B. Ryan Green, Esq.
This is a typical dialog when I order coffee:
Howdy.
Good morning! Can I get a drink started for you?
Venti Americano.
Name?
Bryan.
Ryan. Venti Americano. Got it.
And thus, the problem. It seems that when I am asked my name, what people hear me say is “Ryan” instead of “Bryan.”
Is this a big deal? No. Does it bother me? A little. It’s the must-be-accurate geek in me, I suppose.
To remedy this, I have tried several experiments:
Name?
Brrryan.
I felt like an odd Scotsman saying it that way.
Name?
Ryan-with-a-B.
When I tried that one I got a weird look and the “whatever” head-shake.
Name?
Buh-ryan.
That one confused the barrista-person and made me feel like an idiot.
What was that?
Buh-ryan.
How do you spell that?
B-r-y-a-n.
Oh. Bryan. I thought you said something in Arabic.
Some people have a hard time with my name. I don’t know what the deal is.
Weird. I thought you were from some foreign country or something.
The next one was not bad:
Name?
B. Ryan Green.
B. Ryan… Oh, I get it. Bryan.
That relatively successful attempt to get my name right on my cup of coffee started me on an odd thought, a fantasy like Snoopy when he’s pretending to be a Flying Ace in World War I. Suppose I was a famous attorney: B. Ryan Green. Esq., asking for a Venti Americano on my way to court. The initial, uh, initial would really set things off. It would say that I’m significant, like F. Scott Fitzgerald, C. Everett Koop, J. Edgar Hoover, or M. Night Shyamalan. The question of what the initial might represent carries with it a mystery that only adds value to the rest of the name. What would it be like if I always ordered my coffee this way? Would my name be more recognized, perhaps regarded as mysteriously famous — a name vaguely recalled as important, and thus worthy of proper capitalization and correct spelling?
As Karen might say, “So much for that nonsense.”
Howdy.
Good morning! Can I get a drink started for you?
Venti Americano.
Name?
Bryan.
Ryan. Venti Americano. Got it.