My Name Is Jack

“My name is Jack” is what the server at the Mexican restaurant told Michelle us as he seated us at our table.

But I knew that already.

Michelle and I had walked into Wahaka (“Waka Waka” is how we refer to it) and I thought I recognized the young man at the front desk. He then sat us, told us his name and that he would be our server. The “My name is Jack” intro confirmed what I knew.

I’m a volunteer coach at one of the high schools near where I live. I’ve been doing that for about a dozen years now. Jack was one of the players I coached over those years. In high school he had been somewhat sullen individual (his brother, who also played, was the more typical friendly fun kid the sport normally attracts). Based on the short interactions at the front desk, and his taking our orders, it appeared to me nothing much had changed.

But, unlike my other interactions with former players that happen now and again, I wasn’t exactly going to ask Jack “how are you and (brother) doing?” My play was to say as little as possible and hope there was enough separation between my male and female presentations so that he wouldn’t put two and two together. 

Michelle asked me if I wanted to go, but I said no. I didn’t want to make more of it, and I saw nothing in his interactions that suggested he knew who I was. And if he did, it was too late anyway. I just ordered a margarita and my meal and hoped for the best.

I’ve had other intersections between people I know from coaching and my Dee life. Michelle briefly dated (and I met) the (estranged) dad of a couple of our current players, and I bought my last wig from the mom of a former player. Neither of those blew up my life, and it’s a risk you take if you go out–a risk I am happy to take.

We enjoyed our meal. The next emergency was mid-meal when I realized I didn’t have enough cash to pay for lunch, and I didn’t think it was a wise move to pay for lunch with a credit card with my male name on it (I use my male credit cards all the time when out, without an issue). I asked Michelle to pay, and then I would pay her back. She did, and between our lunch and our stop at Plato’s Closet–our post-lunch destination–I stopped at an ATM to withdraw enough cash to pay Michelle back.

At Plato’s, we did our normal shopping routine. We each find things we like, both get change rooms, try things on, then step out and compare notes. Sometimes, but not that often, we will both try on the same item.

Michelle found some things she liked, and then had to leave to get her car–a Ford Bronco she has named ZeeZee because it’s now zebra striped–serviced. I stayed longer and bought two dresses, a red polka dot sun dress that reminded me of Minnie Mouse, and a short short short strapless dress that I decided I would be bold enough to wear someday (which, as I write this, has yet to happen).

I tried on the black dress with the see-through panels and decided that was a bridge too far, though. I guess I do have limits. 

It’s now three months since this happened and nothing further has happened, which is a reminder that many of our fears are more imagined than real.