A Man Called Jospeh

I step through the door and into the stuffy government building, my shoes clicking on the marble floors. The air drips with heat and sweat, and even a slight scent of curry powder. The staff must've just had Indian food for their lunch break. I contend with the noxious smell as I wrestle with the phone in my hand, struggling to turn off the speaker.

"In order to regain access to your account, you must RESET YOUR PASSWORD." The automated voice peaks and crunches through the speaker. All heads turn my way, and someone even gives me a severe "Shush!" I nod and end the call, slouching to appear as apologetic as possible. I can always call back later.

As I approach the counter, I notice the clerk is new. Of course, she just had to be new. My hand itches to clench into a nervous fist, but I resist the urge. I don't want to crumple up the papers held in it. I count the people in front of me in line: three of them. My chest soars with hope. That should be enough time to formulate my plan. This might just be the day: the day where Jospeh Nilson finally gets his name legally changed.

I peek out from the line to observe the clerk as she talks with a black woman. Honestly, she's pretty cute. Her black hair flows into a braided ponytail, with bangs to add a punk-esque flair. Heavy eyeliner brings attention to her brown eyes. Her lips glisten with soft pink gloss.

I'm not simply admiring her appearance, of course. As she interacts with the customer, I take note of her mannerisms, her smile, her hand gestures. I need to know exactly what kind of clerk she is for this plan to work.

I pull out a black pocketbook, frantically scribbling down these notes as she finishes her interactions with the first customer. As the black woman passes by me, we make eye contact. Her eyes bloom with recognition, then soften with pity. I feel my head slink back down into the book. I get those looks all too often, but I can't dwell on that now. I have to focus.

The clerk now begins to help the second customer, an elderly Asian man. From my place in the line, I can now see what she's wearing; a tasteful black blouse, just slightly goth-looking. Pinned to it is a white name tag, but the name is too small for me to make out yet. She looks to her computer, typing away while still talking with the man. I look to my notes, cross-referencing them with the traits of all the county clerks that came before her.

Bright voice, consistent eye contact, minimal hand movements. A Rebecca-type? Machiavellian approach?

As I furiously scratch down more notes, I feel the heat of someone behind me. They cough loudly and hang a little too close for my liking. A lone gurgle emerges from my stomach, the first sign of anxiety. I try to push down the sensation and review what I have so far.

Clear enunciation, flowing cadence, atypical blinking pattern. Margaret-subtype likely.

Suggestion: open with holdout, aloof demeanor, then follow with warm compliment.

The clerk finishes helping the Asian man, and he passes me, giving me the same withering look I'd gotten from the black woman. I ignore him. These last few moments are crucial.

As the last customer before me steps up, I can finally read the clerk's name tag: Hazel.

Wow. What a beautiful name.

The customer she helps, a middle-aged woman, starts off sourly. Apparently the woman had sent in some forms weeks earlier, and she was none too pleased that they hadn't been processed yet.

To her credit, Hazel handles the unruly woman well, deescalating the situation and apologizing while never actually claiming responsibility for the mistake. It's as if she was negotiating with faefolk, navigating their loopholes and intricacies with ease.

I turn back to my pocketbook, gathering all my notes and coming to a final stratagem.

Exactly like Mrs. Juniper. Strategy: straightforward and honest.

Hazel finishes placating the woman, and finally, it's my turn. I swallow dryly and step forward, putting on my most genuine smile.

"How can I help you today, sir?" She asks, smiling back. I cough slightly and present her my forms.

"Name change, huh?" she says, leafing lightly through the forms. My stomach does cartwheels with each page she flips.

What if she looks too closely into the forms? The stray thought drops from my mind and tumbles into my stomach. It splashes, sending me reeling. Was I not looking at her hands enough? Is she a Bridget-type? Should I abort? SHOULD I ABORT?

"That's right," I reply. Beads of sweat trickle down my back. Her perusal of the forms makes me feel as though I've set up a line of dominoes and she's poking the first one. I try to expedite the process. "Do you mind if we get this done quickly? I have an important appointment I need to get to." It's not entirely a lie; I do have places to be. But the comment more serves to bring her attention away from a certain part of the form.

"Of course, Mr..." she trails off, her eyes roaming the form for my name. I wince. My gamble instantly backfired. I feel a tumbling in my gut as the first domino starts to fall.

"Nilson!" I almost scream, desperately grasping to save that domino before it hits the floor. Hazel tenses up, almost jumps with surprise. The people behind me all turn their heads. "Uh, Mr. Nilson, is, uh, my name," I add before the situation sours any further.

"O-of course, Mr. Nilson," she says, regaining composure. She turns and starts typing at her computer. "And what is your reason for wanting to change your legal name?"

My heart stops. "Beg pardon?"

"Oh, just a new part of the form they added recently." She waves a hand as though it's just a small formality. In my heart, it's like hearing a gun cock at my forehead.

"Umm..." I struggle to act nonchalant. "I just feel that my name is silly, and I don't like it very much." It was the absolute truth, but it feels as though I just reduced World War 2 to the phrase "Yeah, some people died."

"I'm sure it's not that bad," Hazel replies in a placating tone. She looks closer at a page and squints. Two invisible hands squeeze my stomach. I nearly double over.

"Is this a misspelling?" she asks. "Jah-spee?" Her pronunciation of my name is awful, like a war crime. I feel the first domino fall.

"No, ma'am," I correct in the gentlest way possible. "It's pronounced 'Joh-spuh'." I've had to utter this exact phrase thousands upon thousands of times.

Her lips turn upwards, the barest traces of a grin. The second domino topples. I frantically push forward, trying to stop the oncoming death spiral.

"I know, it's silly, right?" I say, my best effort to be humorous about it. "My parents mistakenly wrote "Jospeh" on my birth certificate. When they learned how much paperwork it would take to change it, they just gave up and forced me to keep it!" I say it like a joke, but it feels more like a hangman's sentence. A noose I've been wearing ever since I was born.

It's tiny at first, her reaction. A stifled snort, then a helpless giggle. Her calm mask of professionalism peels off, despite her efforts to keep it stuck to her face. Her every laugh is another fallen domino, another step towards oblivion. The invisible hands squeeze even tighter. I feel like I'm going to develop an ulcer.

"Jospeh?! Oh my god!" She bursts out laughing, unable to contain her mad glee any longer. The dominoes are all toppled now. Her mask falls off completely. Just like the dozen or so clerks before her, she laughs at my horrible name. Hopefully she won't have to go to the hospital, like Dolores had to six months ago. With every howl or chuckle, my stomach tightens until it feels like it's going to burst. It always happens like this. I'll never be free of this curse. Why even try?

I don't even bother to try coaxing her out of her laughing fit. There would be no success here today. Or ever, it seems. I snatch the papers from out of her trembling hands and hobble out the way I came, clutching my stomach all the way. The security guard lounging by the door shoots me a sympathetic look.

"Sorry, Mr. Nilson," he says. "Maybe next time."