What's In a Name?

I once ran a company library that gave the impression of having been founded sometime in the Middle Ages. I was the first professional that had ever been employed there, and it showed. Nothing seemed to make sense in terms of how it operated, how the stock was arranged, how it was processed, or anything else. Needless to say, I soon got to work on improving matters, and I like to think that I made a huge difference in terms of turning the place into an asset that was of real benefit to the company’s employees.

The original appalling state of affairs applied to the archaic system used for issuing books to the very few customers that came through the door in the early days. Everything was written down in a huge loose-leaf ledger that sat on the library counter, with pages labelled according to the borrower’s name with the titles of the items they had borrowed written down when they went out and crossed through on return. To call it a system was an insult to the word “system”.

Eventually I was able to install a much more efficient way of working, but in the meantime I had no choice but to carry on with what was there. 

Margaret, my assistant, had been working in the library for years, was not far short of retiring, and naturally knew everyone who came through the door, having no trouble in turning to the right place in the ledger. As a newbie, I did not have that advantage and had no choice but to ask everyone who came to the desk what their surname was.

One morning, when Margaret was out of the room, a customer came to the counter who wanted to borrow something. I therefore needed to turn to the massive ledger, which was always referred to by the library staff as “The Bible”.

“And your name is?”

“Mudd”.

I couldn’t believe it. The poor guy had clearly spent much of his life bemoaning the fact that his name was always going to be Mudd whatever he might or might not have done, and here I was reminding him of the fact. I did, however, manage to keep a straight face until after he had left the library.

However, that did not stop me from wanting to tell Margaret the good news when she came back, which she did at the same time as another customer walked in, going straight to the shelves to find the one item he needed.

“Would you believe it?” I said. “I ask him his name and he says ‘My name is Mudd’. I know we shouldn’t laugh at people because of something they can’t help, like their name, but there are occasions when it becomes very difficult not to”.

As I was talking to Margaret I had my back to the counter so I couldn’t see what Margaret could see, which was the customer who had found what he wanted and was now standing there waiting to be served. There was no doubt that he had heard every word I had said.

The expression on Margaret’s face was an odd combination of horror and delight. I realized afterwards that the horror was due to what she knew was about to happen. The delight had more to do with the opportunity she now saw to put this new whippersnapper, with all his crazy idea for change, firmly in his place.

She could, of course, have leapt to my rescue by reaching for the Bible and turning immediately to the right page for the man at the counter. She much preferred, however, to let events take their course.

Which they did.

I therefore asked the usual question. “Your name is?”

“Strange”.

© John Welford