$10 Dollar Names and a 30-second Friendship

A girl leaned down toward me while I was sitting next to Douglas and asked very politely if she could get a light. She almost seemed apologetic, offering to give me a cigarette if I let her borrow my lighter for a second. I declined her generous bargain and handed it to her for free, philanthrope that I am.

I could tell she thought I was homeless, because she asked me what my name was. She wouldn’t have done that unless she considered us to be two completely different animals. No harm in making small talk with a long-haired fella dressed in brown sitting with an old hobo.

If I’d been dressed in black and white, or standing in line to get into the club (or maybe even just standing up at all) she wouldn’t have thought to talk to me. That would have made us too similar, and she would’ve kept her quiet if she noticed me at all. Which she wouldn’t have.

But there I was, poor homeless dude, just trying to get by as best I can while all the actually happy people line up to get into nightclubs—which, as we all know, are the very idyllic definition of a return to Eden.

She asked my name and I answered. “My name’s Abraham. What’s yours?”

She stuttered when she responded: “I’m To— T— Antoinette.” Then she laughed in mild embarrassment and explained that, when she heard my name—A-bruh-ham—she wanted to make sure I knew that she had a big, old, awesome name, too.

“Usually people call me Tony, though,” she said to close out the explanation of her stammer.

We spent a very slight moment sharing in the joy of having 10-dollar names. Then she said, “Abraham, huh? That’s like a Jesus name.”

“I suppose so,” I replied. (It was easier than saying, “How’s that?”)

“I mean, I’m not saying your name is Jesus. It’s just, like, Jesusy. Also, you gave me a light, so you must be a good guy.”

I try.

Then the line for the club moved forward. We said “Have a good night” to each other and she went inside. I imagine, she found a bit of satisfaction in the benevolence of the residual pity she felt for me while she danced under frenetic, flashing lights to that mm-chicka-mm-chick-mm-chicka bass.

And I felt the same thing for her as I stayed outside, sitting with hobo Douglas beneath First Avenue’s streetlights, listening to his buzzing guitar.