Afterthoughts: A Last Minute Replacement for a Nametag

I met Stan Bromley in 1973. He was food and beverage manager of The Stanford Court, San Francisco. We hit it off from the start. We’ve been close friends ever since. How close? This close:

My wife, Jeanne, and I are at the Mobil 5-Star event. When we arrive at The Clift, the front desk hands us our check-in envelope containing everything we need: room keys, a program of the weekend events, nametags with our given names in very large black type, and a few other nifty amenities, courtesy The Clift and Mobil. Once in our room, I check our nametags. Jeanne’s is correct; the name on mine is not: it’s Steve, not Stephen. I have never liked the nickname Steve. Because I don’t wish to go through the weekend known, summoned or shouted at as Steve, I call Stan—still up to his ass in fretting—and ask him if he wouldn’t mind printing a new nametag with the given name I prefer. Not a problem he tells me. “It’ll look just like the old one, not something free-hand-scrawled in Magic Marker?” I ask. Not a problem, he says.

Ten minutes later, one of Stan’s interns enters our room with the brand new nametag. It is on a silver platter, cloche-covered. As befits an intern of the Four Seasons Hotel, he ceremoniously lifts the cloche, gently places it on the coffee table, hands the silver platter to Jeanne, bows out.  As promised, the nametag isn’t Steve. It isn’t Stephen, either.  It is “Asshole.” Just like the original “Steve,” “Asshole” is in very large black type. Jeanne can’t stop laughing. She wants to know what I plan to do with it. “Wear it,” I say. “I’ll wear it tonight to the opening reception.” Don’t you dare, she says. I do dare. The photographer with Mobil takes a picture of me at the reception, the nametag on the pocket of my suit visible for everyone to see. Stan is standing next to me. I still have the nametag. And the photograph.

The next day Jeanne finds a note under the door of our room. It is from Stan: “You forgot to tip the intern.”