I guess it was bound to happen. If you put yourself in a situation often enough, you should expect the obvious outcome.

Tonight at the local I heard someone greet my fave bartender by name, the name which has up to now been shrouded in mystery. The name which, frankly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. Why not? I’m a friendly person, it’s not that. It’s just that this dude bears a singular resemblance to another dude we know, and so we began by calling him ‘Not [That Guy’s Name]’ a year or two ago when he started. After a while, that practice sort of took on a life of its own, and since you rarely are forced to address your bartender by name – a very cordial “Hi” usually works just fine – the secret built and built. I began to wonder what would drive me to the point of asking; after all, we’ve gotten along just fine thus far, and anyway, the longer you talk to someone without knowing his or her name, the more awkward it is to ask for it.

That was until the be-capped downy-bearded 22 y-o sitting next to me, apparently an inveterate name-asker and name-dropper, let go the bomb by saying,

Hey Noah.

Of course his name is Noah. So now we know…uh.

I’m sorry. It’s just been a bit jarring, that’s all, and sometimes you need a pun.