Horrible Names Anonymous

NOTE: I'm currently taking a playwriting class at Penn State that has me punching out dialogue on a crazily constant basis, so I thought I'd share a bit of what I've been doing. It's monologue-heavy crap, I know, but at least I'm trying.

LJUBLJANA: My name’s Ljubljana, which is the capital of Slovenia. My parents made me there by accident in a seedy hostel next to the railroad tracks. I remember the first time they told me that story. It was third grade. I got a perfect score on my spelling test as usual. I loved spelling. I couldn’t multiply my way out of a shredded plastic bag and I always got picked last for team fight club in gym class, but words just made sense to me, which kind of explains why I’m an English major at school. I even wrote an essay in fourth grade about how I wanted a professional career in spelling. But even though it was my pre-pubescent passion to spell words, the mystery of my own name was still ever elusive. Couldn’t spell Ljubljana right until fifth grade, which is why I usually went by Ana. Anyway, my folks were proud of me for acing the test and all that, but they were a wee bit disappointed that I kept writing ‘Ana’ as my name. So they sat me down and told me a decidedly horrifying tale of flimsy Slovenian condoms and how watching ‘Runaway Train’ on VHS mid-coitus increased my dad’s sex drive tenfold. I never went by Ana again. I knew that if I did, they would remind me of my name’s origins and burst forth the floodgates of painful recollections that, as a very perceptive third grader, warped my psyche in ways unimaginable. So that’s why I’m here and kind of why Twinkie and I decided to form this little support group. We’ve all been affected in one way or another by the names on our birth certificates and Horrible Names Anonymous is here to guide you to the shore of ultimate acceptance.

TWINKIE: Thanks, Ljubljana. As always, your honesty is very much appreciated. And that’s going to be a key part of abandoning your resentment and coming to accept each of your legal names regardless of any demons in tow. That’s what this group is all about. Like it or not, the names you’ve been given are how you’ll be identified for always and eternity. Sure, you could take the shortcut out and go through the process of legally changing it, but that only serves to show an admission of cowardice and selfish behavior. Your parents had a reason for putting something outrageous on your birth certificate. For instance, my parents could have very well given me a family name like Richard, my eccentric grandpa, Gabriel, my hippie uncle that invented the hemp hacky sack, or Sven, which, honestly, is just a freaking cool name. But they didn’t. Because they first met working the floor at a Rochester Hostess Brands factory, my name is Twinkie Pinkerton. And I harbor no ill will toward my parents. They are caring, lovely people and don’t deserve a wellspring of damnation for being creative. Plus, I’m the only person in the world with such a name and, for that, I have pride. We have two new members this week—

LJUBLJANA: Bringing our membership to a grand total of five…

TWINKIE: Right. And, since our inaugural meeting last week was a bit of a bust—

LJUBLJANA: Because it was just you and Hannibal at Bahbahloo’s Tavern and neither of you can remember what happened…

TWINKIE: Very true. So, because of that, what I’d like to do is go around the room to introduce ourselves and our goals for being here at HNA. As I said, my name is Twinkie Pinkerton. I’m the group leader and I’ll be moderating the discussions each week. Ljubljana?

LJUBLJANA: Ljubljana Czeroblatz. You all know my story already, but I’d just like to add that if any of you are in some sort of anguish or struggle regarding your given names and need someone to talk to, don’t hesitate to call or email me anytime. Same can be said for Twinkie and Hannibal. There are fliers of everyone’s contact information on the back table next to the Munchkins and Sanka for that very reason.

TWINKIE: Amen to that. Let’s press on with one of our new members. What’s your name?

BEN: Uh, my name’s Benjamin, but everyone calls me Ben. Normal enough, right? But then there’s my last name: Dover. My name’s Ben Dover. As in bending over and as in Ben Dover, the Laurence Olivier of hardcore pornographic cinema. As if that weren’t enough, I have a mild case of spina bifida, which affects my spinal column in a way that it looks like I’m constantly… bending over.

TWINKIE: Ouch.

BEN: Yeah. Middle school was especially rough. Normally, it’s taboo to pick on the crippled kid with the funny name, but Frankie Faison Junior High was completely oblivious to sociological norms. Even after seven years of both physical and psychological therapy that sort of bolstered my self-esteem outside of school, everyone I ever knew from the dark days of 6^th through 12^th grade obliterated any shred of confidence I felt entitled to.

