An aquaintance of mine recently sired a child.
“What did you name it?” I inquired when he told me the news.
“August,” said he.
“Is it a boy or a girl?” I asked.
There was a pause. “A boy,” he said. “August is a boy’s name.”
I shrugged. “I’ve never heard of anyone being named August, so how would I know?” I said. “Besides, almost all calendar names belong to girls. April. June. Summer. Arbor Day.”
“August is a boy’s name,” he reiterated.
A few days later I was at my gym, walking down the hallway to the locker room. The walls of the hall are covered with pictures of the staff, and you have no choice but to ogle them because everyone is attractive and fit. Each photo has the name of the employee at the bottom; one, of a lovely young lady, said “AUGUST.”
I’ve noticed that picture on every visit to the gym since, and each time I resolve to write my buddy and taunt him about his son’s androgynous name. But as my attention span is three minutes and the drive back my office is five, it always slipped my mind before I again had access to Gmail .
Oh, well … it’s probably best that I never did. Today, glancing at the photo, I noticed for the first time that there were tiny words both above and below “AUGUST,” reading, respectively, “Employee Of The Month For” and “Nicole.”