Today at work I had a great case of the "Schenck Spell". For the past 27 (nearly 28) years I've had this last name and let me tell you it has provided it's share of stories. I've gotten into a routine. When asked my last name I've noticed that I don't even say the darned thing. This is the drill...
Random person: And the last name?
Me: Let me spell it for you, it's S-C-H-E-N-C-K. Sometimes, just sometimes, they ask how it's pronounced and then I go into the obligatory line of comparing it to something that sounds the same.
Random person: Ok, and how do you pronounce that? It looks German (extra points for them for knowing the country of origin)
Me: Schenck, like a shank of lamb.Let me just say here that I happen to have no real concrete idea of what a "shank of lamb" is. I'm assuming that it is a body part, and that it may be edible, I may have seen it on a menu a time or two. The fact is that I've heard my mom say this line for years and so it just comes out without even a second thought. It was Madre's automatic response and she has passed it down. Poor lady, she married into the "Schenck Spell". She willingly took on the curse of never having a well known, easily spellable name. She denied herself of a life of luxury as a Jones, Smith, Brown, Green or Miller. I'm sure this is where she would argue that my dad is well worth the small sacrifice. But really, did she think about me in this? Oh, my sweet Madre.
I've noticed lately that I don't even write my full name. This is where today at work comes in. A new UPS guy comes in with a package. I know the old guy, I like the old guy. We have the same friendly banter every day, you know, about the weather mostly. So new guy comes strutting in complete with an extra short pair of brown shorts and let me just tell you he was working the outfit. He even was exposing a little chest hair with the first few buttons of his uniform shirt unbuttoned. Pure nast. Upon seeing him I do a mental eye roll. Yes, I was raised properly, we do not roll our eyes. But I've got my own little secret. I do it mentally all day. It's the equivalent of a "psh" out loud when something is ridiculous. Maybe even ridiculously awesome.
So, he walks up to my desk and announces that he has a package. Obviously. (More internal eye rolling). He hands me the handy-dandy electronic do-dat to sign for my package. I sign my name...ok, my signature which consists of only M and then three letters that may or may not resemble a S, C and fancy K. So, I've gotten lazy, I realize that. It's just so many letters and no one can pronounce it anyway...what's the point. And then I wait for the question, cause he has to ask, I know he can't read my signature.
Over-the-top UPS man: And what's the last name?
Me: It's Schenck, like a shank of lamb.
Over-the-top UPS man: Oh, like I'm gonna shank ya? (Said with a wink)Yes, with a wink. I didn't even know how to respond to this. I had no words. This doesn't happen to me often, the no words thing. I've watched entirely too much Law and Order and CSI.
Sure, I've heard this before. I know (although I've never been to prison) what a shank is. But I don't like to think of myself as a "crude homemade weapon" like something you would see on Shaw
shank Redemption. Isn't that a coincidence. There was just something about his creeping, chest hair and over sized crisp white tube socks proudly worn above his boots that made the comment even more creepy.
What exactly does he know about shanks?
Does he have one right now?
What happened to the old UPS guy?
Is he dead in the back of the truck?
Is this package filled with anthrax?I start thinking that if I die, if he really does "Shank" me, only my brother will be left to carry on the family name. Sure, someday I may get married and take my husband's name but there is always the option to hyphenate and keep the Schencks alive. I am suddenly fond of Schenck. I think of all the conversations it has started. The awkward times when I have met someone and they ask if I am related to so and so (only to find out that so and so spells Schenck like it sounds). Those were good times, times that a Jones or Smith or Brown or Green or even a Miller may never have. Suddenly I find myself spelling my name in a "sing-songy" little voice, 1. because I can and 2. because it does rhyme well.
M-E-L-I-S-S-A....S-C-H-E-N-C-KWhat I've failed to noticed during all my internal monologue and self reflection is that the UPS guy is still sanding there. And he heard my little song. He give me that look, you know the one your dog gives you. Head cocked a bit to the side, mouth open, eyes a bit squinty like "What the?????". He keeps the look on his face and does a slow pivot turn and is out the door. Lucky for me I'm pretty sure his conscience got the best of him...you can't shank a crazy girl.
