a new neighbor moved in about a month ago. one afternoon, we exchanged names and chatted a bit. he brews beer and said that we were more than welcome to come over to sample some of his stock. this was intriguing, yet we haven't taken him up on the offer as of yet.
about a week later i saw him again in the backyard and he said "hi" and what i thought sounded like the name "Kyle." i dismissed this, thinking that i had simply misheard him. yet this evening, sure enough, "hey, Kyle."
do i look like a Kyle? i don't know if i mind it so much, but if we are to take our relationship further, i suppose that i'll have to correct him. Kyle, huh.
this happened a few years ago, when i operated the bicycle-powered curbside recycling service back in good ol' iowa. the guy that i took my aluminum cans and plastic bottles to, on a daily basis, called me "Vic" for about 5 months. i started to correct him one afternoon and he interrupted me, so i let it pass. i came to enjoy being called Vic. Vic was fun, Vic was a crazy cyclist who cruised about the town and loaded recyclable goods onto the back of two 8-foot long custom-built bicycle trailers. alas, the fun ended one day.
on a hot afternoon in july, the fellow stopped me and began conversation as we normally did, yet this time he interrupted himself and asked, "so why do they call you 'Vic,' anyway?" nobody had ever called me Vic except for this guy! i was caught in an alter-ego and squeaked out an "uh, i dunno." he accepted this answer (thankfully) and then asked what i would rather be called. i told him that it didn't matter at all to me.
a mutual acquaintance must have blown my Vic persona out of the water, i've always figured. for a short time afterwards, he always stumbled when he addressed me by name, as if he was trying on a pair of neoprene lederhosen two sizes too small and saying hello to his hollywood crush. Vic died on that sultry July afternoon. he was laid to rest and never to be spoken of again. although, his memory lives on.
oh, the error of judgment? i am typing away at this keyboard with burning hot habanero hands. they didn't burn right away after cutting the little lantern-shaped pepper, but the intensity of pain has continued to grow. ugh.
2 comments:
at least it isn't tom, the other alter-ego...
you mean "cousin tom," the guy who stands in for me and takes amy out for dates when i am tired. he looks identical to me, wears the same clothes, but has a distinct up to no good laugh and falsetto voice. plus, he always seems to try to put a move on my lady...
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