Where Everybody Knows My Name
Moving to a new house means getting to know new neighbors. Debbie has shouldered this chore with aplomb at our new place, flagging down everyone we see and introducing the whole family, even stopping the car on our way in the garage and shaking hands through the window. I’m not as forward; I figure I’m doing my best if I nod and say hi, figuring I’ll learn a name if necessary, say when I borrow a garden hose or have to apologize when the security alarm goes off for 30 minutes straight because I forgot the code.
In the four years we lived at our old building, I got to know a good 20 people well enough that I could stop and make chit-chat, ask them about their jobs/spouses/favorite teams and know enough not to tease the wrong ones about their lazy eye. This familiarity didn’t always mean I knew their names; I’m terrible at this, a condition made worse because I have great face recognition in spite of it. I can spot someone I met casually three years ago at a party from a block away and put them in context, but the best I can pull out is a “Hey man,” and that’s it. Unless of course they have a dog. Then they become “Shadow’s Owner,” or “The Lady With the Poodle.”
The one place I did learn everyone’s name was the coffee shop across the street. I go there so much that all the workers know my name after having to punch my coffee club card 8,423 times. I didn’t have the skills to pick up their names the proper way of course, so I learned their handles by looking at their server ID on the credit card receipts. This turned out to be such a surefire way of remembering them that I used a card every time a new person waited on me, whether the bill was $1.98 or $20. I kept them in my wallet and studied them like flash cards. I feel comfortable there. They know my usual order (large coffee, no room). They make funny faces at Carter and give treats to Bootsy. That’s why it was probably the best place in the neighborhood for me to be when my dog ran away dragging a plastic chair behind him.
I took the boys for a walk and decided to visit my old haunt. I tied Bootsy to a bike rack outside and wheeled the stroller inside to order a strawberry smoothie. I brought Carter back outside and parked at one of the tables outside, tying Bootsy to the arm of my plastic chair after I sat down. It was nice; Carter and I shared the smoothie, Boosty sniffed around and Tom (Server #2) brought him a treat. Chris, one of our few old neighbors who did have a proper name, walked by with his girlfriend, Scout’s Owner, and we chatted while the dogs sniffed butts. I finished the smoothie and got up to throw the cup away.
When I moved the chair, it startled Bootsy and he jumped away. When he jumped away, his leash, still wrapped around the arm of the chair, moved the chair even more. He jumped again, then he freaked out. He scooted away toward one side of the street, then I got up to try to corral him. The more he dragged around the chair, the more scared he got. He started running down the street, dragging the plastic chair behind him like some kind of crazy harness race you might see at a county fair. He zigzagged down the sidewalk, while I stood there yelling his name. He’d run a bit then stop, then start running again when the chair’s momentum made it bang into him again. I froze. I couldn’t run after him because Carter, now screaming hysterically, was sitting there in his stroller. But Bootsy was about to run into traffic.
I pushed Carter inside and ran into Gloria (Server #5), who was coming outside to see what the commotion was. I left Carter with her and ran down the street after Bootsy, finally getting him to stop before another intersection so I could grab his collar and unhook the terrorizing trailer. By that point, Chris had seen what was happening and ran back to help. We got Bootsy to calm down and walked back toward the shop, where Gloria, Scout’s Owner, and the rest of the coffee shop were doing the same for Carter.
I probably could have left Carter with a server at Starbucks, but I felt better leaving my screaming son with someone who knows his name, who knows me well enough to ask about school, serve my coffee black, and that if I order a second one for my wife to leave room for cream. And I feel better knowing that if I hadn’t acted quickly enough, a friendly face would have chased Bootsy down for me.
I tell everyone who asks about our new house that I’m so glad to be out of a big condo building so I can have some privacy. I got so tired of making chit-chat on the way in and out, I say, and now I only have to get to know people if I really want to. After this week, if I still tell you that then I’m lying.
