Hi, my name is Blake Ross.
I’m sorry to start this note like an essay from Mrs. Lotterman’s third grade class, but I just had this conversation for the 27th time this month:
- Hello, Cheesecake Factory.
- Hi, I’d like to get takeout please.
- What is your name?
- Blake.
- Rick?
- BLAKE.
- Dyke?
Dyke? Really? Really? Are there more Dykes (capital D, hr) than Blakes out there? I don’t know any beyond Dick Van and John Up. Did you make an honest effort to arrive at a reasonably probable interpretation of my name or did you just go with your gut? Did I call you Chastecake Factory? Cheesecock Factory? No sir. You are a factory of cheesecakes.
The worst part about this is that I know it’s going to happen and I still can’t prevent it. There is no way to prolong a B sound for maximum clarity. M? Mmmmmm. N? Nnnnnn. But the human tongue wasn’t designed to “Bbbbbb”. The best you can do is “Buhhh…lake”, which invariably ends up sounding like “Uhhhh…Dyke”, which makes sense because if your name was Dyke, you’d probably hesitate a moment, too.
Forgive my abrasiveness but this kind of thing happens all the time. In fact, just before I called Cheesecake Factory, I picked up Blate’s dry cleaning:
I am not convinced there is a child out there who was born a ‘Blate’ and survived to the age where he is able to procure dry cleaning. Blate is not a name. It is something your cat does.
- Honey, Snowball blate on the rug again.
- What a cheesecock.
Occasionally, a clerk is faced with my actual name (Blake, if you’re just tuning in) on my credit card. There’s a moment of cognitive dissonance, often followed by “Welp, have a good day, Rick.” I never know if the guy is just being a jerk or if he’s secretly thinking “Poor Rick, going through life with the wrong name on his credit card. Bet everyone calls him Blake.”
If you’re going to reimagine my name, at least give me something bad ass. Why doesn’t this ever happen?
- Hi, this is Blake
- Blade?
- No, Bl–Yes. Blade. Son of Chainsaw and Tank. Don’t forget the fucking butter, pal.
Only problem here is that he’d probably blate all over my food in terror.