TWINKIE: Did your parents know what they were doing when they gave you that name?

BEN: There’ve been sixteen generations of Benjamins in the Dover family. My dad, my dad’s dad, my dad’s dad’s dad and so forth going back to the 13^th century have all been Benjamins. In that sense, it was right of them to give me that name to keep the tradition going. How could they have known that a one in a thousand birth defect would result in the perfect storm of physical and psychological anguish? Don’t get me wrong. I love my folks. They’ve put forth the money to get me better and were incessantly supportive and consoling when it came to my everyday hardships. Despite all that, though, there’s always a teeny-tiny, Sorcerer’s Stone Voldemort voice in the back of my head telling me that they could have held off on the tradition until their next kid and given me a normal name like John or Billy or whatever. John Dover with spina bifida just gets retard jokes. Ben Dover with spina bifida is probably considerable grounds for a child abuse case.

TWINKIE: Could they have done that, though? Did they have another child?

BEN: Nope. They tried, but they stopped after three miscarriages. Soy el niño solo.

TWINKIE: So you should feel proud that the tradition lives on with you, right?

BEN: I guess, but now it’s up to me to continue it. And I’m scared shitless that all the other Ben Dovers will be curvy-spined and ridiculed. So I guess that’s why I’m here. I know things’ll get better as I make my way through college, but I need to believe it before I can be insulted and not feel completely shattered again. I need confidence and I think being around people who deal with the same thing is gonna help.

TWINKIE: You’re definitely in the right place and I think you’ll gain a lot from being here, so welcome aboard!

BEN: Thank you.

TWINKIE: Let’s continue with our other new member…

OTHER NEW MEMBER: Okay. Well, I, too, have a seemingly normal name that begins with a ‘B’, but it, too, comes with its own terribleness. My name—sigh—is Brian Adams.

LJUBLJANA: Shit, that’s rough.

TWINKIE: Michael Bolton syndrome for sure.

BRIAN ADAMS: Yup. Just like Office Space. In fact, me and Dave Herman, the guy who plays Michael Bolton in that movie are pretty good friends, but he doesn’t have to live that nightmare. I mean it’s not even spelled the same way. My name’s B-R-I-A-N, not B-R-Y-A-N like that Canadian yeti of musical sappiness. Anyway, I spent my teenage years in the 90s when Bryan with a ‘Y’ Adams was gaining prominence and getting Oscar nominations, which is why I was bombarded with excited questions about whether or not Bryan with a ‘Y’ was my uncle or distant cousin or whatever. It was relentless. Like how the kids in Whoville picked on the Grinch for being green and hairy and played by Jim Carrey. Obscure reference, I know, but it ends the same way. We both had major emotional breakdowns in the classroom that resulted in a broken lifestyle. He shotputted a Christmas tree at a wall, I sliced a music teacher’s face open with a Bryan with a ‘Y’ Adams CD.

LJUBLJANA: Wha…?

BRIAN ADAMS: I’ll explain. I had to take this music class during my senior year in high school. I wanted to take film appreciation, but the teacher for that was a megalomaniacal asscheese with a boner for Joel Schumacher movies, so I took the next best thing: popular music appreciation. And since this was the 90s and Bryan with a ‘Y’ Adams was very much in the zeitgeist, we had to listen to him. A lot. Because, much to my chagrin, the teacher—Mr. Crayne— loved Bryan with a ‘Y’ Adams with an unbridled passion. I shit you not, we listened to and analyzed “Everything I Do (I Do It For You)” 56 and a half times. He would read so far into the lyrics to make it poignant that he actually had everyone convinced that Bryan with a ‘Y’ had actual merit as a performer. So when I stepped up and said that Bryan with a ‘Y’ had the creative capabilities of a plastic pile of walrus feces, Mr. Crane was pissed. So much so that he had the gall to throw me an LP of “Everything I Do”, force me to stand in front of the class and sing it better.

TWINKIE: Damn.

BRIAN ADAMS: Worst moment in the history of my life. I hated everyone in that class as much as I hated being the center of attention. I didn’t know what to do, so my pent-up rage filled in the blanks for me. I chucked the CD at Mr. Crane’s face, which led to 37 stitches, my expulsion from high school and two years of anger management classes and intensive counseling.

