Name Droppers

There's Flossie Bing and Mark Bong, several Yips and Yaps, a Yuck and a Yick. And indisputably last but not least, Vladimir Zzzyd, who really exists. While Coco Ivonne Lindao's yin and yang may be in perfect balance, the Miami phone book isn't. There are 21 Yangs, but only 2 Yins.

The white pages are full of mysteries and disappointments, too. No one is named Miami, though there's one Miani. The absence of a Davy Crockett is forgivable, but there's no Sonny Crockett, either, and no Jimmy Buffett. Directory assistance offers three Condos, but none of them actually lives in a condo. There's a Jacuzzi in Punta Gorda, but not one here.

Now the traveler loosens his tie and scratches his head, noting thirteen people with the last name of Billie, all at the same address, 37790 SW Eighth St. Incomprehensible! A typo! If he were a local, our businessman would understand that he is squinting at the numeric manifestation of an entire Miccosukee Indian family clan, and he would know that the address is a large swath of roadside swamp 40 miles west of downtown Miami.

Skipping ahead, he sees not a single Hitler, no Idi Amins or Caligulas, no Qaddafis or Pol Pots. No Norman Bates or Benedict Arnold. Not a single Fulgencio Batista.

There aren't any Fidel Castros listed either, though there used to be. "No one would put their name in there with that name," a BellSouth operator offers. "It would be dangerous." One of the Fidels, a Killian High School student born in the Dominican Republic, got fed up and changed his name to Christian in 1995. Another, a pro soccer player from Peru, has left town. The only surviving Fidel Castro in Florida, a Cuban-American truck driver, told the Miami Herald in 1994: "Some people, ideological extremists, have tried to pressure me into changing my name. But I like my name. That's what my parents named me. That's how people know me. That's who I am."

He still is, but he now has an unlisted Hialeah phone number. So does his brother -- Raul. There are 29 Fidel Castros in the United States, with the highest concentration -- 9 -- in Texas, where nobody gives a hoot about Caribbean politics.

And then, in the final analysis, there is Mr. Frogg: Kermitt T. Frogg, with two phone lines and a street address in Coral Gables. I drive over there and park under a palm tree. A woman steps out onto the porch to get the mail.

"Mrs. Frogg?"
"No."
"Is there really a Mr. Frogg? -- Kermitt T. Frogg?"
"No. Yes. It's a business alias, I guess. He lives back there."

Back there is a brown door with a peephole behind the main house, what real estate people call mother-in-law quarters.

"He's really into computers," she adds, turning to go inside.
Knock-knock-knock.
Silence. Rustle-scuffle.
"Who's there?" The voice is quiet, muffled.
"Sean Rowe."
"S-h-a-w-n?"
"No."
"R-o-e?"
"No." I spell it.
Pause.
"Why are you here?"
I explain.
"Why didn't you call first?"

A good question. The answer, Mr. Frogg, is that you can't hang up on someone who's pounding on your door. I wanted to ambush you in your underwear, if the truth be known. I say, "I was driving around in your neighborhood and thought I'd drop by."

The peephole seems to blink.
"Who's your supervisor?"
Jesus. "Jim Mullin, editor."
"I'll talk to him. I don't want to have a conversation with you."
Hmmm.

"Mr. Frogg, I'm kinda thirsty out here. You think I could just come in and have a glass of water?"

The door stood silent, the peephole dark. Oh well. It worked in the movies.
I like to imagine Mr. Frogg catching flies with his long tongue and surfing the Internet, running my name through all sorts of databases, pulling down my credit history, hunting for military records, divorce pleadings, my social security number, my address. It will be tough sledding, even for a skilled paranoiac. Sean Rowe, after all, is just a nom de plume.