For all of these years, seventeen now, I’ve watched this slight little man sharing the bench with me now. His diminutive stature and demure demeanor is reviled by all that I am. His petite head, sparsely haired scalp and his distastefully black and foreboding eyes are and offence to me. I can imagine having to work in cramped quarters with this "Can I help you sir?" freak of nature.

As I retrieve my sandwich from my lunch sack I watch as Moffitt draws two slices of cold buttered toast, each wrapped and sealed, from the bag his mother obviously prepared. He methodically removed the wrappers and placed them back in his bag. Fully expecting him to next draw a morsel of steak from that permanently pressed lunch bag, I was a little surprised when he draw out only a school house size carton of fresh milk. "Mother’s milk." I thought.

The totally repulsive Moffitt sat on the bench next to me, ate two slices of cold buttered toast, and drank a small carton of milk. Even the food Moffitt eats reeks of his demure humility. It didn’t stop me though. I ate my damn lunch and threw the crumbs down for the birds just like I’ve always done. That obnoxious un-adult creature would not get the pleasure of tainting my lunch nor my day.

I was imagining his mother laying out his boring schoolboy outfit the night before so he would find everything just so in the morning as he dressed for work. No self-respecting woman would ever marry such a nerd. Geeks like Moffitt never marry. They can’t cut the apron strings, if you know what I mean. Do you understand when I say how repulsed I am by that distastefully sweet cologne of his? Every time I smell it I think, "Get a life, Moffitt."

Finally, after twenty minutes Moffitt finished his milk and toast. As you may have expected, he policed the area for any crumbs or trash then neatly folded his lunch bag and stowed it away in his vest pocket. For the next five minutes Moffitt didn’t move a muscle. I’m not even sure if he breathed. He surely didn’t speak, especially not to me. Good boys like Moffitt don’t speak to people like me. He never has.

Sick of his endless silence, politeness and humility I finally spoke. "What kind of name is Moffitt anyway," I asked. "It sounds like someone’s attempt at a bad joke." "Like, Little Miss Moffitt sat on her tuffet eating her curds and whey." "If you were Irish and named O’Leary or O’Malley, then you would have a name. Maybe, a Frenchman with a name that rolled smoothly off your tongue embracing the listeners’ ear. Maybe, then you would have a name."

"Who would make up such a name?" "A peasant’s name, no doubt." "The kind of name everyone wishes to forget." "Clinically the driest most heinous sound ever made is this name of your, Moffitt." With that, this shrimp of a man turned to me with his expressionless face frozen as if it were wax. For a time he was speechless, just watching me with lifeless eyes. Never flinching, I returned his glare. Then, finally, he spoke. "My name sir, is Moffitt. Yours?"