TWINKIE: Man… I’m at a loss for words. That’s just brutal.

BRIAN ADAMS: Tell me about it. I mean everything turned out okay in the end—I got my GED and eventually graduated cum laude from dentistry school while Bryan with a ‘Y’ dwindled in global popularity— but, like the Grinch, that day has haunted me forever. I need special papers when I apply for a job to ensure them that I’m not a monster, which is why it took me six interviews to find a job as a dental assistant. I lost my nerve to talk with people outside of work because, eventually, I have to identify myself as Brian Adams. Because of that, I’ve been extremely antisocial and living with my parents at age 28.

TWINKIE: How did your parents handle it?

BRIAN ADAMS: Well, first off, it goes without saying that they couldn’t have predicted the horrors of senior year. Brian was the name of my great uncle who died in World War II so like Ben, here, my name came with honor. And it helped that they, too, didn’t care for Bryan with a ‘Y’, so I could come home and joke with them about it, but only because I had a good relationship with them. I didn’t have many friends in high school and I was a shy kid, so I couldn’t just deflect the insults. No matter how small, they still had an impact because I was such an easy target. All this to say, I’m pretty much here to learn how to laugh it off. Bryan with a ‘Y’ isn’t a God of musicianship like he was in the 90s, but the jokes still hurt. I’m a dentist. I help people with their pain and I’m proud of what I do, but I’ve never been able to cope with my pain outside the comfort of my own home. I wanna be able to live independently feeling confident that the demons of my name won’t go all Ave Satani on my wellbeing. So that’s why I’m here.

TWINKIE: Well, I think this group is going to be a very big help for you, so I’m glad you’re here, Brian with an ‘I’.

BRIAN ADAMS: Thanks, man, me too.

TWINKIE: And, last but not least, we have a very good friend of mine. Hannibal?

HANNIBAL: D’awww! You spoiled it! Well, the cat’s out of the bag, but yeah, my name’s Hannibal Norton. Yes, like the Oscar-winning cannibal from Silence of the Lambs and, like you, Brian with an ‘I’, I got the deluxe package of shit from my fellow peers throughout high school just because my folks named me after guy in the ER who delivered me next to a Fresca machine in the waiting room while my dad was getting high off Dunkaroos and ecstasy in the parking lot. His name? Hannibal Federenko. This guy was named after the world-famous Carthaginian war commander, which is cool and all except for the fact that Anthony Hopkins’ method acting completely hypnotized the masses into giving Hannibal Lecter primary recognition over the other guy.

BRIAN ADAMS: Yeesh. How’d you handle it?

HANNIBAL: Well, on top of going vegetarian, it helps that I’ve always been kind of an asshole.

TWINKIE: It’s true.

HANNIBAL: Fuck off, Twinkie. I’m getting diabetes just looking at you.

TWINKIE: See?

BRIAN ADAMS: Wow.

HANNIBAL: So, instead of keep quiet and bottled up, I shoot my wad on everyone else. After Kurt Cobain blew his head off, kids who liked grunge got Cobain jokes and one-liners about how Eddie Vedder was next. Anyone who wore what was popular in the 90s got an earful from me about how they were gonna go poor because they just had to have those $225 denim Chuck Taylors. Sure, I was a regular John Bender, making detention a weekly routine and pissing off my superiors, but it worked. I wasn’t a cannibal intellectual like Mr. Lecter, I was just a goofy asshole. And, as it turns out, those years were the formative years of my being a stand-up comic, a job I love and get paid heftily to do.

BRIAN ADAMS: Man, you could have saved my life if you went to my school.

HANNIBAL: True, but the important thing to know is that you have the power to save yourself. Things shouldn’t be so bad just because your folks were rebels in the naming department and because high school was rough. Buddy, people suck. It’s their job. They require fulfillment and, therefore, require that some people suffer for their own wellbeing. That’s where people like us come in. But our job is to make like a bunch of Twisted Sisters and not fucking take it. And that’s where HNA comes into play. We’re all here to be there for each other and numb the sores of the past to pave the way to a better life.

TWINKIE: Well said, Hannibal. I think that’s a good place to stop for the night. We’ll be going through the seven steps to self-acceptance next week, so we’ll see you all then.