What’d You Call Me?
The Source
What’d You Call Me?
At Norma’s Café it’s “Honey.” When I step up to the counter at Hardees it’s “Young man.” Both of these were easier to digest than the “Sweetheart” I used to get at the JC Penney’s checkout counter. I know that these people are simply trying to make polite conversation and that I should appreciate their congeniality, but every time someone calls me one of these names I feel like I’m in the memory ward of a nursing home. Years ago at Triopia I taught across the hall from a social studies teacher named Kay. Her reaction was more animated than mine. She said, “You call me honey and I’m going to walk right out of the store. I’m not a honey. I’m old and you remind me of it every time you come up with one of those silly, patronizing names!” Kay was a lady not to be messed with and I believed every word she said. There used to be a waitress at the old Ranch House restaurant who’d call everybody “Darlin’.” Okay, I thought that was cute. She was from somewhere south of the Mason-Dixon line and when she’d wait on our table I felt as if I was in a scene with Gone With the Wind. “What’ll y’all havin’ tonight?” she’d drawl, and our table of college boys would smile. . . like our mom away from home. My college roommate was a hulk of a tackle for Illinois College but he had rosy red cheeks and our waitress dubbed him “Rosey,” a name that sticks with him today. I became “Big Shot,” because I always sat at the head of the table and I guess did much of the talking. One little guy in our group would often spend too much time at the Dunlap Hotel’s Happy Hour before heading to the Ranch House and our southern belle named him, “Hipshot” after a drunken cowboy in a comic strip. Those types of names were enduring. Once you get past sixty years of age the thrill is gone and you’re simply labeled as someone who’s not playing with a full load of buckshot. I often visit my dad in a swanky retirement village here in town and I hear the labels of “sweetheart,” “honey,” and other generic terms of endearment bandied about the dining room and recreation areas and I know that the employees are only trying to make everyone feel at home, but I can’t help but think that a simple, “Mr. Jones,” or “Mrs. Brown” might denote a bit more dignity. Oh, I could be wrong. In fact, I’m wrong a great deal of the time and perhaps most of civilization enjoys being labeled with names that imply senility. I recently read something that I’ve not confirmed but I’ve always suspicioned. That most-revered of all sources, YouTube, had a feature explaining that in most oriental restaurants the employees devise secret nicknames for their customers. The video explained that these are usually not derogatory in any way, but simply help identify their customers with names like “Tall Man,” “Grandpa,” or “Funny Hat.” I’ve eaten in restaurants where we’ve asked for separate checks and have actually seen the notations on the checks. I’ve been alternately called “beard” and “bald.” Should they really be writing those things to hand to the customers? Do I call my waitress “Sweetheart?” No, not in 2018. “Ma’am” seems generically harmless enough but even then I might be taking a chance, and “Hey you” doesn’t quite trip daintily off the tongue. Usually I suffice with holding my hand in the air and saying, “Uh. . . . “ No one can be offended by an Uh. I guess there are names I’m called that can be even more puzzling. The waiter in Springfield’s Café Brio insisted on calling me “Ray” all evening even though the science fiction writer Ray Bradbury died six years ago. I considered signing his name as an autograph to the guy. How often do you get a souvenir from a dead man? Imagine the shock on his wife’s face when he brought the prize home that night. I mentioned all this to an eating companion recently after the waitress had honey-ed me. My friend told me that I was being too sensitive and that our hostess was simply trying to make me feel at home. I told her that no one at home called me honey all I felt was old and doddering. She said, “Don’t worry about it, Honey.” Perhaps you had a grandmother like mine who when calling out the name of a grandchild would have to run through the entire list of grandsons and granddaughters before she landed on the right one. “Uh. . Keith…I mean uh. . Mark. . uh. . David. . Mike. . Jeff. . Roger.. . Kenny! Kenny, come here a minute!” Grandma’s odds of getting it right were pretty good as long as she remembered the entire list and she always did. At least she didn’t call me Honey.