An Alias is Born

Sometimes people struggle with my name. In sixth grade my art teacher mistakenly put me down as a Michael and I had a wonderful year sitting with the boys on the wrong side of the room. Had I been just a few years older, this could potentially have changed my dating experience. But alas, 12 was too young to understand the boon I’d been given. My uncle called me Mike forever after that.

In high school, at 5’ in bare feet, I was a Russell Sprout.

As an adult, I often sign my email with a simple MC which earned me the nickname Hammer. That one I like.

I’ve been called other names also but my mom reads this blog sometimes so we’ll leave those alone.

This weekend I went to see a friend out of town and booked a room at a mid-priced hotel. When I arrived they could not find my name: reservation lost, hotel fully booked. I was distraught. Where would I stay? Another hotel close by? But I KNEW I had made this reservation. So I made them look again. Finally using my zip code they found my reservation under the name Michael Cotton. Really?

As long as I had a room, I guess it didn’t matter.

But then I started thinking about this high-rolling Mr. Cotton. What was he like? Creative writing brain clicks in gear.

He likes the close cut to his suit; his shoes will be Italian, polished and expensive. Sharp

haircut, no facial hair, always smells good. A penchant for scotch, but when alone will drink a PBR. He loves the ladies and when he talks about himself on dates, he sometimes slips into third person dialogue. They don’t know why, he doesn’t try to explain. Cotton to his friends, Mikey to his momma, Mr. Cotton in the bedroom.

And when he leaves in the middle of the night, they always knew that “Mike Cotton was here.”

(P.S. Not a picture of Mr. Cotton. He does not have boobs.)