If your name is McCoy, you get asked the same annoying question
over and over. When I tell someone my name and hear the familiar
words, "Are you the real -----," I try to show absolutely no reaction. I
don't smile, I don't frown, and I watch my body language, intending
to send the message that I think the person who asked me that is a
nitwit or at least an apprentice nitwit.
My son, Jack, employs a different tactic. When he is confronted with
THE question, he says, "You know, you're only the second person who
has ever asked me that." Both his approach and mine usually prompt
people to acknowledge, "I'll bet you get asked that all the time." Right
you are. In my case, for over six decades.
A couple of years ago I was briefly a Moody. A store clerk misread the
name on my credit card and started calling me "Mr. Moody." She did it
three or four times as she rang up my purchases, and I never corrected
her. I'm good at just standing with a vacant look on my face and nodding.
I suspect the real Moodys of this world have their own problems. I can
imagine that after the name Moody is called at a restaurant others waiting
for a table start with the wisecracks.
"You don't look it."
"I hope you're not."
"Cheer up."
A glance at the Nassau County White Pages shows there are 15 Moodys.
There are also listings for Crook, Moron, Dull, Crapo, Zitt, Bozzo, Low,
Nasti -- most of them, if not all, probably fine people who have endured many
"jokes" about their names.
Several months ago I had an appointment with a doctor whose office is
always crowded. Shortly after I arrived I heard "McCoy" and popped up from
my seat to follow the doctor's assistant when a male voice spoke up, "Which
one?" The assistant looked at the folder in her hand and said, "Larry."
I followed her into an examining room and immediately realized I had blown
my big chance in front of all those folks in the waiting room. I hoped the doctor
wouldn't take long and that the other McCoy would still be waiting outside when
I was finished. As much as I'm embarrassed to say it, I planned on walking up to
him and bragging in a loud voice, "See, I'm the real -----."
Fortunately, my fellow McCoy was no longer in the waiting room when I came
out. I'm scheduled to go back in a few months for another checkup, and if I see
him then I must apologize for even thinking what I thought. I don't know what got
into me. I'm so ashamed of myself.
(Posted January 26, 2010)
