The Name Game

The jukebox was broken, and no amount of kicking was going to bring it back to life.

“Don't bother with that thing,” the bartender called over a round of freshly-poured Budweiser-the last round, hopefully-for a pack of college kids.

Doran eyed the contraption vaguely before looking back at the bartender. “Why not? What's wrong with it?”

“Hell if I know,” was the answer. “All I know is it doesn't want to work and if you piss it off it'll get stuck playing Aretha Franklin. Then we're in real trouble.”

Doran gave the machine one last nudge with his foot, if only to be sure, and then returned to his stool, a defeated man.

“’nother round?” queried the bartender.

Doran gave him a long, hard look that border-lined on being an appraisal.

“Yeah,” said Doran finally. The bartender shivered. “Leave the bottle, Mike, it's gonna be a long night.”

The bartender did a double take. "I never told you my name," he said, reaching for the bottle.

Doran offered him a weak grin. "It's kind of a gift I picked up from my old man."

"Yeah?" said the bartender, setting the bottle down with a faint clink and a gurgle.

"Yeah," said Doran. "Guy could guess the name off anybody. And you know when he's doing it, too, because he'll stare at you and then point at you and say, 'Gilbert' or something."

The bartender's brow creased. "Serious? No kidding?"

"No kidding," said Doran, filling up his glass a little shakily. "Look, see that guy there, white-shirt-red-sleeves?" He took a swig of his glass and indicated one of the college kids. "Bet you his name's Charles."

The bartender answered this with a smirk and leaned over the bar, calling out to the kid, "Hey there! You, with the red sleeves!"

The college kids nudged their friend, who looked up bleary-eyed.

"Yesh?" slurred he.

"Is your name Charles?" asked the bartender.

It took a few seconds to process, before the kid nodded. "Yesh, yesh it ish," before falling off his stool.

"Not bad," said someone to Doran's left. "I gotta tell you, I've never seen that before. Say, buddy, are you ever wrong?"

Doran regarded the stranger and shook his head slowly. "Once or twice, but that was back when my dad was teaching me how to do it."

"So how'd you do it?" asked the bartender.

Doran let out that breath of air that comes after drinking. "It's not easy, and you need to be real perceptive, like. And there's something else to it, too." He looked down at his finished glass, staring at it a moment before topping it up.

At that point, and mostly with the help of each other, the college kids rose to their feet and stumbled towards the door. Doran, the bartender and the stranger watched them go.

"There go our generation's legacies," said the stranger. He turned back to Doran. "You were going to tell us how you do it."

"Oh," said Doran. "Well, what it really takes is knowing people. To know a person's name you've got to look 'em in the eye, and know them, and say the first name that pops into your head. And there's something my daddy always said, 'You gotta be standing on the Outside to see the whole picture.' You know? No one understands nothing like an outsider."

"What the hell does that mean?" inquired the bartender.

"Means not anybody can do it," supplied the stranger. "Am I right?"

Doran answered this with a nod and a faint belch.

"Aw, come on now," said the bartender. "Can't be that hard. Just look at 'em and say the first thing that comes into mind, huh?" He gave Doran a good scrutinizing.

Doran and the stranger waited patiently until the bartender said, with a satisfying slap of his thighs and an index finger jabbed in Doran's direction: "Eric. Right? You look like an Eric."

There was a moment of silence as the three of them grinned at each other, after which the bartender said, "Your name's not Eric, is it."

"No," said Doran.

"Ah hell, it's all a buncha hosh-posh," said the bartender.

Doran shrugged, and took another swig.

"Say there, buddy," said the stranger. He lips pursed together, and he narrowed his eyes. "I've got a proposition for you."

Feeling slightly heavy, Doran responded with an "Uh-huh?"

"See," said the stranger, shifting a little on his stool, "I've just now run out of cash to pay for my next round," he indicated his pocket as if Doran didn't understand. "And I'm not usually the type to ask other people to buy me anything."

Doran nodded, if only so he would continue.

"So let's say I try to guess your name," said the stranger. "How's that? If I guess correctly, you pay for my next round?"

Doran had to chuckle, and he found himself agreeing. "Why not?"

"Alright," said the stranger. "And to be fair, since I never had a daddy who taught me the tricks, I get three guesses. Deal?"

