Names

The room is bright, clean, stuffy. I'm tired. It's all I can do to stay awake. A thin woman with brown, grey streaked hair is talking to us.

"The first thing I want you to do for this seminar is exchange names with the people at your tables, and give a little history about your names. For example, my name is..."

The woman explains her name. She smiles as she speaks.

"Remember, this is not a competition," she says, "no one is judging us for our level of candour. What's most important is that you have fun."

I'm sitting at a table with a plant supervisor, and two ladies from the production lines. We turn toward each other.

"Okay," says the supervisor, "who wants to go first? How about you Nelson?"

"Nelson Lonigan: It's an Irish name," I tell the table.

The supervisor leans upon her fist, and nods with an air of interest.

"You're Irish?" asks one of the production ladies at the table.

"Irish background," I reply.

"Oh."

The table continues looking at me expectantly.

"That's it," I conclude.

"Well that's good," says the supervisor, "now with me, my name is from my maternal grandparents. My first name was my grandmother's and my middle was my grandfather's. It's a tradition in my family to pass on names. How about you ladies? How did you get your names?"

Both production ladies look at each other as if to decide who goes first.

"Umm," says one of them, "my name was chosen by my husband. It's the closest sounding English name to my Chinese one."

"Oh wow! That's so interesting!" says the supervisor, "I've always wondered how you chose your names. That's so neat. So what's your original name?"

The lady tells us her name.

"Oh your right, that is quite similar to your chosen name," says the supervisor.

"That's just a part of it," continues the production worker, "it's much longer and more difficult to pronounce if you're not Chinese."

The supervisor smiles and nods.

"Well I think that's just neat," she says.

The ladies chatter a bit more about their names. I lean down upon my palms, rub my eyes. The supervisor continues talking about the ladies' names. The woman running the seminar walks to the front of the room.

"So how was that?" she asks, "did anyone learn anything new about some one they didn't know before?"

All the employees seated at the tables turn toward the front of the room.

"Raise your hand if you learned something new?"

Several people raise their hands. The supervisor raises her hand.

"It's amazing what you can learn about some one by just getting to know their name."

The room mumbles in agreement.

"Okay, so for our next topic I'm going to discuss 'bad moods'..."

I lean down into my hands, and start to nod off. It's going to be a long two hours.

Secretary Day

"Oh that looks delicious!" declares Thelma looking into a large metal salad bowl, "what's in it?"

"I don't know," replies the woman mixing the salad, "my butler made it."

"It looks great!"

Thelma steps out of the lunch room. The woman with the salad continues mixing. She steps to the counter, tears open a package of croutons, and pours them into the salad. She mixes a bit more, and then carries the salad out of the room.

"Ever find yourself needing a butler?" I ask Rupinder.

He laughs, and takes a bite of curried chicken.

"Neither have I."

The salad woman comes back into the lunch room. She scrambles about with a fussy matronly air, gathering plates, plastic forks and knives, and napkins. The heels of her shoes clack against the floor. Her tight, blue, dress slacks ride up the crack of her buttocks.

"Do you need help love?" asks Thelma stepping back into the lunch room.

"Oh shit!" the woman exclaims.

She pulls the sleeve of her dress jacket, inspects it.

"I spilled some dressing on myself," she says taking a napkin.

"Let's see," says Thelma looking at the woman's arm, "oh, it's nothing love. Just a drip. It won't show."

The woman shakes her head, and wipes off the dressing.

"Could you take the plates and silverware into the meeting?" the woman asks.

"Sure thing love," Thelma replies.

Thelma props open the door, takes the supplies and walks into an adjacent room. The woman follows behind with a stack of napkins. Voices echo through the hall. Some one is giving a speech somewhere. Administration employees walk past the open door of the the lunchroom. They look in at Rupinder and I, but say nothing. The faces are blank, some smiling, some not; some laughing, some not.

"What's going on?" asks Rupinder.

"I don't know," I reply, "something for administration employees I suppose."

I pack up the refuse of my lunch and stand up.

"Your break over?" Rupinder inquires.

"Yeah," I answer, "I started it late."

Rupinder nods. I throw away the remains of my lunch, and walk toward the open lunch room door. A couple administration employees walk past me. They look at me and smile and say nothing. I watch them as they step into the board room next door to the lunch room. I try to look inside, but see nothing. I walk down the hallway toward the plant. I reach the factory doors, and step through. The noise of production fills the air. Women work the lines in white coats, hairnets and aprons. To a stranger it would be hard to tell them apart, but I work with them every day, and I recognize all their faces. A lady pushing a small cart full of product walks past.

"Hi Nelson," she says with a smile.

"Hi," I reply.

I walk toward the warehouse doors, kick them open, and step on through.