His last name was unpronouncable. All that was known was that it had a glottal stop, six vowels in succession, and could only be uttered correctly by three living people (none of them friends or family).

This caused problems. Adopting a nom de plume was out of the question. Why betray identity? Why become a Smith or a Jones, when there were already too many of them to be found in the White Pages?

Setting up appointments and meetings was problematic. And he became known among his peers as “Chris,” which was, believe it or not, his first name. But because the receptionists couldn’t depart from surname protocol, because there were traditions and employee handbooks to live up to, thanks to the boys in corporate efficiency, he was often announced as “Mr. Chris” and, if a form field called for “Last Name” and a particular program refused to cooperate, he would often be entered as “Chris Chris.”

It is safe to say that publicity and impeccable reputation did not come to him as easily as happiness. America was a nation that prided itself on easy memory. There had been two Adamses, two Roosevelts and two Bushes as Presidents. Furthermore, it looked pretty likely that a second “JFK” would be running on this year’s Democratic ticket.

He delivered bouquets to anyone, male or female, who could spell his name correctly. This gestures were often mistaken for romantic overtures, when in fact he simply liked to reward attention to detail, something with which he was concerned about in the bedroom, both with himself and other parties.

Pay no attention to the loose slipknot or the wrinkled shirt. There’s more to Chris than appoints the retina.