-
RSS
“York. Y-o-r-k. Like the city.”
It might be that I’m a mumbler, but I think people typically have trouble with my name because it’s just so unusual.
“Jorg?” the older Latina lady behind the register asked with sweet perplexity.
She needed my name so they could call me to the counter when my burger was ready, but whatever I had said through the clamour of the kitchen just wasn’t listed in her internal database of possible people names.
The closest phonetical match that some folks find in that brief flicker of socially acceptable time between statement and response is Troy. For her, it was Jorge. According to Answers.com, Jorge has 33 variant forms — Egor, Georas, Geordi, Geordie, Georg, Georges, Georgi, George, Georgie, Georgio, Georgios, Georgiy, Georgy, Gheorghe, Giorgi, Giorgio, Giorgios, Giorgius, Goran, Gyorgy, Gyuri, Igor, Jerzy, Jiri, Jorgan, Jorge, Jorgen, Jurgen, Jurek, Jurik, Yorick, Yorik, Yurik and Ygor — so she got about as close as one can get without getting it right.
She had a long line of customers coming, and I knew that whatever she wrote down wouldn’t get me confused with anyone else, so I smiled and affirmed and moved on to await my meal by the self-service soda machine.
Karma in the Eastern religions is similar to the Golden Rule of Christianity. Paraphrased, they both say, “Be good.” I don’t believe in karma as a spiritual force affecting our fates, but it’s the thought that counts when it comes to humanity so I try to maintain my own concept of karma every day.
“Jacg?!” Another Hispanic woman read aloud from the receipt in her hand shortly thereafter, offering up the paper take-out bag for a customer to claim. I stepped up, declined her offer of ketchup, and smiling thank you, headed back home.
I was just out the door when the doubt spoke up.
That’s not yours. Those people who ordered before you were still waiting when you left. Look at the name on the receipt.
Jack. Dammit! But by now my signal said WALK, and I was already crossing the car-swollen intersection.
Should I go back? Why? Jack will complain and get what he ordered. I paid for my food, so it’s not theft (right?), and opening up my lunch will now be like a little Christmas: what did Jack get for me?!
When I opened the door to our apartment, I saw pebbles layering the living room’s wood floor. They radiated out from what I soon confirmed was the impact site of a small potted bunch of bamboo that a friend had recently given us.
Haiku the Little One likes to chew on plants. I had protectively placed the bamboo on top of the behemoth bookcase and out of her reach as soon as we received it, and although she’s a spry and cunning cat, her many daring attempts at the summit were always unsuccessful. Until the time I went out to grab some lunch but instead grabbed someone else’s.
Perhaps karma put her on its shoulder and raiser her up top, or maybe this is the curiosity that I’ve heard kills cats, but if I had known that spiritual retribution might be on my menu, I’d have taken Jack’s sack right back.
5 Comments
-
Support Barack Obama
Best post of the year, York.
Thanks, MorningStar. I hope we’ll see you at Mel Kadel’s gallery reception tomorrow night (details at richardhellergallery.com)!
Yessireeee!
fucking hilarious.
And by the by, try telling a native spanish-speaker that your name is Zach.
“Sack? I have burrito for Sack?”
Sigh…yep, that’s me.
Excellent!
I’ve been name-challenged here in Spain as my Mexican/Guatemalan nickname, Memo, means something like “Blithering Idiot” over here. So I’ve been forced go back to my older, more worn in nickname - Bill. Surprisingly, no one gets it until I say, “Like the President… Bill Clinton”. But they usually miss that I only share the first name with our former Head. Needless to say, heads usually turn when the table for Bill Clinton is ready.