What's Your Name?

One of the national fast food pizza store chains recently moved into my area. I'm not sure who did the demographics on this one, but no doubt it was done without the benefit of consultation. For reasons that can only be described as bizarre, the chain moved in directly across the street from an old-fashioned neighborhood pizza shop that has been in the area for something like forty-seven years. The last time I was over there the owner, a short, wiry guy called The Torch was talking about busting up the fellow who printed his take-out menus because they didn't fold properly. My guess is that if the national chain were any real threat, or competition, the fire department would have been involved by now. Apparently, the chain guys do most of their business on delivery orders by car, and their pies, while tasty, are hardly what comes to mind when the folks in this community think of the word pizza.

On the way home from the city, after a somewhat disappointing day of picture-taking, I decided to stop at the new place for a small pie with extra artery clogging calories on top. The temperature here in New York has been in the upper eighties for the past few days, so any opportunity to stay out of the kitchen is a welcome one.

I walked up to the counter and gave the chap at the register my order. He hit a few keys, told me the price, and then asked for my name.

"My name?" I think I actually laughed at him.

"Yes," he said. "It's just for the computer."

Just for the computer? Right. And where does my name go once it's "just" in your computer? The intrusive computerization of society has now made something as simple as buying a pizza a matter for concern.

I didn't say anything, although I was tempted to give him an earful on the topic of personal privacy, or perhaps the illusion of it. Instead, I just stood there looking at him for a while before finally blurting out, "Man, you're telling me that I need to tell you my name before you'll give me a got'damn pizza?"

"Oh, no," he said, backing off slightly. "They tell us to ask, but it's not required. You don't want to give a name?"

I thought about it. Then thought about it some more. I began to smile.

"Sure," I said. "Why not. Jed Clampett."

Without so much as a blink, the guy began hitting the keys again.

"How do you spell that, sir?"

"Jed? J-E-D. Clampett. C-L-A-M-P-E-T-T."

"And what's your zip code?"

"Oh, I don't know, dude. I'm not from around here, I'm just visiting."

"Thank you, sir. Your pizza will be ready in about ten minutes."

"No problem."

I pulled up a seat and began humming, "...so they loaded up the truck and they moved to Beverly. Hills that is...."

It occurred to me that this could be fun in the long run. And since this kid is probably too young to know the names I'm giving him, maybe next time I stop by this place I'll be Shaft, or Puglsey Addams, or Foghorn Leghorn....