One of the great things about having a job, other than the obvious things like: a paycheck, the respect of your peers and the satisfaction that you are contributing something to society, is that you have a place where packages can be delivered without much hassle. When you work in an office building, you never have to worry about being around to sign for a package, because someone is always there. But it’s not the same when your package is delivered to your home. This week, I was expecting to get a package delivered from FedEx, so even though I didn’t have anywhere to go, I still felt tethered to the house as I waited for the delivery.
When I worked for the radio station downtown (and yes, it pains me that I’m writing this from a dimly lit apartment in Rogers Park, while a guy in BeDazzled pants is being handsomely compensated for sitting in a big office and deciding if he should play Boston’s, “More than a Feeling” or Foreigner’s, “Urgent” at 9:00 a.m.), I was fortunate to work with a wonderful receptionist named Regina. She was the kind of person who made you smile when you saw her, because her ebullient personality was so infectious. It didn’t matter how badly your day was going, when you saw Regina, you just lit up a little.
As you can imagine, working 10-hour days holed up in a little studio doesn’t offer one much opportunity to meet other people who work at your radio station. Sure, if a salesperson needs something from you, he’ll stalk you in the bathroom, but for the most part, salespeople look at you with disdain because you’re able to wear shorts to work. Anyway, because of the lack of contact with people, you rarely learn anybody’s name. Typically, you might instead offer a simple nod of the head, or from time-to-time, if you were feeling especially gregarious, you would add a “What’s up?”.
For a while at my station, there was a kid named Will who worked with The Howard Stern Show. Will must have been a guy who worked at getting his name out there, because one day I walked past Regina at reception and was greeted with, “Hey, Will.” I chuckled to myself and said, “Hi,” thinking it was a minor slip of the tongue. But the very next day, the same thing happened. This time, when I ran into Regina in the kitchen, she said, “Oh, Hi Will. How are you?” Again, I offered a “Hi” without correcting her. I laughed it off, hoping that it was just an accident, since she has contact with so many people over the course of the day.
But a few days later, I was walking with a co-worker through the reception area and Regina said, “Oh, hello, John. Hi, Will. How are guys doing?” I nervously said, “Hello” and hoped my co-worker hadn’t noticed. Only as we continued to walk back to the studio, my co-worker asked, “Why did she just call you Will?” I explained that Regina had called me “Will” a few times before and though at first I thought it was an innocent mistake, I was now convinced that she in fact thinks that is my name. I told him I figured it was too late to correct her.
Eventually, Will finally left the station for a different job, and I thought that Regina would now realize her mistake, apologize and give me back my name. But, no. In fact, I saw Regina at the going away party for Will, and she still called me “Will.” But I figured I could live with the misunderstanding – that is until the day she called my studio. I answered, identifying myself as “Pete” and Regina told me I had a package at reception.
At this point, I became paralyzed with fear, assuming that the jig was up. “What do I do?” I thought. “Do I just go up there, receive my package, and reveal my true identity?” I’ve been Will all these years, and now, suddenly I would be Pete? I just couldn’t do it. I was going to have be Will until I got fired, or Regina got fired. So I quickly summoned someone else to get the package for me, relieved that for now, my cover was safe. But I could feel the walls closing in on me. One day, Regina would learn my true identity and it would be a disaster.
So I went on with the charade for the next few years, sending someone else to get my packages in order to avoid an awkward interaction with Regina. I began avoiding her, turning around when I saw her walking toward the kitchen, or waiting for the next elevator when I saw her in the lobby. This worked out fine until I realized that the “Will” phenomenon had spread.
One day, I successfully avoided Regina, only to be called “Will” by somebody who worked for another radio station. This was horrible. Now I would finally have to make things right (or spend the rest of my career being known by another name). But how do you say, “Hi, Regina. I know for the last three years you’ve been calling me ‘Will,’ but my real name is ‘Pete.’ Isn’t that funny?” So I chickened out and continued to sneak around the station until one day last year, I could avoid Regina no more.
She caught me in the hallway by the elevator after the show. I was tired and not feeling particularly light on my feet. As Regina walked by, I braced myself. “Here it comes,” I thought. “The unavoidable mis-greeting.” But I was wrong. “Hey, Pete. How are you this morning?” she asked. And just like that, it was over. All those years of agony, gone in a mere instant. I looked up, she winked and smiled, and up in the elevator I rode, knowing that a new relationship had been born.
So back to the FedEx package. On Monday, I missed the delivery because I picked the wrong five minutes to take a shower. So on Tuesday, I decided to sit in my chair by the window until the package arrived. Around noon on Tuesday, the FedEx guy arrived at my gate and I gleefully ran out to accept my package, only to hear, “Are you Mr. Pat Zimmerson?” “Yes,” I said sheepishly. I miss Regina.
