John (II)

In a pub, I am served by a girl with dark hair, a severe fringe and pale skin.  Her English is functional until I ask her the question.  She doesn't understand.  I repeat myself.  The two people next to me at the bar listen in, as does the man loading bottles into the fridge.  She thinks I want to know about the company.  The man next to me, in a padded jacket with unkempt facial hair, tries to clarify, 'He wants to know your middle name'.  The woman next to him, whose face looks lived-in, repeats, 'Your middle name'.  The girl is none the wiser.

Her colleague, still loading bottles, takes charge of the situation.  'What's your first name?' he asks.  She tells him.  'And your last name?'  She understands and answers.  'And the one in the middle?'  It clicks.  'Oh.  I don't have one.'  The four of them look at me.  I turn to the man in the padded jacket.  He shakes his head.  'Don't have one, mate', he says.  I move to the woman.  She looks down to the bar, 'Don't have one'.  I feel as though the fates are stacked against me.  I look to the man loading bottles.  His brown shirt has floral cuffs and he has product in his hair.  He looks efficient and proves to be so with a clear, one-syllable answer.  Relief.

As I pay for my drinks, I ask the man in the padded jacket why he doesn't have a middle name.  'Never had one since I was born', he tells me.  I ask him why he thinks that is.  'I'm from Luton', he replies.