“Shirley O’Shea, everybody!” Herb announced as he pushed through The Lazy Susan’s door, catching sight of me at the bar.
That’s my name, by the way, Shirley O’Shea. I know, you laugh. My dad told me there was some great warrior in my family back in the Middle Ages named Shirley. He freed his people from a tyrant, wrote some kick-ass poetry, and then was stoned to death by the same people he saved — probably because he was named Shirley, poor bastard.
That curse has followed me all of my life. Roll call on the first day of school was the worst. I never even had a chance. I’d spend three minutes trying to talk to the pretty girl sitting in front of me. “Hi, my name is Lee. Do you like Transformers?” Then, the teacher would call out, “Shirley O’Shea?” and it was all over. It didn’t help that I was a scrawny kid with freckles and reddish-blonde hair. “Girlie Shirley”, “Shirley Shortcakes”, “Little Shirley Temple”, the names went on and on.
I stopped trying to win people over at around the fifth grade. I turned my attention to fighting. If you’ve got a name like mine, you better learn to talk with your fists. I bulked up and grew out of the freckles, which helped with the teasing. I bloodied a few noses, got my parents called into the principal’s office, which also helped. I learned to accept the name. If anyone gave me shit, I gave them a black eye. They…
