If My Name Were Steve

My plan for the morning was to set the backyard on fire. As I walked across the garage to get the gasoline I stopped and said to myself, “I should change my name to Steve. Guys named Steve are cool.” A few nights earlier I had watched Steve McQueen in The Great Escape with my father and I’d already had several dreams of an adult version of myself racing across alpine pastures and mountain roads on a Triumph TR6 Trophy motorcycle, like the one McQueen used in the famous chase scene. Then, I caught a whiff of the gas can in the corner of the garage and forgot about the whole name-changing, motorcycle-riding thing. Pyromania took over. I was six years old.

I was generous with the gasoline and the fire spread faster than I thought it would. I had the hose handy and frantically doused the fire, but not before it scorched a patch as big as a king-sized mattress directly under the centerpiece of our backyard, a majestic 40-foot ash tree. I don’t remember where my parents were. I only know they weren’t home. My older sister was probably in her room reading about Nancy Drew in the Clue of the Dancing Puppet.

One of the neighborhood kids came over to observe the damage. He told me a six-year-old’s equivalent of, “You in some deep shit, kid,” and, wisely, he left. It took my parents awhile to get home, but they eventually found me hiding in a tree, crying, blabbering my apologies and promising to never do it again.

If my name were Steve, I wouldn’t have hidden in a tree. There wouldn’t have been any crying or blabbering. I would have been casually watching TV when my parents walked into the room.

My mother would say in a voice that sounded more scared than angry, “What were you thinking? You could have been seriously hurt or burned to death. Or worse.”

“Sorry. I promise not to do it again,” I would say if my name were Steve.

I like to think my whole life would have been different if my name were Steve. I would be charismatic and wildly successful. I’d have stellar work habits and social skills. I would have courage. I would have grit.

I’ve had some difficult times since I set the backyard ablaze. Unknown forces frequently dragged me into dark spaces. As I got older and as my responsibilities grew, the forces dragged me deeper into the corners of those dark spaces. I dreamed of the life I wanted, but I was rarely able to make a plan to get there, let alone follow it. I was never certain, but I knew there were several things wrong with me. I don’t believe any single one of them could have done the job, but when they ganged up, they took me down easily. Working together, their synergism was unbeatable. Sometimes the gang just teased me. There were times that I got so close to feeling like I could make it, and then that feeling got run off and disappeared for months or years. Guilt and self-loathing were ever-present. After years of struggle, I’ve learned that finding humor in misery is therapeutic. Regret is a waste of time and energy. Laughing at myself is my coping mechanism. If I can get others to laugh with or at me, even better.

For most of his life, Steve has had no need to laugh at himself. Steve always had the courage to chase his dreams, no matter what obstacles were in his way. Steve is the person I wanted to be. Unfortunately, there was no surgery that could turn me into Steve. Stephanie maybe, but not Steve.

I can say with certainty that as early as first grade I knew there was something wrong with me. I sense it started earlier than that, but my recollection of thoughts and actions prior to first grade is unreliable. The only vivid memory I have from kindergarten is of the time one of my classmates took me behind the shed on the playground and dropped her pants. That was it. End of story.

Based on the data found in my elementary school report cards, I reached my academic peak at age eight and had an indefinite struggle with focus, math and penmanship. I knew I wasn’t stupid. I just had a hard time proving it. By first grade I was starting to get chubby, a look that I would carry with me for years. And by the most important measure of how cool you were in elementary school—how fast you could run—I was dead last.

I believed what separated me most from my classmates, at least invisibly, was the raging river of existential and obsessive thoughts coursing through my young grey matter. I was certain normal kids didn’t experience that sensation hour after hour, day after day. I wanted to be what I thought was normal. I wanted those thoughts to go away. Fifty years later I still get them. Sometimes the thoughts are racing and unfocused. Others are infuriatingly repetitive. Sometimes they’re just plain stupid, like, “I wonder if Swiss bowels move with the same precision as Swiss watches.” Recently, I said something to someone that I regretted. Afterward, I beat myself silly over it. I ruminated nonstop for hours. Finally, after I’d forgotten about it, I latched on to the thought, “Life would be so much easier if my balls were on the inside of my body.” It was a typical example of my obsessive, dumb thoughts, but it got me thinking about thinking too much, which led to remembering the negative thought I’d finally forgotten. The cycle started all over again. As a six-year-old, this thought pattern made me think I was a weirdo. As an adult I find it frustrating and annoying. And it makes me think I’m a weirdo.

When I first came up with the thought of changing my name to Steve, all I really wanted was to be cool like Steve McQueen. But it wasn’t long before I realized the value of an alter-ego. I needed to believe there was a person inside of me who was capable of doing the things I dreamed of doing. Steve would live the life I wanted until I was capable of living it myself.

Steve’s childhood wasn’t all that different from mine. We had many shared experiences, but Steve handled himself differently. His mind was clear. He wasn’t worried about the location of his testicles or how often people shit in Zurich. And he never asked himself “What’s wrong with me?”