My Name, Over the Telephone

He asked me for my name. I gave it. He asked again. I moved the telephone away from the kettle and repeated it with the careful dignity of a man who knows his own name. “Upper Case?” There was a silence in which I considered the available answers. “Yes,” I said. “Though I’m quieter in the mornings.” That finished us. He laughed. I tried to explain. Explaining made it worse. For years I had wanted a name upon a book, and now I had acquired one through poor reception and a boiling kettle. I wrote it at the top of an empty page. UPPER CASE. Far too loud. Upper Case. Better. Then, underneath, in letters small enough to sound like me: Yewper, if you’re asking.