Every day I receive emails meant for other people named Darren Davis. One time, things got tragic. 

For most of my life I liked my name. I lucked out, even. I was the only Darren from kindergarten through high school. No other Darrens were around to be better than me at anything. There was no mistaking to whom people were referring when they said things like, “Darren has been looking really good lately.” I was the best looking Darren. The standard-barer.

Of course the Internet ruined everything.

You bite the apple. You want to see where you stand within Google’s search algorithm and, by proxy, the world. If you have a name that (as it turns out) is commonplace as my own, you are categorically less outstanding. Then you stop keeping tabs on this sort of thing, at least until you’re in a better place in life.

But what about when these others start invading you? This has been happening to me with increasing frequency through mistaken emails.

My email address contains my full name and a number. All it takes is a simple type-o or misread handwriting and I’m receiving correspondence meant for other Darren Davises. Most of them are newsletters. At least a few times a week I am offered the latest updates on shooting ranges, appliance conventions, florists, residential contractors, child development specialists, hair products, and churches. Many churches. They come from all over the country, but for some reason most are in the South.

With all these little secrets meant for other Darren spam folders, a picture of their lives starts to form. The receipts for online purchases: cutlery sets, replacement slider tracks for desk drawers, home speakers, headlamps with adjustable Velcro strap, an oil drip pan – all point to a pocket of Darren Davises somewhere out there catching up on Honey-Do lists, fixing desks, crawling in the attic, working on the car and mastering their stir-fry. I tried to click through to see what else they were purchasing, what kind of lovely, comfortable lives they were living. But you can’t access that kind of information without a password, probably a date of birth, maybe a security question like the make and model of a first car. Mine was grandma’s 1987 Ford Tempo.

Once I received tracking information for a UPS package being sent to an address in Montana. It was over 7 pounds. Probably expensive. Every day for a week: “Darren, your package is two days away.” “Darren your package will arrive tomorrow.” “Darren, look for your package at 1:00pm.” I knew they had the wrong Darren. But I was still disappointed when nothing arrived that afternoon.
Then the coupons from a helicopter club in the Ozarks offering corn maze flyovers. Then email blasts from an aviation organization. And:

“Dear Mr. Darren Davis,

Thank you for your email.
The flight computer is covered in Volume 5 in segment 20 under Planning and Computations (teaches how to use it to plan cross-countries, but does not teach each and every function of the E6b).
Performance charts are in Volume 7 in segment 5.
You can also check with your flight instructor as well if you need further assistance.”

There is a Darren Davis in the sky, or at least trying to get there. But is it future Captain Darren Davis, cross-country pilot for American Airlines, confident and bored as he leans against the cockpit door, thanking passengers for putting their lives in his hands? Or is it wealthy recreationalist Darren Davis? Maybe fresh off a divorce and looking for a new hobby Darren Davis. She wasn’t worth it, Darren. She was trouble. Don’t get mad. Don’t worry about getting even. Forget her. Learn to fly.

It’s been so long since I’ve tried anything new.

The strangest mistaken email I ever received was from a print shop in Alabama. It was the proof of a custom banner, the kind you make for fund-raiser car washes and union barbeques. The banner was a simple. Large black letters against white:

Welcome
to the
Fling Boys!

I saw the type-o. I knew there should have been a comma after “Fling,” as to read “Welcome to the Fling, Boys.” But I wanted to think someone was throwing an event called Fling Boys. Like an improv comedy show or gay speed dating. This became my favorite email.

Soon after I began finding messages from a woman I will call Linda, who owned the print shop. They were the “FWD: FWD: FWD:” type mothers send their friends and family. Since I hadn’t corrected her on her initial mistake I was now included in the family email list.

First there was the anti-Obama chain. Lots of exclamation points in the subject line, text written in big, multi colored fonts:

Finally a classmate of Obama speaks out!
Obama has turned Air Force One into a campaign slogan carrier.
Liberal logic 101: Want to know why the country is so screwed up? Look at these lessons.

Then the mom panic: warnings about the inherent dangers of walking out your front door, the maniacs sticking HIV-infected needles to the handles of gas pumps and on movie theater seats, internet scams where some working mom opened an email from an address she did not recognize and immediately had her social security number stolen.

Small, thoughtful emails: reminders about birthdays, videos of unlikely animal friendships. One read, “Just wanted to say I love you all.” Another: “Be sure to use a double dose of anti-stink today. It’s going to be a hot one. Love, Mom.”

I did not think to correct the mistake, to tell her I was not her son. I would never think to pose as her son, but I liked these unrequited dialogues between an empty nest mother and her adult children. They were sad and sweet, this other Davis family with their little print shop in nowhere Alabama. I liked being a different Darren Davis, getting a very specific and intimate slice of his totally average life, feeling better than him.

Until one day in July I received an email with the subject line, “Daddy’s Update.” It read:

Good and Bad.
Results from MRI and Pet Scan is as follows:

No cancer in Brain or Bones.
Nothing shows on Lymph Nodes or Liver
The Lung cancer is active and back up a little larger than 6.

He will do Radiation on Lung once a day for 5 – 6 weeks,
with that he will have Chemo (Smaller Dose) once a week.

Love each of you,
Mom

I felt sick, but also titillated. This was not the email children lovingly delete before reading. This was real life crisis. It was happening to someone else but also happening to me.

I knew I would now have to write her back. Every day my friends asked me if I had done it yet. They insisted I should contact her ASAP if I felt myself at all a decent person. Each time I’d tell them I just forgot. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I wasn’t just telling this woman she had the wrong Darren Davis. I was telling her she’d had the wrong Darren Davis all along. She may not ask, but she would certainly think it: “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I couldn’t say it was because I was having problems with my name, problems with my life.

I told myself I’d respond to the next one, hoping it would be another birthday reminder, or a cat gif, anything. But they never came. Weeks of silence. Until:

Dear Boys,
Thought you needed to know.
We think Daddy had a stroke Sunday.
Had an MRI on Tuesday.
Will be 4 or 5 days before we get results back. Love both of you so very much.

Mom

I immediately hit reply and wrote the following:

Hello,

I believe I’ve been receiving your emails by mistake. This is a different Darren Davis. Just wanted to let you know that you may have mistyped an email address.

Best,

Darren

I lied in bed for an hour, hitting refresh. Then it came:

“Thank you. And I’m sorry.”

That was all. She was sorry. She would call the other Darren Davis to explain. Did he even know about his dad? Or had I totally taken his place? Maybe he would comfort her like a good son. Or maybe he wasn’t a good son. Maybe they didn’t talk on the phone. Maybe the emails were all they had. Either way, what did I know of it? Or any of the others?

That night I decided to call my own dad back in California. It had been a while since we spoke. I could tell he was working in his office because he was having trouble holding the conversation. He asked the same questions over and over again. There were long pauses. I disappointed him many times as a child, then grew into someone he does not understand. And in him I’ve come to see many of the things I dislike about myself. Now we orbit in wide circles, just close enough to keep from floating away from each other completely. I knew he’d feel bad after we got off the phone. I knew he’d say ‘next time,’ just as I would. He and my mom had almost called me Nathan, but chose Darren because they liked the alliteration. Darren Curtis, after his father, the WWII vet who fought in Iwo Jima. I pushed hard this time. I didn’t need it to be easy on either of us. We talked about the things we always talked about: baseball, my car, finances. We made it to 20 minutes. Then we let each other off the hook. He said bye, and then my name.