Over the last few years I became chummy with Stan, one of the security guards at the building I work at. We would shoot the shit and engage in prosaic conversation—aside from the time he confided in me about overcoming testicular cancer. The expression on my face (I imagine similar to suddenly realizing the person you’re speaking with just ripped a silent yet tear-inducing fart) must have conveyed my awkwardness, and we'd since kept the subject matter light. When we first met, I introduced myself as “Dov”. He replied “Nice to me you Dolph”. Noticing that the agency replaced these guys about as frequently as the TP in the dunnies, I didn’t bother correcting him. In my mind, he could call me Dong or Dopy or even Doodie for all I cared because his days of standing near a door and nodding approvingly to anyone who walked in or out were numbered. Three years later, in spite of a security staff that’s seen more replacements than the Lynyrd Skynyrd lineup, there he is. “What’s shakin’ Dolph?” he’d cheerfully greet me each morning, extending his arm anticipating our routine fist bump—which I rarely connected with squarely, and made me feel immeasurably more white and clumsy than I actually am. Recently, I was greeted in the lobby by a mate who yelled out my name (my real name). Stan looked at me as if I’d just torn off my clothes to reveal a hidden pair of boobies and a vagina. “Dov?” he asked puzzled. I slowly looked back at him and meekly responded “Yeh”. “I’ve been calling you Dolph for years” he continued. Unsure of the appropriate response, I said the first thing that came to mind, “Have you?” This simply exacerbated Stan’s confusion. “Yeh” he insisted. “I never noticed” I improvised. The story pretty much ends there with one caveat. Stan barely says a word to me now. He’s clearly both insulted and embarrassed. No more jovial fist bumps. No more friendly banter. Just a solemn nod. The same nod he shares with every other douchebag he secretly despises. What was once a pleasant daily encounter has become truly uncomfortable—even more so than Stan’s ball cancer stories. On the bright side, Dolph is dead.
