It was early evening. Everyone was gone. I was staring into my monitors clicking at the keyboard.
The janitor came around the corner pushing his cart, emptying the garbage cans and dusting off our desks.
I turned to look at him. “Hi Carlos,” I said.
He mumbled which was unlike him. Usually he comes by and says “Hello David” in an upbeat voice, sometimes talking about his other job, sometimes talking about his wife who is due in July. But today he mumbled something that I couldn’t hear.
“Why you call me Carlos,” he said. “You always call me Carlos. I’m not Carlos.”
I was stunned. Embarrassed. Ashamed. It was something I took seriously, our conversations in the early evening, the fact that we addressed each other by name.
“What…?” I said. “What’s your name?”
“Marco,” he said.
“Oh gosh. And I’ve been calling you Carlos for months. I’m so sorry.”
So how perfect is that. Mr. InTouchWithThoseAroundHim has been calling Marco Carlos for months in smug satisfaction that he knew the man’s name when indeed he was just as oblivious as anyone else in the building.
More oblivious.