Just a medium coffee for me, nothing fancy. But somehow on the way to collecting my drink, I heard “Horace” on Monday, “Morris” on Tuesday, and “Boris” by Friday. For some reason, I also spoke my name out at the counter and in what seemed like a mere half-minute, I became a different person.
But now, I face the conundrum of what has happened to me. Only Horace has been my name for the past forty plus years. My mother was well aware that choosing something other than that would officially become a burden.
Having never been called Horatio or Horatious Maximus, Defender of the Roman Empire, I take comfort in the fact that I am content about. Candidly, my mother picked what I consider a name that in this day and age somehow resembles a bizarre online ink blot test for children wielding Sharpies. The French phenomenon that is called “les enfants terribles” has me utterly baffled.
Each morning, right next to the coffee shop below my apartment, I join the unending emigration of those afflicted by the withdrawals of pre-caffeine dunking dragon zucchinis. This unique way of starting my day ensures I have a good laugh in the mornings. Normal, educated people appear to yell out identifiers that get changed into what can only be defined as some nonsensical, encrypted dialect.
I directly went to the barista with full confidence to place my order. For someone like me who suffers from social interaction, making direct eye contact is a game changer.
“Get me a medium black coffee. My name is Horace.”
With a nod, he started making my coffee. Or so I thought. I complained about how long these processes take, but with the way I was treated I saw no other option than to deal with it. After what felt like an eternity I heard my name being mispronounced.
“Coffee for Horus!”
At this point there was no reason for me to keep being surprised by the ignorant young man. Approaching the barista, into whose eyes I can only describe myself as skeptical when he blurted out dazed the words “Are you Horus,” was a risk I was more than willing to take.
“Close enough,” I simply stated, surprised when he handed me the cup. Hitting my head at the assumption, why did I believe it would be anything else.
“HORUS.” As a bitter human, I had managed to make way up to the god of the sky. It is, I suppose, an improvement from the “Horace?” with a question mark, like my name needed verification. It makes me wonder why people struggle so much with my name.
With magic spells like ‘Bob’ which happens to be three letters and one syllable, the mystery of phonetics is downright absurd. Why would you talk to the barista if stating, “Medium black coffee!” is far more efficient and showcases a calculated approach to trickery, where the tricked turned out to be an idiot. That won’t explain why the people being referred to think the clinic is a mosh pit bursting with people mindlessly searching for something monotonous, yet mindlessly following directions.
“Where’s the Beef?”
It’s as if one in three people on the planet uses what I like to refer to as the ‘BES’ or ‘Blob Elimination Spell’ which, in layman’s terms, translates to laughing gas choking utter defeat. I am told that my name is ‘Blobe’ which in my part of the world is deafening to ‘adult’ – an utter waste of time and energy. While pretending as if the science is overflowing onto the floor, is optimal chaos truly a common occurrence?
Strangers wandering with nameless identities gives access permission to shatter social norms, lacing some magic on my sign that reads: A ‘Contains Jacuzzi Since: Name Illusionary Optician’. Imagine, these same baristas who butcher sounds like “Horace” struggle pronouncing names accompanied with I think are orders to drinks that resemble incantations from a spell-bounds flick.
Venti half-caf caramel macchiato with light ice and two pumps of sugar-free vanilla ” is easier for them than “Horace,” which is a challenge in itself. I have considered getting a name tag or bringing a small whiteboard with my name prewritten, but both options feel like attempts to ease the humiliation of accepting my daily rebaptism. Thus, I have decided to put up with the situation.
With the calling of “Harris,” I step forward and grab the drink as the shop resonates with a loud “Norris.” “Maurice” and “Forest” are amongst the other names I have answered to. Perhaps the most ridiculous one was “Walrus,” which could make sense if I was judging the fantastic description of my early-morning face. There’s something strikingly liberating about this daily identity shuffle. I become a different person for thirty seconds while waiting for coffee.
This world characterized by self-description using strict, marketable language makes chaos a rather beautiful phenomenon. There lies a small chaos in the midst of bullheaded order. Unexpectedly, something so absurd happened to me last month.
When I got to the counter I said my order and my name. The new barista smiled at me “Horace?” she asked.
“That is my grandfather’s name!”
Tatiana wrote my name on my drink in perfect cursive. When my drink was ready in ten minutes, she served it to me and pronounced my name Horus. I felt disappointing but oddly good at the same time.
The next day though, another barista was working so when I told my name and got my drink, I was referred to as Horcrux. Now everything makes sense. So big shout out to those incredible baristas who are overworked and underpaid, yet change our names into pieces of art.
They also don’t forget that Karen wants her drink done with exactly three ice cubes. Baristas reinforce my beliefs that humanity’s greatest feat is not achieving perfection, but creatively messing up something. To be fair, starting the day being called “Horus” while pretending to be five makes everything a little better.
