64°
I look at these innocent, fortunate nobodies. Look at them! Freshmen without a care in the world, save their clothes and their hormones and their desire to impress descendants of famous people. Free to blissfully live their own lives, free from the fear that at any moment they might be accosted by some fame-seeking urchin, squealing “Regis! Regis! Sing for us a selection from your great-grandfather’s oeuvre, like the classics ‘Stardust’ and ‘The Nearness of You’, which number among the most-recorded songs in American history!”
It makes me sick.
But when they meet me, they will see that I am, in fact, just like them. And look who it is! My roommate! Hello, roommate. Regis is my name. Please don’t ask me my last name—I assure you, it would just embarrass both of us. It’s Carmichael. Carmichael is my last name. What’s that? Who is that saxophonist in the half-dozen massive posters with which I have entirely wallpapered my side of the room? Well, here we go. Here come the questions. I stare into your eyes, roommate, and I see the ugliness there. The envy. The longing. And I know, in my heart of hearts, even as you slowly back out the door, that you, roommate, have already judged me. I am nothing more to you than an object of curiosity, an unbearably handsome heir to a legacy that will overshadow whatever pitiful accomplishments I might make. And I know, as you shut the door and switch your housing situation as fast as possible, that I am terribly, terribly alone.
But he is just one man! Surely there are others. And who should that be lurking in the hallway but girls! Girls. Come in, girls. Let us get to know each other, as equals, in no way different from – what’s that? What is the deal with my body pillow? What is the deal with my body pillow shaped like a classic American composer, pianist, singer, actor and bandleader, covered with various discolored stains?
A fair question, but you have hit upon a touchy subject. Let us talk of something else – what’s that? You say you all have a prior social engagement taking place in a room that cannot accommodate a single additional person due to fire code restrictions? A pity, a pity. Perhaps tomorrow, girls, perhaps tomorrow we might discuss things far more interesting than that body pillow shaped like a man whose features you may catch glimpses of in my countenance. I am not defined by my body pillow, girls. I am not – ah! They have left. How droll.
No roommate, no girls — all of them scared off, intimidated by my celebrité. Perhaps the rest of campus will be more bold.
And whom do I see here but music professor Mister Gershwin! Hello, Mister Gershwin. Now, I received your rejection, Mister Gershwin, your refusal to admit me to your jazz ensemble. I know what you must be thinking, for it haunts my every step. You do not wish your jazz ensemble to be overshadowed by the Hoagy Carmichael legend. Well, Mister Gershwin, my great-grandfather does not define me. I am my own man, as much a man as any—
What’s that? No, no, he’s a composer, a classic jazz artiste. Not a sandwich, Mister Gershwin. Do try to keep up.
First my roommate, then the girls, then Mister Gershwin. A parade of reminders, as real as those parades that rejoiced at my great-grandfather’s music, reminders that as much as I try I cannot escape my great-grandfather’s legacy. All the posters in the world could not cover up his ghostly spectre. All the body pillows in the land could not absorb his stain upon my life. For no matter how much I try, no matter how many instruments I learn, ballads I write or delicatessen staples I try to convince local eateries to name after me, the world will assume that I am nothing more than my ancestor’s pale imitation.
And I suppose I will just have to live with that.
