Every time I walk into a coffeeshop, I dread two things. The first is judgment from the fetus behind the counter for not having a coffee order that is more than two words long (*takes off sunglasses*: “I don’t know what a Venti is, Brenda. I like my coffee black. Like your grave, Brenda. Like. Your. Grave. *puts sunglasses back on*). The second is the vastly more terrifying prospect of having to give them my name. Not having to hear a mangled version of it screamed across the room is one of the reasons I drink black coffee to begin with. It’s also why I avoid doctor’s lounges and being late for a flight.
It’s a dilemma I think anyone with an even slightly unusual name can relate to. You feel embarrassed for not having a two-syllable name, which is just silly because everyone knows the more syllables you have, the better a person you must be. I know I am not alone because most people I know have a “Starbucks name.” It’s a simple, TV-friendly version of your actual name that you give to restaurants, parking valets, coffee baristas or indeed to anyone who won’t see your ID but still needs to put down a name on a piece of a paper. Mine is Fred. Fred Klein. I’m not saying it’s creative, but it gets the job done. I came up with Fred after one of the girls at Starbucks shouted out an order for “Fay Kunta-Kinte”, bringing to mind a wrinkled Faye Dunnaway chained to a boat as a white extra in the mini-series Roots. The name got the attention of everyone in the café but me - and I had to eventually walk up to the counter and say “Yes, yes. I am Kunta-kinte. Fay Kunta-Kinte.” It was like that during school and university too. Everyone else would be called Mr. or Ms. such-and-such in an approximation of formality. When they got to me a garbled version of my name would come out, making people use my first name and thereby forcing us into an altogether rushed level of intimacy. It really used to get on my nerves until I reminded myself that the same thing would happen to me in Pakistan. That said, I did once lose my cool with a literature professor who made a great show about not being able to pronounce my name. “If you can pronounce Dostoevsky without having a spasm, then you shouldn’t have a problem with mine.” In retrospect, he was the only one who did call me by my given name (and not some perverted variation of it).
Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoyevsky - a name to pronounce
"If you can pronounce Dostoevsky without having a spasm, you shouldn't have a problem with my name"
So now I have Fred, and Fred’s life is charmed. Born Fredrick von Kleinman, he moved to America via Armenia but grew up in a small island off the coast of Australia, which was sadly turned into a turtle reserve in the late 80s. (Note: always have a back-story, you never know when Brenda will start a casual chat). Fred gets his coffee on time, his reservations at restaurants are fairly painless and even his salads arrive fairly quickly. It’s been so long that some people, like my barber, know me only as Fred. Occasionally I get guilt and think how Talented Mr. Ripley the whole thing is getting, but whatever.
I got thinking about Fred because last weekend I went out with a group of friends of friends. Most were visiting and therefore had a specific kind of weekend that they wanted to have: brunch, bars, clubs, dancing, the New York Experience. I don’t know how but coffee turned into a whole night and at around midnight I leaned over the bar stool to introduce myself to one of the party again.
“Hey,” I shouted over the thumping music. “Sorry, I know you told me but what’s your name again?”
“Hussain,” he said. “Saddam Hussain.”
My spinning world fell utterly silent. Record screech.
“What?”
“Yes.”
“You’re joking.”
“Nope,”
“You’re really called...”
“Yes”
“No!”
The author ran into the namesake of the late Iraqi strongman
“Saddam. Hussain. Yup,” he nodded. He didn’t even seem embarrassed, but then why should he? I guess (hope) he didn’t name himself that.
Eventually, after I bullied him for the better part of an hour, he produced his ID. There is was. His name was really Saddam Hussain. Thing is, he was younger than me, which meant he got named after the Gulf Wars happened. In other words: his parents really (but I mean like, reaaaaally) wanted to call him Saddam knowing full well what kind of man the dictator was and what kind of reception the name might get. When he said one of his siblings was called Gaddafi (swear to God) I decided the night had run its course. How can a man called Saddam Hussain have a normal life in the US? I knew an Osama bin something from school and I remember feeling really bad for him too but I guess if it’s your own name there isn’t much you can do. There is a certain bravado in keeping a name that recognisable. Bravery even. And, to be fair, I don’t think Brenda at Starbucks would have trouble remembering it either.
