Possibly Strongly Opposed
Three J’s. What had his parents been thinking? Three J’s and not an original name to boot. At least no one would screw up the monogrammed towels of Joseph Johnathon Jones. Not that Joseph Johnathon Jones would ever have monogrammed towels.
Identity was a problem from the get-go.
He went through:
Joseph Jones- too formal
Joe Jones- too much like Blow Jones
Johnathon Jones- uh, see too formal
John Jones- like a common toilet
Jon Jones- What was he a prissy outhouse?
J.J.- the monkey?
Jonesy- too college chummy.
Just Jones- As if their weren’t enough j’s floating around?
Until finally in a fit of inspiration and desperation somewhere about the eighth grade, he settled on J. He could be J. Jones. Even at that age he knew he could be a J. Teachers always took to J after the initial roll call. His friends ate it up. People love a good nickname, especially the one syllable variety. Years later at 27, J was the name, the man and the letter. His bank tellers, his employers when he had them, his girlfriends all called him J. His parents though, they still called him Joseph, if they called at all.
There was a time when his parents would’ve called. They did call even. When J was 22 and fresh out of college, they called every Sunday at 4 pm. J would answer the phone and his dad would stutter, ‘Um. Hello Joseph. Did you go to church today?” For a while J answered with a variety of excuses.
“I overslept”
“I had to have my oil changed in the Nissan.”
“Georgia doesn’t feel well.” (Georgia was his cat at that time. Not his cat so much, more of a neighborhood cat, but his parents didn’t need to know that.)
“I see,” his father would say. “I’m sure God will understand. How about this weather?”
This conversation went on every week for a whole year. J nearly bought a tape recorder to stand in for him. “It’s lovely, Dad” it could’ve said, or better yet, “I know. I can’t believe it.” That would’ve covered it. Every week.
“Well, let me get your mother, Joseph.”
“Bye Dad. Thanks for calling,” he’d say without emotion.
“EDNA! It’s Joseph.”
J often wondered what his mother could be doing that this 4 pm phone call always seemed to catch her off guard. Maybe she’d lost her clock and her calendar since he’d last been home. Maybe she had a new hobby, sniffing glue might explain it, he thought.
After several minutes, during which J managed to fold some of his laundry or put a can of soup on the stove, all with the phone tucked between shoulder and ear he’d hear,
“JOSEPH! So nice to hear from you.”
“What’re you doing, Ma?”
“I’m just puttering around.”
“You sure do putter a lot Ma.”
“Oh, Joseph,”
It was amazing to J, the conversation never changed unless there was a birth, a death, or a guest minister at the quaint Presbyterian church in Independence, Missouri. Births were few and far between since J was an only child and used contraception religiously. (He was aware of the irony, though knew it was stronger for his sometimes Catholic girlfriend Matty. Whether she was sometimes Catholic or sometimes his girlfriend seemed to be a subject of more debate than J preferred of late.)
On to 2
Identity was a problem from the get-go.
He went through:
Joseph Jones- too formal
Joe Jones- too much like Blow Jones
Johnathon Jones- uh, see too formal
John Jones- like a common toilet
Jon Jones- What was he a prissy outhouse?
J.J.- the monkey?
Jonesy- too college chummy.
Just Jones- As if their weren’t enough j’s floating around?
Until finally in a fit of inspiration and desperation somewhere about the eighth grade, he settled on J. He could be J. Jones. Even at that age he knew he could be a J. Teachers always took to J after the initial roll call. His friends ate it up. People love a good nickname, especially the one syllable variety. Years later at 27, J was the name, the man and the letter. His bank tellers, his employers when he had them, his girlfriends all called him J. His parents though, they still called him Joseph, if they called at all.
There was a time when his parents would’ve called. They did call even. When J was 22 and fresh out of college, they called every Sunday at 4 pm. J would answer the phone and his dad would stutter, ‘Um. Hello Joseph. Did you go to church today?” For a while J answered with a variety of excuses.
“I overslept”
“I had to have my oil changed in the Nissan.”
“Georgia doesn’t feel well.” (Georgia was his cat at that time. Not his cat so much, more of a neighborhood cat, but his parents didn’t need to know that.)
“I see,” his father would say. “I’m sure God will understand. How about this weather?”
This conversation went on every week for a whole year. J nearly bought a tape recorder to stand in for him. “It’s lovely, Dad” it could’ve said, or better yet, “I know. I can’t believe it.” That would’ve covered it. Every week.
“Well, let me get your mother, Joseph.”
“Bye Dad. Thanks for calling,” he’d say without emotion.
“EDNA! It’s Joseph.”
J often wondered what his mother could be doing that this 4 pm phone call always seemed to catch her off guard. Maybe she’d lost her clock and her calendar since he’d last been home. Maybe she had a new hobby, sniffing glue might explain it, he thought.
After several minutes, during which J managed to fold some of his laundry or put a can of soup on the stove, all with the phone tucked between shoulder and ear he’d hear,
“JOSEPH! So nice to hear from you.”
“What’re you doing, Ma?”
“I’m just puttering around.”
“You sure do putter a lot Ma.”
“Oh, Joseph,”
It was amazing to J, the conversation never changed unless there was a birth, a death, or a guest minister at the quaint Presbyterian church in Independence, Missouri. Births were few and far between since J was an only child and used contraception religiously. (He was aware of the irony, though knew it was stronger for his sometimes Catholic girlfriend Matty. Whether she was sometimes Catholic or sometimes his girlfriend seemed to be a subject of more debate than J preferred of late.)
On to 2
posted by David at 8:24 PM
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