Spend any time with me in a social setting that involves meeting new people and you’ll learn I have a hard time remembering names. I must meet someone at least three times in order to remember their name. Of course, I’ll remember the face and the conversation, so it’s not early onset dementia. I just can’t make the name stick without some serious repetition.
I know I’m not alone. Many people have told me they have the challenge, usually after we shake hands and they say, “What was your name again?” This could easily be overcome if we were all issued a name tag at birth. Usually if I read something, particularly a name, I am better able to retain it.
This could also be a helpful social cue. I tend to say “hello” to just about everyone I see. Be it at the store or on the street, I’m likely to speak to those around me. I think it may be due to that narcissistic streak that tends to run in varying degrees through those of us in media. It’s probably this trait that keeps me from remembering a name the first time I’m introduced to someone. If he’s not me, then why should I remember the name? It’s like the old saying in theatre: “Blah, blah, blah … my line, blah blah … my line.” Granted, not an admirable trait, but at least I’m aware of it. It’s not as though I have invaded a country and exploited its citizens as some rather notable narcissists have done through the years.
But if we all had name tags, that would help keep people like me from bothering others when they don’t wish to be addressed. If you’re in the mood to at least say hello, then you wear your name tag. If not, then you don’t. It would be like the whole wedding ring thing. We would all know where we stand.
This lack of recall often leads me to ask some embarrassing questions. Such was the case when I first started working at WDUN. While settling in for my evening shift, I saw an unfamiliar face in what we called the “bullpen.” It was a cube farm without the cubes. Just a handful of desks with sales people living there. We had a free-range sales staff in those days. We’ve since learned that the world is a safer place if put them in pens, I mean, offices.
It was late afternoon. Everyone had gone home. While I was prepping for my show, I saw a guy rooting around one of the desks. I’d never seen him before. I figured he was supposed to be in the building. He had all the traits of a radio sales person. He was sharply dressed in a coat and he sported a crisp haircut and a broad smile with which to distract you so he could slip his hand in your wallet unnoticed. Me, in my jeans and concert tee shirt, extended a hand and introduced myself. “Hey, I’m Bill Maine. I don’t think we’ve met.” He responded with his name, but of course I didn’t really catch it. However, I did catch that he was one of our newer sales people. He was just dropping off a few things before heading home for the evening.
The next day I asked a co-worker, “Who’s the new sales guy?”
“Oh, you mean Jay Jacobs,” he replied.
There was something familiar about the name that I just couldn’t place, at least not right away. It finally hit me one day while cashing my paycheck. He was the boss’s son. In my defense, it wasn’t called Jacobs Media Corporation back then.
Name tags, people, name tags! Maybe with a brief genealogy.
