Nebraska Named Me
Small airports always seem eerie, missing the bustle that is supposed to exist in all airports everyplace. Anytime I go through Palm Springs, I am delayed. The heat likes to suck all the moisture from my body and the airline usurps just a bit more of my time. Bereft of bodily liquid and trapped in a waiting game, I’m always in a fossette of depression when I leave there, not because I don’t want to go, but because of something that happened during the trip. I keep dropping these little pits in her depths but the dry Palm Springs air keeps them from growing.
My flight was delayed this time because the maps were corrupted and had reverted to the maps from four days ago. The pilot came out to excitedly announce that this was the problem with the plane and that “This is crazy everyone, I have never had this happen before. And it’s Sunday so the one guy who fixes these things is on a day off but he will come in and once he does, we will get you back on your way.”
The diner in the terminal wafted a promising smell of pancakes, a cure for many things. I wandered inside. No one paid any attention to me, and after a time of waiting by the Wait to be Seated sign, I seated myself. Eventually, an unbothered effortlessly cool girl with an order pad and a wrinkled menu ambled over. She handed me the menu, waited for my thanks and coolly said “No problem, figure out what you want. I’ll come back in a bit.” Of course I had made absolutely no impression on her whatsoever; her insouciance was almost impermeable.
She had a large nametag swinging from a beaded lanyard around her neck that said NEBRASKA. Hm, perhaps they are doing that whole where-people-are-from thing instead of having their servers use their names. I glanced at the other sections of the small diner, being served by motherly SHANNON, and weepy bedazzled jeans MARIA, doing her best not to cry directly onto customers’ plates while SHANNON mopped up behind her and murmured small comforting things to keep her going.
NEBRASKA ambled back over and arched an eyebrow by way of asking the only question that existed between us. It turns out the pancake smell was emanating from an imposter offering of french toast, which I ordered, then put another question into our shared space.
“Is your name actually NEBRASKA?”
“Yep,” she replied already bored.
“Are you from there?”
“Nope,” she replied, her lackadaisy reaching peak amplitude.
I was anxious not to let her go just yet. “It’s just… well, I’m curious about names right now. I’m a… writer… and I’ve got to choose a pen name for myself.”
Ah now I had her. “Why?” she asked, her eyes clicking like a lighter trying to make a spark.
“My actual name is the same as another writer,” I explained. “She writes romance novels. I don’t want to be mistaken for her and I’m sure vice versa.”
“What kind of things do you write?” she asked.
“Magical realism… uh disguised memoir, poetry type stuff…” I trailed off, feeling I had lost her with this description. She wrinkled her nose and walked away.
A few minutes later, she returned with a cup containing my receipt. I dropped my credit card into it. She gazed at it reading my name. “I’ll think about it and come back to you,” she said in a determined way, taking on naming me as a mission I hadn’t meant to charge her with.
She went to the register and charged my card, laconically serving a few other customers before she came back over and dropped the cup with my signature receipt and card back on the table. “Okay,” NEBRASKA said warming up her barely used vocal cords. “So your actual name is pretty good. I think it's actually bullshit you have to give it up for this other Kathleen Long.” She actually made air quotes with her fingers to emphasize this point. “Like, my advice is, just forget about her. You could do… like maybe your first and middle name together? Kathleen Elizabeth? You know, like Madonna.” She nodded sagely. I have no idea what using my first and middle name has to do with Madonna but I nodded. I was following along. “But also,” she continued. “Do you like lions? I noticed there is a lion on your credit card,” she said.
“I do like lions,” I replied. “I am a Leo, so…”
“Ooh big cat energy, okay…” she said smiling. “So you could either just change your last name to Lion, like there is a certain ring to that. But your last name is also something pretty good so you could also just add your initials to lion and use your actual last name? Like yeah, one of these things is the answer,” she concluded. She stopped abruptly. Likely, this was the longest speech she has ever made while working at the diner in the airport, where everyone is in a hurry.
“Thank you NEBRASKA,” I trilled. “I think you have solved it!” She waved her hand foppishly, pulling the window shades over the interest in her eyes. She had finished my order, solved my problem and had probably immediately forgotten about the whole thing.
kellion (def)
1 A little cell (late Greek/ Latin origin)
2 A small religious house of monastic cell containing no more than 3 monks
long (name)
HISTORY: The Longs lost all their lands and possessions in the upheaval of the 17th century and many have been on the move ever since.
ARMS: Sable, a lion rampant armed and langued argent, surrounded by a sense of crosses crosslet
MOTTO: vitute et probitate - by virtue and honesty
NAME MEANING: Seafarer