“Okay, everyone, welcome to the group. I’m Holden, this is my brother Harry, and we decided to put this thing together for people who’ve had similar experiences to us.” Holden’s effeminate voice pierced the air like the rainbow flag pin had pierced his lapel. 

Holden’s hirsute older brother added, “This is an open forum. Feel free to introduce yourself and talk as you like.”

The backroom of the cafe echoed the small noises of people shifting in their seats, no one willing to break the ice until a man in a snowflake-patterned Hawaiian shirt spoke up. “Um, hi, I’m Seb Zero. And I know what you’re thinking: ‘Why doesn’t he just go by Sebastian?’ Because it makes me sound like the crab from Ariel.”

“It’s actually called The Little Mermaid,” a greasy, pimply fellow corrected. “I bet people don’t even comment on your name that much. You just want to sound interesting.”

Seb Zero narrowed his eyes like icicles boring into the fellow’s mind. “Oh, yeah? Well, what’s your name?”

After pushing his glasses up to the bridge of his nose, leaving a fingerprint in the middle of a lens, the fellow answered, “My name is Chris P. Bacon.”

“Why don’t you introduce yourself without your middle initial?” asked a small woman with dangly earrings in the shape of musical notes. 

Chris P. Bacon wiped his hands on his dirty trousers. “Because my dad’s name is Chris Bacon, too, and you can’t be a ‘Junior’ or ‘the Second’ if you have a different middle name.”

“But if nobody knows your dad…” Seb Zero mumbled coldly. 

Harry quickly redirected the conversation so he wouldn’t have to step in and do anything ballsy. “And what’s your name?”

“Amanda Lynn Case,” the woman answered in a lilting voice one might describe as songlike. 

“Well, why don’t you just go by Amanda Case?” Chris P. Bacon shot back. 

Amanda Lynn Case straightened her spine like she was getting ready to play in an orchestra. “I’ve already printed business cards, paid for the URL, and auditioned by this name. I can’t change it now.”

“Um, actually, my last name is Case, too,” an anxious-looking young man said. “But I feel a little stupid. I chose my name.”

“What name did you choose?” Holden asked, half-distracted by admiring the delightfully rosy cheeks of the beautiful man next to him. 

“Justin,” Justin Case answered, fiddling with the extra cash in his pocket that he always kept on hand for Cash Only businesses. “And I kinda knew it could cause people to make fun of me. But it really feels like my name, you know?”

The dazzling blonde bombshell next to him nodded theatrically. “I think we can all agree with that. Otherwise we would all change our names.” After a dramatic pause, she stood up and introduced herself as if reciting memorized lines, “My name is Holly Wood.”

For some reason, everyone felt the need to applaud her performance. Holly Wood bowed before she sat down. The girl next to her even set down the book she’d been clutching this whole time. “Yeah, sometimes being a little different makes me feel like a main character,” she agreed. “My name’s Paige Turner, by the way.”

“Don’t you feel like it’s sort of a self-fulfilling prophecy, though?” asked the hearty and hale man with the largest afro anyone in the group had seen. “My name’s Brock Lee, and I’ve always been that weird kid who likes vegetable soup more than chocolate fondue.”

“Totally,” agreed the sweet old lady who probably had candy in her purse. “My name’s Ness Lee and I’ve always had a thing for hot cocoa. I even sometimes share a little with my cat, Mr. Jean-Clawed Van Damme.”

The mousy old man furrowed his brow. “But I don’t like chipmunks.”

“What name suggests an affinity for chipmunks?” Paige Turner inquired, eager to learn more about this character. 

“Chip Monk,” the old man squeaked. 

“I mean, you kind of look like a chipmunk.” This came from the fuckboi who had only half-listened to anyone who wasn’t a man. 

Chip Monk stood up and bared his large front teeth. “You want me to kick you in the nuts, boy?”

The fuckboi just grinned and spread his legs out even more as if daring the old man to try. “Only if you think you can win a fight against Mike Hunt.”

“Let me guess,” Seb Zero cut in, “someone in your family is named Michael Hunt so you have to go by Mike.”

“Nope.” Mike Hunt’s smug grin rankled even the calm young lady in a vintage dress who had not spoken up yet. 

“It might be best to put a pause between your first and last name,” she suggested in a Transatlantic accent. “Or take a close look at the past.” 

“I don’t think so,” Mike argued. “Who are you anyway?”

The gangly girl who had driven the old-souled young lady to the cafe straightened up. At her full height, she seemed about five stories tall. “Anne Teak is my longest lasting friend, and I, Ella Vader, will not stoop to your level, Michael Hunt.”

Holden held up his hands to get the attention of the group before resolves hardened and tempers flared. “Okay, okay, everyone. So we don’t get short on time, let’s cut off the introductions for now and get to the main event. Holden and I have started off this first week with our thymeless white bean soup and a Donot Blanc port wine.”

“Thanks for coming to the Soup and Port Group! Dig in!” Harry added, spreading his arms out so wide that his chest hair poked out from between his shirt buttons. 

As the group served themselves an odd soup and wine combo, Holden approached the rosy-cheeked man to get his number. 

Beau K. was as cute as a water lily and spoke in flowery language when addressing the brothers. “There is a certain air of familiarity about the two of you, as though your faces are etched in the corners of some forgotten memory.”

“We’ve been told we look like our distant cousin, Courteney,” Holden explained. 

Surveying the happy and fed group, the Cox brothers patted themselves on the back for bringing together this group of like-minded people. It was hard to find people who enjoyed the provocative duet of soup and port, and even harder to keep them standing proud together. 

-Ryn PB

Author’s Note: This story is meant to be a big old joke! No stereotypes are meant to be taken too seriously! I just wanted to write something frivolous and stupid, so why not write about a bunch of people with punny names in a club together? This was inspired by the SNL Change-of-Name skit, Colin Mochrie’s funny newscaster names in Whose Line…?, and my mishearing of the name “Jen N.” as “N. Jen” (“engine”).