Dick Bartleby Jones is the only person I’ve met whose first impression perfectly fits his name—and considering the level of awkwardness in his name, this is quite the accomplishment on his part. But he sure did manage to hit it spot on—the khaki pants, button down shirt, and bowtie that gave off the refined air, the thick plastic-framed glasses that added the nerdy touch, the brown-haired, brown-eyed, skinny white boy features that placed him in the normal category, and the expensive watch that showed his relative wealth. Dick Bartleby Jones was Dick Bartleby Jones, and that was about all I knew of him.
So when he walked into my first period Algebra class one Monday morning, I was shocked. How would anyone so perfectly named Dick Bartleby Jones end up in small town Nebraska at Sticks High School (which was named after the founder, Jeremiah Sticks, not because it was “in the sticks”—just for the record)? I was even more shocked when he sat down next to me in the back corner of the class room. He was Dick Bartleby Jones; I practically expected him to demand, or at least politely request, a seat in the very front of the room so he could take perfect notes in ink (not pencil) and answer questions before the sound waves had even traveled to the ears of the students in the back rows. But, I was wrong. Dick Bartleby Jones walked to the back row, set down his expensive-looking messenger bag and plopped—yes actually plopped, not sat or glided or neatly lowered himself--into the seat next to mine.
Looking equally shocked at this ploppage my teacher stood awkwardly at the front of the room for a moment before he started the day’s lesson. Dick Bartleby Jones took advantage of this pause to lean across the aisle to my desk and get my attention.
“Got any gum?” he asked.
Dick Bartleby Jones wanted gum? Wasn’t all that smacking and chewing practically blasphemy for people like him—especially when he should be paying attention in class to take those perfect notes of his? Astonished, I just stared at him awkwardly.
He exhaled in a low whistle.
“Okay, then. Guess not. I’m Rich,” he said. “You know, like Richard without the ‘ard’. My parents tell me they meant to name me Richard and then just call me Dick as a nickname, but then they figured they’d skip the middleman and go straight to Dick, instead. I’m convinced that they’re really just dicks. I mean why else would you name someone Dick Bartleby Jones?”
I smirked at his mini-monologue.
“Rich, eh?” I said. Magically, all of this made a lot more sense. Rich was a fitting name for this new, slick-talking, shirt-rolled up, shoes-kicked off kid that was now lounging in the seat next to mine. “I’m Louis. Welcome to Sticks.” I held out my hand and he shook it as he quoted that horrible line from Casablanca that I’ve heard a thousand times before, but never seemed so fitting.
“Louis,” he said. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”