"I'm lookin' for a Gary?"

I've been called by many names in my life. When I was younger, my family affectionately called me "Ben buddy." I can even recall a couple of stern "Benjamin Paul's" from my father during those fun years of adolescence. My high school basketball coach used to refer to me as "Kramer," noting my overgrown, wavy hair that would have made Michael Richards proud. Beginning with my junior season of basketball, some games both the opposing and home crowds would chant "Stormin' Mormon!" I could never figure out why both crowds were chanting this nickname, but I figured that 1) yes I am Mormon, and 2) who wouldn't want to be stormin'? (I'm sorry I couldn't resist.) Since entering college, in an effort to differentiate between my two roommates named Ben and me, my freshman year roommate gave me the nickname "Big Ben," because I am the tallest out of the Bens. I am fine with nicknames. I even like nicknames. They are fun. They are fresh. Plus, nicknames give us an excuse to use an abnormally low voice and to talk like the professional athletes you hear "mic'ed up" on Monday Night Football.

During this last year, rather than receiving a new nickname, my name has been frequently mistaken. I first discovered this phenomen while frequenting the Taco Bell in the Wilk for lunch.

"Hi, I would like a number nine with an extra order of nachos."
"Ok, will that be for here or to go?"
"For here, please."
"Ok, your order comes to $4.76."

(I give the cashier my card. The cashier asks me how my day is going while my receipt is printing. I automatically smile and respond that my day is going fine. The cashier smiles. There is silence. I feel awkward. Is the machine out of ink?! I am handed the receipt.)

"Alright, and what name would you like us to call for your order?"
"Ben."
"MATT?"
"No, no. BEN."
"Ben?"
"Ben."
"Alright, Ben, your order will be out in just a moment. Have a great day!"
"Thanks. You too."

This exact same exchange happened no less than five times last fall and winter semester at Taco Bell. The name was always Matt. Every time! These past two semesters, when I have moved into a new ward and introduced myself to people, I am often greeted with a confused look on their face.

"Hi, my name is Ben."
(slowly) "Matt?"
"No, no. Ben."
"Oh, Beeeennnn."
"Yeah, Ben."
"It's nice to meet you."
"It's nice to meet you too."

Just a couple of weeks ago, on a flight to California, the woman sitting next to me and I started chatting. She asked me what my name was?

"Ben."
(the noise of the airpline imparing our hearing) "What?"
"BEN."
"Matt?"
"No, no. BEN."
"Ben. It's nice to meet you.
"It's nice to meet you."

Every time it's MATT! Every time! Now, am I offended? Certainly not. Heavens, Matthew is biblical. Matt is the name of Jason Bourne. Matt is the name of the little boy in "You've Got Mail" who can't spell his first name, but with confidence can look Meg Ryan in the face and spell his last name F-O-X. I don't have a problem with the name Matt. A good, strong name indeed. It's just that...I'm not a Matt. I'm a Ben, and I kind of like being a Ben. There is King Benjamin, Ben Roethlisberger, and even Benjamin Barry (name that movie). I thought my parents made a good choice. However, in this last year it seems as though others disagree and would have me to be someone I'm not. An experience I had at an MLS soccer game two weeks ago only strengthens my point.

Last summer, I worked for a consulting company based in Indiana named Marathon Development. My official title was a "business analyst." I had a great experience working for that company. On July 24, Marathon Development had a company "Appreciation Night" for the company's employees in Utah to celebrate a successful year. The evening began with dinner at Tecanos.

You know the drill. You arrive. The waiter greets you and invites you to start with the salad bar. Don't fall for it. A stomach is only so big and you can't afford to lose precious space on lettuce and carrots. The primary objective for the evening is, of course, the meat. No sodas. They will fill you up too much. Just water and meat until you start to have trouble breathing. Unloosen the belt buckle. Continue to eat. Meat, and then water. Water, and then meat. You begin to lose color in your face. Loosen the button on your pants. Continue. More meat, less water. The food doesn't taste good anymore. Stop eating. Order the "Death by Chocolate" to go. Pay the bill. Leave.

To illustrate the experience that is eating at Tecanos, we took both a "before" and "after" shot.

BEFORE

AFTER

I love it! :)

After a filling dinner ("Can we stop for Skittles?"), we drove up to Sandy for the game. Our seats were great. We were sitting in the 8th row right on the centerfield line. We were 30 minutes into the first half when a man wearing company apparel came to our row looking for the person sitting in seat H-12. Wouldn't you know it? :) That was my seat. It was destiny. H is the 8th letter of the alphabet. 8 is the number signifying prosperity in Chinese culture, and more importantly, I seem to be attracted to those whose favorite number is lucky number 8 :) My favorite number is 12. H-12. A winner. Amidst cheers of "employee of the month," I got up and went to meet the man at the end of the row. He asked to see my ticket. H-12. He smiled. I smiled. We were smiling. And then the question. I should've seen it coming.

"Is your name Gary?"

Gary?! Not Ben? Not Matt?! Who is Gary?! Gary, Indiana? The home of the Jackson family and the number one murder capital in the United States? No. Gary is more Chicago than Indiana anyways. Gary Freeze? After changing the boundaries, is he even in our home ward anymore?! Gary Sheffield? Who does he play for again? The Mets?! This was a new one for me. I responded that my name was not Gary. He asked to look at my ticket again. Still H-12. He asked for clarification, "Your name isn't Gary?" "No. My name is Ben." "Matt?!" I'm joking. If he would have said that I might have thrown something!

After explaining that my name wasn't Gary but that I was the lucky holder of seat H-12, he told me that he didn't know why my name wasn't Gary (ask my parents), but that I had won two tickets to the MLS All-Star game held the next week in Sandy. The two tickets both had a face-value of $200. Craigslist here I come! He told me to go to the bottom of row 33 just before halftime. We would go down on the field and be presented with our tickets on the jumbotron. He asked one final question. "And your name is not Gary?"

A couple of minutes before halftime, I went to row 33 and told the ticket person that I was told I had won two tickets and that I was supposed to meet someone here. She smiled and asked, "Are you Gary?" No, no. Still Ben. I explained that I was born in Grand Rapids, MI to two loving parents, Randy and Sandra Myers, and that I was given the name Ben at birth. "So you're not Gary." Correct. As she was trying to figure out why I wasn't Gary (once again, ask my parents), someone came by and told us to hurry up and go down on the field. She looked at me and frantically told me just to go down on the field and we would figure it out later. Gladly :)

I had a great time down on the field! When it came time to be on the jumbotron, they told us to smile and act happy. I was happy! I was smiling! After a couple of well-orchestrated high-fives, cheers with both arms extended in the air, and consistent clapping, our moment on the jumbotron was over, and we walked back up the stairs. The question came again. "So you're not Gary?" I tried to explain. She told me the winning ticket had nothing to do with seat numbers but rather cell phone numbers. She was getting frustrated. She asked for my cell phone number. "Kind of blunt isn't it?" I'm joking. After realizing that the guy had gotten the wrong seat number and that I really wasn't the winner, the lady took the tickets away from me and gave them to the real winners innocently standing by.

Alright, alright, I realize I didn't win. My name is not Gary, and my cell phone number was not the winning number. Someone made a mistake. Mistakes happen. What? "Matt?"