Okieinexile's Blog

By Bobby Neal Winters

Let it be clear that I was the first in line.  It is not an ambiguous thing.  The reason I know that I was the first in line is because, when I got there, there was no one else there.  I was alone. The cash register was the only thing in front of me.

It was at the Cafe Juan Valdez.  For those of you who’ve not visited Latin America, I am not making this up.  It’s a chain down here.  I prefer it to Starbucks

I’d looked up at the board to see my order and formulate my Spanish when the barista started taking the order of someone who’d stepped in beside me.  A man in a uniform.  A shiny clean uniform with red stripes on it.  My ignorance of the local uniforms is such that I cannot say whether this man was in the military, a policeman, an airline pilot, or an ice cream vendor.

What I can say with some sort of certainty is that he was in his twenties. I teach at a university; I know what a twentysomething looks like.  I will also say that I have never–never–seen such a look of arrogance on another human being. 

I’ve known military officers; I’ve known policemen; I’ve met the odd airline pilot here and there.  None of them–none of them–would ever cut in line.

This was quite a shock to me because every barista, everyone working in the shops, every grocery checkout has treated me like their beloved–but somewhat half-witted–abuelo. Everyone is so young here that the reverence for those of us with snow-white hair is palpable.  It’s amazing how quickly you can get over being annoyed at it.  I guess I’d gotten used to the deference before this personification of arrogance crossed my path.  

He ordered his coffee and moved on.

Then I ordered mine.  At the Cafe Juan Valdez, they take your name so they can call you with your order.  My name has been problematic because, although they can spell it phonetically, Bobby does not exist as a Spanish name.  They write it down either as Babie or Baby.

Because of this, the idea occurred to me that I should choose a name that exists in Spanish.  Those of you who know me, know my name is really and truly Bobby.  It is on my birth certificate.  I’ve been Roberted all my life by those who don’t know me.  I let them in the context where it doesn’t make a difference, but I am Bobby. It is my name.  Because of this prejudice of mine, I wouldn’t give the name Roberto which does exist in Spanish.  Instead, I chose the nickname for Roberto: Beto.

Those of you who are thinking ahead know the problem with this.  We are trained to hear our own names.  We can pick out our own names through a room full of voices.  Would I hear Beto?  Well, I was aware of this issue myself.  The way I chose to deal with it was to watch the place they put out the orders like a Hawk.

As I did this, I saw Field Marshall Arrogance up there awaiting his coffee, his demeanor magnified by his impatience.  It was a busy place. There were other orders to be filled.  Then, with him and his arrogant face still waiting, one of the baristas came to the counter and called out, “Beto?”

I was confused because his majesty was still waiting.  I picked my coffee with thanks, sat down, and a few minutes later the royal coffee was delivered.

A small thing.  

Just call me Beto.