A Rose By Another Name

We have a staff officer from another unit assigned to our services until the end December. Her name is very uncommon. Yet, in English and Romance languages speaking countries, the name would be recognized instantly.

Several days ago I sauntered into her office during a Folger coffee moment. After we exchanged the pleasantries and the three Ws, I teased her with a literary game. It was one of the ways I used to break the ice. Especially with her surname, this game was well suited.

"Shakespeare, I have a mission for you." I eyed her with a mischievous grin. Nonchalantly, she smiled back thus tacitly agreed to the take on this quest. I tossed her this clincher, "If you should fail to meet half of the assigned objectives, you'll have to change your family name." She wasn't fazed by the condition nor by not knowing what the rules of the game were.

Later that afternoon, I returned to her with a print of The Shakepearean Fantasy by James Christensen. It was then she knew this thing came out of the left field. She walked right into it.

Any Shakespeare worthy of his word, as it were, must uphold the family marque and the reputation of ancestor Bill. Her subdued deportment had not lessen her resolve. Perhaps she did not want to give me the satisfaction. With what I thought was a fleeting wry smile, she listened to the instructions and began to scrutinize the Christensen drawing.

Two days later I saw her again at another Folger coffee moment. She was methodically transferring the contents from one old purse to a new one. What she engaged in at that intersect of space and time was mission critical. With the purse being a women's life essentials, I dared not risked the consequences of diverting her attention during a purse-transplant. Out of deference to her finishing the task, I watched the operation from a distance. Her hands danced between the two purses like bees interrogated the clovers of the field.

"I could only identify six of the plays," she finally looked over my way. As I walked over to her table, she got up and unceremoniously threw the old purse in the trash bin. "Frankly, I think your having deciphered six of the eighteen plays is better than what I'd expected from anyone in this department." I eyed her newly organized purse briefly. Her easily accessible sidearm should be inside the purse as well.

"Tell you what. I will give you the answers to the plays. Would you like that?" She is already married and soon a mother to be. The wager was moot from the start. She knew it as well. She gleamed a radiant smile very becoming of an expectant mother, "Yes, I would."

A Shakespeare by another name would still be a Shakespeare.