The Old Coot has an alias. Several!
By Merlin Lessler
We acquire many names as we spin through life.
The first one is “The Baby.” How’s “The
Baby” doing? Is “The Baby” walking yet? Has “The Baby” started teething? Then
we move on to our birth certificate name or a nick name. In my case, I became
“Butch.” Everyone in the neighborhood called me Butch, so often that I thought
it was my real name. Then came kindergarten, I officially became Merlin, as in,
“Merlin Lessler stop throwing sand at Butchy.” Butchy was really Peter, but
somehow, he kept his street name. I was only throwing sand at him because he
was a bully and had just yanked a toy truck out of my hands.
I shrugged and accepted the Merlin label. Then
came 1st grade; we were assigned seats, boys on one side of the room and girls
on the other. The teacher prepared an alphabetical seating chart in preparation
for the first day of school. I was assigned a seat on the girl’s side of the
room. There I sat, in a sea of giggling, finger pointing first graders. The
teacher finally noticed; she claimed she thought Merlin was an alternative
spelling of the girl’s name, Marilyn. I got moved to the boy’s side, but she
got even for having to redo the seating chart. She continued to call me Marilyn.
This went on for weeks. Finally, I’d had enough. She asked “Marilyn” to come to
the blackboard to write the spelling words. I stayed seated. She asked again. I
didn’t move. Then again, this time with her face inches from mine. My reaction?
“Marilyn? Who’s Marilyn? I’m Merlin! Everyone here knows that but you.” My
insubordination earned me my first trip to the principal’s office. I had to sit
in the cool-down room with Butchy, who welcomed me with a slug to the arm.
That experience and the aftermath turned me
sour on my unusual name. I spent the next several decades with different name
tags: Nick, Knurling, Les, Shooter (as in pool player), Jim Steel (fake
electrician) and several others, best of them being: Hubby, Daddy and Grandpa.
I settled on Merl, and then finally embraced, and switched to, Merlin. It was
like getting back together with a long-lost friend. It has some positives. I
can go by one name, like Cher. I don’t need a last name; I’ve only met one other
person named Merlin. It happened in a Starbucks in Florida. The clerk shouted
out, “Merlin, your drink is ready.” I hadn’t ordered yet, so I knew it wasn’t
for me. I went over and introduced myself. My first Merlin! When I see him now,
he calls me, “Other,” as in, the “other” Merlin. It’s not hard to tell us
apart. I’m the skinny guy; he’s the one in Teddy Bear pajama bottoms.
Now, little by little, my Merlin moniker is
slipping away. More and more people refer to me as the Old Coot, or just plain
Coot. Finally, a name that’s a perfect fit. At least I don’t have to sit on the
girl’s side of the room.
Comments? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com
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