A few years back, one of my coworkers called me by the name “Marty,” rather than “Mickey.“ I’d stopped into his office, chatted, and we were saying our farewells when he said it: “Take it easy, Marty.”
It took me by surprise, and I didn’t correct him. I’d already shifted my weight to make my escape (casual conversation in the office, amiright?) and wrote it off as an isolated incident. It was no big deal. Why inflict the embarrassment of correction and risk extending an already boring little chat?
A couple of days later, we had another encounter in the office kitchen. As I poured myself coffee, he rolled past and said, “How’re you doing, Marty?”
Glancing over my shoulder, he was far enough away that I’d have to shout to correct him, and then there’d be an awkward explanation. So I let it pass.
Rather than seek him out and correct his mistake like a mature adult, I changed my walking patterns in the office to avoid him. That was my plan: avoid him until one of us retired.
Thanks For All the Laughs, Wuhan Open-Air Market
The COVID-19 pandemic sent everyone home before I encountered that coworker again. It gave me a chance to relax, at least for the couple of weeks we were supposed to stay home. (“…for a couple of weeks…” Remember that?!)
As the pandemic inflicted its wrath, I stopped worrying about the little name mistake because there was a chance one of us would die and then I wouldn’t have to continue this charade I’d inflicted on myself.
As one year became two, then two and a half, I definitely didn’t worry about it because I wasn’t even sure if that coworker was still with the company.
I came back to the office on a hybrid work-from-home schedule, which means I have to go in once or twice a week. Sure as shit, the first day back, my coworker happened upon me in the men’s room and said, “Hey, Marty, how’s it going?”
When I’m busy at the urinal, I keep the conversation to a minimum: sports talk, Seinfeld references, and office food alerts (e.g., “Hey there’s cake in the break room!”). I didn’t correct him in the toilet anymore than I would offer to shake his hand.
He went into the stall to conduct some business and I broke health code protocol by only washing my hands for 18 seconds before getting the hell out of there.
How We Recall Names and Other Mysteries of the Deep
I made my own name mistakes this past weekend, at a wedding, no less, and it got me thinking about recalling names.
All memories are triggered by some form of input: sight, sound, smell, or reading (a variation of sight).
I’m great at recognizing faces, but mediocre at recalling names.
Our brains use associative memory. It processes the input (sight, sound, etc.) and a bunch of other stuff is recalled. Then some other part of our brain processes those recollections, picks the most likely name, and blurts out, “Hey Marty, how’re you doing?”
I often recall the correct name, but I doubt myself. I’m not entirely sure. I’m positive I’ve met this person before, and can probably describe the situation, but I’m uncertain about the name.
So, like a silly person, I hem and haw through a hello, curious if they remember me, and if that will confirm my name candidate.
The past few years, I’ve been better about saying, “Sorry, but I can’t recall your name.” More often than not, I was right, and should have had the balls to just blurt it out.
My coworker who mistakes me for someone else has been promoted three levels above my position. The lesson is to focus your attention on customers, not coworkers.
My Name Mistakes
My first name mistake was in the heat of the moment at a gathering the night before the wedding this past weekend. I was introduced to Zach, and I was told he had a brother named Ben.
Zach. Brother Ben. Got it.
Thirty seconds later, I referred to Zach as “Ben.”
Unlike me, Zach—a mature adult—simply corrected me by saying, “Zach,” and tapping himself on the chest.
That was it. No drama needed. He didn’t avoid me the rest of the weekend (as far as I can tell).
Second Mistake
For the wedding gift, I included a check in the card and delivered it to the designated individual during the rip-roaring reception.
(This Picayune is running long so I won’t go into the many ways this was an amazing wedding weekend…but it absolutely was a blast.)
At three o’clock in the morning, I fall asleep. Two hours later, I wake up with the question whispered from one side of my brain to the other: “What name did you write on the check?”
I find the checkbook, turn on a light and—sure as shit—I wrote the wrong name. After hours of silly self-torment, I wrote out a replacement card and gift, with an overly-detailed explanation, and found that designated person to deliver the second card.
I know exactly why I made the mistake, and how my recall got muddled in the moment, but I’m not going into that now. My therapist helped me work through those issues years ago, and I’m fine now.
I SAID I’M FINE.
Attention MartyMart Shoppers…
I’ve started brushing up my resume in case I need to leave the company to avoid the coworker who thinks my name is Marty.
Meanwhile, at My Writing Desk…
I’ve been really busy with family visits lately, and seeing friends I haven’t seen in years. My writing has suffered, but my life has probably been better because of those connections with people I love.
I SAID I’M FINE.
Maybe You’d Like
It’s election season (it’s always election season) and here is an expert on typography offering to choose the next president based on the visual design choices of the candidates’ campaign websites. Given what we know about the Electoral College, a website competition is reasonable.
Even if you only use Arial, you’ll get a kick out of this article:
https://practicaltypography.com/typography-2024.html
Next Picayune
I swear I’m going to continue writing novels of suspense. The most suspenseful thing going, though, is when I’ll finish it. Hopefully, I’ll have writerly news next time.
Thanks for reading the Mickey Picayune.
All the best,
—mickey