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Authors: J. Michael Orenduff
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maintain a relationship with someone who speaks a different brand of English.”
She sat there thinking for a minute and I took advantage of the lull in conversation to wolf down several chips loaded with salsa. Then she said, “You think I should say something to him?”
I hate it when she asks for advice regarding her love life. I feel like I’ll be responsible if something goes wrong. Which it usually does.
“How long has he been in the States?”
“He entered in the spring semester, so I guess about six months.”
“Maybe he was even worse when he first arrived. If he spends more time talking to you, maybe he’ll come to realize that his English is not colloquial, and he’ll improve.”
“I like the part about him spending more time with me,” she said, as if I were advocating it.
“So,” I suggested, “I wouldn’t try to correct his English at this point unless he asks for help. Of course if it doesn’t improve in time, then maybe—“
“Oh, it’ll improve. I’m sure of it. Thanks, Hubie; I can always depend on you for good advice.”
And I got that sinking feeling, so I changed the subject.
“Miss Gladys has a beau.”
She shook her head slightly. “I know. She brought the scoundrel to lunch at La Placita .”
“So you think he’s a scoundrel, too.”
“It’s obvious. First there’s his name – T. Morgan Fister. Never trust anyone who uses a middle name that way.”
“I know lots of people who use their middle name, and most of them are perfectly normal and nice.”
“Name one.”
“Well, one of my high school friends was named Bascomb Ronald Harvey. Bascomb had been his grandfather’s name. He was stuck with it on his birth certificate, but he always just went by Ronnie Harvey.”
“Not the same. If he had called himself B. Ronald Harvey, he would have been a different person and not nice.”
“Hmm.” I tried to think of people I knew or knew about who had that sort of name.
“You may have a point,” I conceded, “because the first person I thought of with a name like that is J. Edgar Hoover.”
“There’s also G. Gordon Liddy,” she said.
“And E. Howard Hunt.”
“And W. Clement Stone who financed those two burglars.”
“Scary,” I said.
“And J. Danforth Quayle,” she added.
“That’s the best example. Notice how all of them are in politics?”
“Writers do it too,” she said, “like F. Scott Fitzgerald.”
“Or W. Somerset Maugham.”
“And don’t forget Swami Kriyananda,” she said.
“I can’t forget him because I never heard of him in the first place. And how does he fit into this conversation?”
“Because his birth name was J. Donald Walters and he’s a writer.”
“On what?”
“Yoga, I think.”
“Politicians, writers, and swamis – all charlatans.”
“F. Scott Fitzgerald wasn’t a charlatan, Hubie.”
“You’re right. And his first name was Francis, so who came blame him for not wanting to use it.”
“He could have just gone by Scott Fitzgerald,” she pointed out.
I had no reply to that, so I asked her what her second reason was for thinking T. Morgan was a scoundrel.
“He left me a tip that was way too large.”
“That’s bad?”
“Here’s how it works, Hubie. Ten percent is about normal in New Mexico. Sometimes you get only five percent but usually that’s because the person doesn’t know any better, not because they’re cheap. And some people follow the fifteen percent rule. When a woman leaves you a big tip – twenty percent or more – it’s usually because she can’t do the math or simply isn’t paying attention because money isn’t that important to her. But when a man leaves a big tip, he usually plans on hitting on you or he’s trying to impress whoever he’s with.”
“How do you know the big tippers are wanting to hit on you?”
“It’s not hard to figure out, especially when they leave a phone number on the check or a duplicate of their motel room key.”
“You
She sat there thinking for a minute and I took advantage of the lull in conversation to wolf down several chips loaded with salsa. Then she said, “You think I should say something to him?”
I hate it when she asks for advice regarding her love life. I feel like I’ll be responsible if something goes wrong. Which it usually does.
“How long has he been in the States?”
“He entered in the spring semester, so I guess about six months.”
“Maybe he was even worse when he first arrived. If he spends more time talking to you, maybe he’ll come to realize that his English is not colloquial, and he’ll improve.”
“I like the part about him spending more time with me,” she said, as if I were advocating it.
“So,” I suggested, “I wouldn’t try to correct his English at this point unless he asks for help. Of course if it doesn’t improve in time, then maybe—“
“Oh, it’ll improve. I’m sure of it. Thanks, Hubie; I can always depend on you for good advice.”
And I got that sinking feeling, so I changed the subject.
“Miss Gladys has a beau.”
She shook her head slightly. “I know. She brought the scoundrel to lunch at La Placita .”
“So you think he’s a scoundrel, too.”
“It’s obvious. First there’s his name – T. Morgan Fister. Never trust anyone who uses a middle name that way.”
“I know lots of people who use their middle name, and most of them are perfectly normal and nice.”
“Name one.”
“Well, one of my high school friends was named Bascomb Ronald Harvey. Bascomb had been his grandfather’s name. He was stuck with it on his birth certificate, but he always just went by Ronnie Harvey.”
“Not the same. If he had called himself B. Ronald Harvey, he would have been a different person and not nice.”
“Hmm.” I tried to think of people I knew or knew about who had that sort of name.
“You may have a point,” I conceded, “because the first person I thought of with a name like that is J. Edgar Hoover.”
“There’s also G. Gordon Liddy,” she said.
“And E. Howard Hunt.”
“And W. Clement Stone who financed those two burglars.”
“Scary,” I said.
“And J. Danforth Quayle,” she added.
“That’s the best example. Notice how all of them are in politics?”
“Writers do it too,” she said, “like F. Scott Fitzgerald.”
“Or W. Somerset Maugham.”
“And don’t forget Swami Kriyananda,” she said.
“I can’t forget him because I never heard of him in the first place. And how does he fit into this conversation?”
“Because his birth name was J. Donald Walters and he’s a writer.”
“On what?”
“Yoga, I think.”
“Politicians, writers, and swamis – all charlatans.”
“F. Scott Fitzgerald wasn’t a charlatan, Hubie.”
“You’re right. And his first name was Francis, so who came blame him for not wanting to use it.”
“He could have just gone by Scott Fitzgerald,” she pointed out.
I had no reply to that, so I asked her what her second reason was for thinking T. Morgan was a scoundrel.
“He left me a tip that was way too large.”
“That’s bad?”
“Here’s how it works, Hubie. Ten percent is about normal in New Mexico. Sometimes you get only five percent but usually that’s because the person doesn’t know any better, not because they’re cheap. And some people follow the fifteen percent rule. When a woman leaves you a big tip – twenty percent or more – it’s usually because she can’t do the math or simply isn’t paying attention because money isn’t that important to her. But when a man leaves a big tip, he usually plans on hitting on you or he’s trying to impress whoever he’s with.”
“How do you know the big tippers are wanting to hit on you?”
“It’s not hard to figure out, especially when they leave a phone number on the check or a duplicate of their motel room key.”
“You
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