I’ve got an embarrassingly low capacity capacity for facial recall. Usually, this trips me up if I’m at a party and meeting an endless assembly line of new people; but at least I’m probably tanked on beer at the time, so I’ve some tangible excuse.
Then there’s also the situation when you think you can remember someone’s name, except the fact that your hiccuping, drunken memory is folding over and over on itself like an ancient, artistic labia. So you take a stab in the dark of your clouded, drunken memory, and think the guy’s name you were just talking to was Joe. So off you go, deliberately addressing the bloke in question as Joe as many times as possible, just to make sure you get it right. This is when the creeping self-doubt sets in, and you’re pretty sure that the guy’s name is actually Adam (and that you’ve been going out with him for the last five years).
Some people are happy to maintain their mistake-names, though. When I started at my second high school, people started calling me Rob for no apparent reason, before I’d even told anyone my name. Around this time, I was harbouring major Robb Flynn fantasies, so I happily went along with it.
Adam’s recently encountered this problem at the pub. Our pub is fantastic, only a strol across the road – the place is packed with locals, so we can go there at any time of day and have someone to chinwag with. The barman will have poured us a beer within seconds of our arrival. The problem is that he calls Adam “Gary”.
Rather than awkwardly address his misnomer, Adam’s instead elected to go along with it. I’ve warned him that he’ll get busted (probably because I’m now loudly booming “Hey ADAM” most of the time at the pub). What does social etiquette dictate in these situations? Is there some sort of prize to be won if you can keep up the charade of your fake name?
Like I mentioned above, though, I’m even worse with faces. This has gotten me into serious problems at one job – on my first day, I was trained by a pleasant enough girl. Upon arriving at work for my second day, another female entered the lift with me.
Then it struck me: was this the girl I worked with? Did I risk being overly friendly with some complete stranger? She was already giving me odd looks. Minutes of embarassing silence passed, until we both reached our destination… and she walked in the door to work with me. She then took it upon herself that I really fucking hated her, and didn’t speak to me for the following two months I worked there.
I suppose the problem was that she had that generic porn star look about her. You know, people who are really good looking, but in a really snoreful, boring, photocopy way? The more immediate dilemma at hand was probably whether I should have actually said hello, or pinned her to the wall and blown a load on her tits.