Hiya

So, there's this guy who works for the big architectural firm on our floor. He's one of the company's founders and is a bit older than most of the people who work there (all of whom, save him, seem to be a notch above most when it comes to charisma). Anyway, this guy - let's call him David - and I run into each other from time to time in the elevator, in the hallway, or, god forbid, in Camp Porcelain.

He's a nice guy. We always chat. I ask him about the world of drawing buildings. He answers. We have a bit of a rapport. It's snappy.

Anyway, about a year ago we finally introduced ourselves to each other. He decided that, since we chat with relative frequency, we should at least know each other's name. Fair enough. Well, David's name remained in my head for the first 30 seconds or so after he said it, and I have no idea where it hid thereafter. I hate when this happens, and it happens to me a lot. The good news is that he clearly forgot my name as well. We have both harmlessly arrived back at square one. "Hiya," we say. And that's that.

So, last week he and I find ourselves in the elevator engaging in our usual witty banter, and I decide to revisit the name thing. What the heck, right? Oprah would do it.

"You know, I'm so sorry, but I have completely forgotten your name, " I begin.

"Oh, I'm glad you said that," he responds with a weak sigh. "Me, too. I'm terrible with names."

So, we re-exchange names, each of us with a doubtful look on our face. "You know," he continues, "I find that if I say the name a dozen times or so out loud, I have a much easier time remembering it." Without hesitating or waiting for a response from me, he then launches into an awkward sort of chant of my name. Our elevators are remarkably slow at our building, so we're not even close to ride completion. I cough. I'm uncomfortable, not to mention the fact that it just sounds funny. Sheesh, is this weird.

He finishes and then, of course, looks at me expectantly. There is a pause. To be fair, I have done this kind of name-remembering thing before, but I try not to make a habit of doing it out loud and in front of the other person. I start to perspire. My face is hot. This is so odd, and the elevator could not possibly be going any slower. Reluctantly, I begin saying the man's name. Rapidly. I think I sound sheepish and muffled, which is probably about right. Where do I look? At him? No way. At the floor? Too dismissive. So, I look sort of over his shoulder, past him, as though there's someone sneaking up behind him. Oh, if only that were true.

The elevator grinds to a halt just as I am mumbling my final "David." He looks pleased and wishes me a good day.

I was out of town on business last week (Plano, TX: the city too dull to blog about) and saw David today for the first time since our elevator encounter. I'd rather not go into detail about where I ran into him, but let's just say we were both peeing.

I thankfully remember his name, but the setup is tricky. Given the circumstances, I really don't want to look at him. But is it rude to stare at the wall? Should I look down at myself? No! No, definitely not! Fuck. So, I power through, kind of half-glancing his way, and say, perhaps too enthusiastically, "Hi there, David." He smiles, no doubt glad to see that his little memory aid has worked for me. And, over the tinkling sounds we've all grown accustomed to, he looks straight ahead and says, "Hiya."