A name seems to be a random thing. I can’t remember even a fraction of the names of people I meet. What was his name again? Dick? Bart? I forget. But there are a couple of names which I have learned to be wary of.
Andrew isn’t a good one; it reminds me of of a few bug-eyed goofs and my boarding school days at St. Andrew’s College, where I learned the misery of life.
But the worst name, by far, would have to be Tony. I’ve had the misfortune of knowing a litany of Tonys, none of them decent.I knew Tony when he was a student teacher, never doing what he said, sneaking out to smoke in his car at recess. I remember Tony the teacher, smiling thinly, never saying what he believed, acquiescing to further his career. I remember Tony the foreman, acting crazy, never listening, yelling and spreading vitriol to suit his ends. And I remember Tony just before he retired, never reflecting on anything, lashing out, as he went alone to nowhere: “Stop trying to walk me around the pond!” I still don’t know what that means.