There should be only one Squirrel in the restaurant
My first name is Chris — well, actually Christopher. It was the second-most common first name of the 1970s.
My last name is Johnson. It’s the second-most common last name in America. That makes me a common man. In fact, every time some TV journalist or poll taker says, “Let’s get the pulse from the common man on this issue,” I have to yank my wrist away and yell at them to stop touching me.
When I was born my parents said, “He looks awfully average and common. Just not quite as common as that Michael Smith kid the neighbors had last week.”
One of the joys of having a common name is that you get confused with a lot of other folks with that name. I’ve been hounded by bill collectors for not paying bills from a hospital in Crisp County, Ga. I’ve never been to the hospital in Crisp County, Ga., and quite frankly am not sure where it is. The only two places I’m sure I’ve stopped at in Crisp County are Stripling’s General Store and the Salt Lick Sausage Company. Granted, I’ve bought enough meats at both places to send me to hospitals in other counties, but the cholesterol never quite clogged up in Crisp County itself.
Chris Johnson has also gotten phone calls from angry husbands in places I’ve never been telling me to quit fooling around with women I’ve never met. Chris Johnson has won LPGA golf tournaments, rushed for huge games in the NFL and caught astounding number of passes in the Arena Football League. That last Chris Johnson was actually covered by this Chris Johnson when he was in high school.
My point is that the chances of there being two Chris Johnsons in a general area are pretty good. And the chances of there being at least two people named Chris in a store or restaurant are roughly 99 percent.
If you’ve read my stuff for a while, you may know that I’m not a big fan of being around large numbers of humans or even fairly small numbers of humans. Yet, I’m not rich enough for Jimmy Buffett to play private concerts for me or for the Falcons and Cowboys to play each other once in the morning and then for 72,000 other folks in the afternoon.
So, there are times when I find myself in the company of dozens of humans — including those few times when I’m in a restaurant. In some of those restaurants, they ask for the name on your order so that someone call walk around with your chicken in the air yelling, “Order for Chris!” Eight hands go up.
“Sorry, order for Chris Johnson!” Three hands go up.
“Kinda stupid looking!” My hand goes up. If there were such a thing at too much rigmarole for chicken, that would be too much rigmarole for chicken.
In recent years, I’ve taken to giving folks the name “CJ,” which is what a lot of folks called me in newsrooms over the years. Not only is it less common, but it’s pretty easy for the folks taking orders to spell. Well, for most of them anyway. Sometimes I spot them the “C.”
A few days ago, though, a lady yelled “Order for BJ.” I assumed she said “CJ” and three hands went up. Then she had to navigate between two guys named BJ.
Therefore, from now on when they ask for my name I’m just going to use something more unique like Ringo, Ernest Snodgrass IV, King Farsnook or Squirrel. Although, using the name Squirrel might cause my wife to have flashbacks to last year’s Thanksgiving dinner when she thought she was eating my dad’s chicken and dumplings.
“He wasn’t serious when he said, ‘Oh, these are squirrel and dumplings, was he?’ ” she asked.
“Have you met the man?” That would be a yes.
Hopefully, though, there would never be another Squirrel in a restaurant. If there were, I’d have to come up with yet another name because you should never eat in a restaurant with two squirrels.
Chris Johnson’s books and more available at KudzuKid.com.