One Plus One Equals Both [Travis McCoy] [I]

Funny names. Oh, what strange, cruel and funny names.

You know of the conventional Justin Case, but what of the truly cursed children, damned at birth by their witty parents? Orchid once knew of a girl named Abcde (pronounced “Absiddy”) the small, distant cousin of a school friend. The poor child, hauling her LL Bean monogrammed backpack with the beginning of the alphabet sewn onto its face, the stark, clean white of the thread glaring at all who dared to look. Sometimes the horror wouldn’t stop at a first name - a younger Orchid would search the depths of the phone book for kindred spirits, finding names such as Anita Hoare or the trans-lingual Bong Ho Shin. Knowing there were other people out there like her made her feel better when new classmates giggled at her name, or when teachers smiled benevolently, murmuring, “Orchid? What a pretty name.”

No. It was not a pretty name.

And on her birth certificate it was worse, but Orchid’s not telling anyone. No way, Jose. And her goddamned hippie mother didn’t even have the good sense to name her after a pretty-sounding flower, like Lily or Rose. Even Iris or Ivy. Violet. The name Orchid sounds like it could kill someone with its hard consonants in the middle and gritty stop at the end.

But apparently Orchid’s mother didn’t feel a need to christen her daughter with a pretty name, so Orchid it was. On the bright side, at least she didn’t have to suffer the repercussions of a name like Hydrangea. Her insane mother saved her from that one.

It’s not like Orchid didn’t like or love her mother. Her mother was wonderful. She just happened to be on a lifelong acid trip that involved a deep infatuation with flowers and Led Zeppelin. And unfortunately, she took it out on her children.

But back to reality.

Bent over the LA phone book, Orchid scanned names in between customers. Fortunately for her, LA was a huge place full of freaks, so she had all the entertainment she needed for weeks on end. Biting the ass of her highlighter, she studied the people with last names beginning with the letter C. Having gotten her phonebook last week, she had attacked the As with zest, skipped completely over the Bs and continued highlighting her way through the rest of the alphabet. At this point she wasn’t entirely sure why she perpetuated this little tradition of hers – she was past her obsession with unfortunately named people – but somehow this hunt made her feel satisfied, at the end when she closed the book at the Zs. It made her feel happier to know that she knew all of the freaks in LA, and as she walked through the streets, she would wonder – is that flower seller Dawn Crocus? How about that businessman – Dan Doppelganger?

Some people collect baseball cards. Stamps. Sex partners.

Orchid collects names.

Grinning, Orchid’s friend and coworker Maggie swept by her, carrying a plate of fresh cookies. Bending over to arrange them behind the glass, she glanced over at Orchid, hunched over next to the cash register with a very concentrated look on her face.

Maggie giggled. Orchid, slightly disoriented, looked up.

The two were visually at odds with each other, and secretly, Orchid lusted over Maggie’s appearance. Orchid wasn’t a lesbian and she certainly didn’t want to make love to her friend, but Maggie had an easy beauty, something senseless and careful – a pretty that when you met her you know she tried to be pretty, in the dark corners of her closet, but it was a pretty that made you not care. She was tiny, topping at around five feet tall, weightless, with thin arms and thin legs that could squeeze through any opening. Being part Chinese, Maggie had the wide, almond shaped eyes and the sheath-like, thick and shiny hair of her ancestors. But Maggie was also part Caucasian, so while she looked Asian physically, her coloring was off – medium brown hair and eyes, pale white skin and fully red lips.

If Maggie looked like Yin, then Orchid was the Yang.

Orchid was taller, less coordinated than Maggie. While Maggie slid around the bakery with perfection and precision, Orchid’s generous hips constantly knocked over empty trays or dislodged muffins from their plates. Thus, the management had resigned her to cash register duty, or bussing the few tables that they had in the shop. She poured coffee, tracked plates, collected money, and read the phone book.

Like her namesake flower, Orchid had a wide face. In addition she had very large eyes and high cheekbones. While secretly she thought the shadows on her face from her angular cheeks resembled sideburns or another form of facial hair, she kept quiet about her inhibitions, because according to her mother and countless other older women, cheekbones were a good thing to have.

Unsurprisingly, while Maggie and Orchid visually contrasted, they also fit – like the black and white of Yin and Yang, they seemed like a set. They worked seamlessly at the bakery, adjusting to the other’s habits, never clashing, always flowing. Orchid liked it there, it was small but popular, and she met plenty of people, which she enjoyed.

Plus, the unlimited supply of excellent baked goods never went unappreciated.

So sitting there, on a hot, June day in LA, Maggie, resting against the glass, shaking her head and giggling at a slightly confused and amused Orchid, her right hand poised in midair, ready to strike with her highlighter against the Cs of LA –

Ding.

Some hair walks through the front door. Whether there was a person attached to the masses of dark curls, Orchid could only guess.