That Which We Call a Rose

Should I continue to wait for my blind date? Should I bolt out of Garibaldi’s? It was eight thirty. It didn't seem that my date, Atticus, would be joining me. I quickly decided to stay and enjoy dinner along. I'd already ordered the bottle of wine, and I could use a glass of it for multiple reasons, so this was an easy fix. The hell with Atticus.

My friend, Phoebe, had arranged tonight’s blind date. I'd agreed because of his name: Atticus. Ever since I was young, I'd been secretly in love with Atticus Finch from To Kill a Mockingbird. No, I didn't long for tall men in three-piece suits with horn-rimmed spectacles adorning their faces as they sweltered in the summer heat, but I did want a man who wasn't afraid to stand up for his ideals and for others.

A bit later, the waiter approached. Was I ready to order? Yes, please. The grouper a side salad. I'd been looking forward to this meal all afternoon. Atticus would not ruin it.

Glancing at my watch, I learned it was now eight forty-five. Having given up all hope of seeing Atticus, I still pulled out my phone. Nada, zippo, nothing.

I glanced up to find a man approaching my table. He stopped.

“Atticus?” I croaked in disbelief.

“No,” he laughed “I’m Mike. May I join you? I see that you may have had greater expectations, too, this evening.”

I returned his easy smile and laughed. “Whoever would have thought it of a man named Atticus?”

“Atticus?! Therein lies your problem. Who’s named Atticus these days? He was probably eighty and walked with a cane – far too old! Of course, my date's name was Pippi.”

“As in Pippi Longstocking? My date might have been eighty with a cane, but you would have been babysitting and pulling bubblegum out of Pippi's braids tonight!”

We laughed, merriment easing the newness of our acquaintance.

“Would you like a glass of Merlot, Mike?” I asked with a smile.

“Yes, please.”

I learned that Mike was a Pro Bono, Civil Rights’ lawyer, who practiced in the city of Charleston. I nearly choked on my wine.

“You cannot be serious?!”

But Mike said he was absolutely and utterly serious and I could call him ’Atticus” if I wanted. Pure, unadulterated irony.

Later, after I insisted upon paying my own bill, Mike walked me to my car. He commented that he considered this ‘first date’ with me to be fortuitous. Could he please see me again?

I eagerly agreed.

Driving home, I couldn't stop smiling. I wouldn't have imagined that a blind date with a man named Atticus would ever be such a flop, while someone with a common name like Mike would be so amazing. Such propensities had likely encouraged Shakespeare to pen his famous prose:

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

And right now, Mike smelled far sweeter than Atticus ever could!