Cracker Barrel: A prose poem.

 

So I decided to change my name.  My brand, so to speak.

If the people at Cracker Barrel could do it, I could do it.

I was tired of people stumbling over the Nordic syllables.

Instead of saying it properly, as “Tim Tor-kild-son,” they’d add diphthongs and put the emphasis on the wrong syllable, and just generally screw it up.

I’ve been called Forkelson and Thorgilson and even Tom Torkiltwinkle.

And I was sick of it.  A person has the right to be known quickly and

accurately when introduced – don’t they?

Besides, I wanted something short and to the point. Something to fit in with our frantic, attention-deficit times.

So, as I said, I started telling people, including my family and my friends, to please call me Tork.  Just plain, simple Tork.

You can’t mess that up, by golly!

But it’s not working.  People are objecting.  Vociferously. 

My wife Amy said: “I’m not calling you anything but your proper, legal, name, when I introduce you to anybody else!  And with me, you’ll always be my little ‘poophead’.”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that so-called affectionate nickname you’ve given me . . . “ I began, but she cut me off.

“And who do you think you are, going by just a single, one-syllable name?” she demanded.  “You’re no Bjork or Banksy, y’know.”

“But . . . “ I began.

Then she began reminding me of our straitened circumstances because I was NOT a Banksy or a Bjork, so I grabbed my hat and went out the front door for a walk.

Which is very strange, because I don’t own any hats – only sun visors. In my heated state I think I must have put the cat on my head. In the event, whatever it was that I put on my head it immediately flew off once I was outside and went skittering down the sidewalk.

So I wandered around, hatless.

When I got to the strip mall I met my old friend, Crazy Henry, in the hardware store, where he was looking for hex nuts.  

“You’d be better off with flange bolts” I told him.

“What’s this I hear about you adumbrating your name?” he shot back.

“Huh? Where’d you hear that?” I asked him. I wasn’t too sure what he meant by ‘adumbrate.’

“It’s all over the news, Mr. Tim Tor-kild-son. Looky here . . .”

He pointed up to the big screen behind the counter, which was always tuned to a soccer game. The streaming banner along the bottom of the screen kept repeating “Controversy continues to build around the dumbing down of a fine old Scandinavian name into a generic and barren one syllable horror: Tork, as he now styles himself, could not be reached for comment.”

“Oh, pshaw!” I exclaimed in vexation.

“Cuida tu boca!” warned the guy behind the counter.

I did not flee the hardware store, exactly; I just left in a slight hurry, ignoring Crazy Henry’s friendly hazing about attempting to eradicate my heritage.

Back home Amy set out a plate of cottage cheese with pineapple chunks for me, and we sat together at the kitchen table in companionable silence. I think she felt my pain and bewilderment at being an innocent victim of the culture war. 

“I put a pillow on the couch, poophead” she finally said.

So I lay me down for a nap.