Substituting Fyodor for my first name, and Bukowski for my last name, and substituting Mr. Delugas for a substitute teacher’s name, because that was, in fact, his name:
(note: Mr. Delugas (Day-loo-gaa) has a comically exagerrated French accent)
EARLIER THIS YEAR:
Mr. Delugas: Fyodor? Is Fyodor here? Ahh, Fyodor, that sounds like a Russian name. Are you Russian, Fyodor?
Gadfly: No, actually. There’s a story behind that.
Mr. Delugas: Aha. And Bukowski! That sounds very much like Russian, too! Oh, but if you switch a letter, it becomes [this makes more sense with my real name, folks] Bokowski! Very French! I am French, you know!
Gadfly, grinning uneasily: I’ve noticed. Thank you, though, that’s not something I’ve heard very often.
SLIGHTLY LATER THIS YEAR:
Mr. Delugas: And Mr. Fyodor? I assume he is here?
Gadfly: Yes.
Mr. Delugas: Fyodor, eh? Hmm, that sounds very Russian to me.
Gadfly: Yes, well, you see, my father…
Mr. Delugas: And Bukowski! Russian too! It fits! Although, with a slight modification, it could be a French name! I would suspect that you, Mr. Bukowski, have French roots, as well, no?
Gadfly: Not exactly, but close, it’s…
Mr. Delugas: Aha! I knew it!
TWO WEEKS AGO:
Mr. Delugas: Fyodor! Is Fyodor here?
Gadfly, silently sliding towards the edge of his seat as he awaits the inevitable re-dissection of his name, wondering, hoping, if Mr. Delugas will remember how many hundreds of times he’s gone over this and over this, and honestly, his ass is getting pretty close to falling off, it’s sort of like a cherub on the head of a pin, except his ass isn’t much of a cherub, and the pin isn’t a pin, moreso a slab of cheap plastic covered in tacky wood veneer: Yes.
Mr. Delugas: Fyodor! That sounds very much like a Russian name! I would place a bet on you having Russian roots, no?
Gadfly, silently kneading his knuckles and slowly sliding back into the chair, but not out of danger yet, as inner turmoil and anxiety threatens to drag him into a yawning pit of dementia, at the bottom of which lies a viscous, bubbling pool of madness and despair, the fumes of which are slowly reaching Gadfly’s olfactory devices, smelling much like turpentine and rubber, baked in the fires of Hades: …Well…
Mr. Delugas: Bukowski! Russian, too! But read another way, it could be French! Very French indeed! Extremely French! Your roots must lie somewhere in France, as well!
Gadfly, as he feels frustration, rage, and the urge to strike out, to flail madly against life’s unfortunate circumstance, at Mr. Delugas’ continuosly failing memory, indeed, at fate itself, which at the moment seems like a giant, meaty fist, dangling a bundle of dollar bills in front of Gadfly’s figure, only to snatch it away and beat him to near-death with it, coursing through his veins: I… I think I need to go to the washroom.