She’s a squat lady, short blonde hair and too few teeth. White sneakers with Velcro fasteners emerge from beneath overflowing khaki pants cuffs. She’s got the hint of a fine brown mustache above her upper lip.
“You check the expiration date on that?” she asks.
I rotate a liter of two-percent milk between my palms.
“Says nine twenty-two. Ought to be good.”
“I’ve had a few were past their prime,” she says. “Not usually too good.”
“I wouldn’t think.”
There are colorful packages lining walls and isles in this tatty little gas station near Sun Valley, Idaho, a ski town in the midst of the timeless ranks of the Northern Rockies. My truck’s tank full of four-dollar-a-gallon gas, I’ve arrived in this brightly-lit building to pay for my fuel and grab some milk for Saturday morning cereal.
“Can I ask a question?” I ask the squat blonde lady with the brown mustache and Velcro sneakers.
Sure, she smiles.
“If you had to write an essay about how you got your name what would you write?”
There’s no hint of hesitation, and that surprises me given the random nature of the question.
“Well, my name is Dorothy, and that means ‘God’s creature.’”
“I didn’t know that,” I shrug. “I’ve got an aunt named Dorothy. She’s pretty religious.”
“And my son,” she interrupts. “That was tricky. I didn’t know what to name him, so I told his dad that if it was a boy he had to do the naming. I had a girl’s name all picked out, but I didn’t know about a boy.”
“And . . .”
“He named him after his great grandfather, Jonathan. Means ‘God gave.’”
That’s probably how parents feel every time a baby’s born. “Sounds like you’ve got a blessed family,” I tell her.
“We’re not even religious. Haven’t been to church in years. How bout you? You got a name?”
I rotate the liter of two-percent milk with the nine twenty-two expiration date in my hands.
“‘Watchful one,” I reply. “The name’s Gregory. Some say it means ‘vigilant,’ which I guess is like exaggerated watchfulness, like paranoia or something.
“Are you?”
“What?
“Watchful?”
“You’re God’s creature. Shouldn’t that come with some kind of superpower or something, some way to know without knowing?”
“We’re all God’s creatures,” she says. “And I told you. I’m not religious.”
“If you’re God’s creature who isn’t religious then I can’t be a watchful person who pays attention.”
“I’m thinking different,” she says.
“About what?”
“About your name. Whether it fits or not.”
I scan the colorful packages of cigarettes behind the counter, look to her breast pocket where a soft pack of Lucky Strikes protrudes. Her upper lip, which dangles beneath that thin brown mustache, is pulled in a terse line.
“Yea, well, maybe,” I say. “Do you think the meaning of names actually means anything? I mean, to say a child’s name means something before the kid becomes a person is . . . um . . . it makes me uncomfortable. It’s kind of like trying to believe in fate or destiny or something.”
“Maybe the name doesn’t determine the person,”she says. “Maybe the person grows into the name.”
“Come on.”
“Really. Don’t you think it’s possible?”
“OK. What about a name like, say, Gradie, which means ‘illustrious’ or ‘noble.’ Your rationale presupposes success. It’s a chicken-and-egg thing. Does the name dictate personality or does a personality grow into a name? Either way you’re presuming a connection, and that’s not possible?”
“You think too hard. You and your milk should go home.”
I walk across the front of the counter and push the gas station door ajar enough to feel a cool rush of autumn air on my cheeks.
“Hey,” I hear from behind, and I turn back.
“It fits,” she says.
“What?”
“Don’t play dumb with me.”
I push the door wide and stroll into the autumn air of the Northern Rockies, working beneath fluorescent lighting that illuminates four proud gas pumps, and I wonder about the blonde-haired lady with the thin brown mustache, missing teeth and white Velcro sneakers.
God’s creature . . . Maybe. Certainly not exalted. But God’s creature just the same.
© Greg Stahl