"Deal," replied Doran. He crossed his arms and waited.

"Well let's see," said the stranger, fixing Doran with a long, hard stare. "We know you're not an Eric, you must be… Frank."

"Nope," said Doran, and held up a finger. "You get two more guesses."

"Alright," said the stranger. He stared harder at Doran, and said, "Archie."

"Strike two," said Doran, holding up a second finger.

"Shucks," said the stranger. "One more, huh? Well let me see here." And it was then that Doran was submitted to what he could only describe as the hardest stare in his life. The stranger's dark eyes scanned and scanned, until finally he gave an odd little smile. "D…" he began. "Dor… Doran. It's Doran, right?"

Doran laughed. "Pretty damn good. You got your round." He nodded at the bartender, who rolled his eyes.

The stranger bowed his head and clapped his hands. The bartender filled up his glass.

"So does that make you an outsider?" asked Doran. "Probably a story behind that, huh?"

"There always is," said the stranger. He gulped down his drink, shook his head to steady himself, and said, "We could sit here swapping stories, but the thing is, I'm not usually the type to swap stories with strangers. So how about this," the stranger tilted his head, "You try to guess my name. If you win, you can ask me whatever you want."

"And if I lose?"

The stranger grinned yellow teeth. "Then I get to ask you whatever I want. Fair's fair."

"Alright," said Doran. "And I get three guesses, just like you? Fair's fair, after all."

"Right enough," said the stranger. He removed his wallet, and from it he drew a driver's license. "We'll let our kindly bartender do the verifying. What do you say, judge?"

The bartender took the card, read the name and shrugged.

"So bring it on, buddy boy," said the stranger. "What's my name?"

Doran felt his mind focusing, felt the old cogs turning despite the drink. Three guesses was more than enough. 'The first name that comes into your head,' his father had told him. 'It's always the first name. Anything else is just other stuff from the world sent to confuse you.'

After a few seconds, he said to the stranger, "Roger. Your name is Roger." He glanced at the bartender.

The bartender shook his head slowly.

"Try again, buddy," said the stranger.

Doran frowned. The drink, it must have been the drink. He looked at the stranger again, and announced immediately, "Sonny. It's Sonny, am I right?"

The stranger answered this with a shrug, and again the bartender shook his head.

Now Doran was starting to get worried. He rubbed his eyes, closed them, opened them, and again gazed at the stranger. "Kilroy. It's got to be Kilroy, or I'm a monkey's uncle."

"Then you're a monkey's uncle," said the stranger, "because my name's not Kilroy."

Doran felt his face begin to redden. He turned back to his bottle and found it was nearly empty. "Ask your question, then," he said dejectedly.

The stranger paused, and said, "Why're you here?"

It took Doran a moment to get his bearings before he said, "What? What the hell kinda question is that?"

"Why. Are. You. Here," repeated the stranger. "Why are you downing drink after drink in this shithole? No offence," he said quickly to the bartender, who grunted.

Doran poured the remains of the drink into his glass. Looking down at it, he said simply, "Because life is shit."

The stranger arched an eyebrow and waited for him to go on.

“Life is shit,” repeated Doran. “A month ago my wife left me for another man. She took my baby with her.”

He was silent, and downed his drink. As an afterthought, he added, “What kind of a world is that? Ain't one that I wanna be part of.”

There was silence before the stranger said, "That's it?"

Doran scowled. "You don't understand."

"No... I think I do. You see that jukebox, the one you were kicking?"

Doran looked at the thing, sitting forlornly in the corner.

"That thing'll take all the kicking in the world and it'll mean nothing," said the stranger. "Now we could keep kicking it, won't do it any good. Or, we could open it up to replace a fuse and fix up some wiring. You know where I'm going with this?"

Doran knew, and still he scowled at his drink. "And what makes you so damn certain anything'll do any good?"

The stranger took another gulp. "Because it's like your daddy said. Us on the outside see the picture better. And look at how much fun we’re having.”

Doran grimaced. “Hosh-posh,” he muttered vaguely, but he looked over at the jukebox again.

The stranger finished his drink in silence.

“Aaaaaaaah hell,” said Doran. He got up, a little unsteady, and gripped the bar for support.

“I’m done here,” he said to the bartender.