The gym is in an old building, and I can already smell the chlorine from a mile away. As I approach, I see a skinny man walk out with his daughter. At the ramp, he leans over the banister and a glob of clear spit sails across it onto the paving. It is raining lightly. He covers his daughter’s head with her hood, lifts her up, and continues on his way. Sure you want to go in here? I think to myself.
Inside, I speak to one of the women at reception while my olfactory receptors adjust to the smell. I explain that I’m just wanting to have a look around.
“Sure. What’s your name?” she asks me.
“Mary,” I say, before I know what is happening.
“Hi Mary, I’m Alexa.”
But I’m not listening as my heart begins to pound in panic. I want to say, hastily, “Oh, sorry, I meant Piri. Mary’s not my real name. I don’t know why I said that.” But that would be… weird?
“Mary” is the name I use for brief interactions of service, when I know there will be no further communication. Mary is the coffee-order, wine-order, whatever-order name. Mary is the name I give to a stranger I don’t really want to talk to. But I must have become so used to saying it that it became habit.
I remember the moment it became second nature. I had ordered a coffee at Starbucks, and “Mary” came out without the usual preceding “um”. Ah, my transition was complete. Indeed, I believe I became Mary three times that day. Sitting in Starbucks with the takeaway cup in my hand, I took a picture of my new name, my christening, written in someone else’s neat handwriting.
Back at the gym, we carry on, and I decide I must bear it. From now on, I am Mary here. I’m asked to fill out some paperwork and I enter Mary’s details into a tablet-like device. Oh well, so far so good, I’m thinking. No real harm. I’m sure they won’t need to see my ID or anything. I finish inputting what areas of exercise I’m interested in, whether I currently exercise, whether I’ve been a member of a gym before, what are my goals, how many times a week I think I’ll be coming in and tap “Submit”. Alexa takes me around. I’m still thinking how to back out of the name situation. I want my real—well, at least not-as-fake—name on the form. I’m not one of those people who can think up clever excuses or witty remarks on the fly, who can cover up the most awkward situations in the smoothest ways. Instead my mind crosses to other recent memories.
One night, during my brother’s visit to Melbourne, the two of us went to a tapas bar. After I placed my order, he turned to me with an accusatory glare.
“Mary, hey?”
“Well… I have to make life easier for myself.” I shrug. A moment later, he places his order and is asked for his name.
“James,” he says, failing to hide a sheepish smirk.
So just like that, we have become Mary and James. Mary and James return to their seats and discuss the lives of their pseudonyms—though of course, first Mary takes the opportunity to pay James out on his hypocrisy. James has been around longer than Mary, even though by age Mary is older than James. James first appeared as a kind of alter ego—a joke among my brother and his friends, or a way to refer to someone without their name, like “Joe Bloggs”.
I tried to remember when Mary first appeared. It must have been back in Perth, just when “personalisation of service” was becoming a thing in that city’s cafés. I had had enough of saying “Piri” and hearing: “That’s an unusual name.” “That’s a weird name.” “What?” “Please repeat that.” “Mary?”
So, after a bit of trial and error, and because Mary was the name that most often came back to me even after I delivered an already dumbed-down version of my name, I became Mary.
After the gym tour and much deliberation on which membership option to choose, I am finally ready to sign up. A new horror dawns on me as I see that I need to fill in my home address and emergency contact information. I stall after filling out my last name, as if I’m unsure how to spell my first name, or I don’t know how forms work. The assistant glances over for just a second too long. I confidently write M A R Y in block letters. They won’t check against any official records, I think in consolation. But what if they need to call my mum in an emergency, and she says, “Who’s that?” when they say that Mary needs help, and she hangs up the phone thinking it’s the wrong number? I even consider texting my mum to say, “If you get a phone call from a gym regarding a Mary, that’s me. I’ll explain later.” But I don’t.
“Do you have a Health Care Card?” the assistant asks, leaning over from her screen again.
“Sure.” I pull it out without a second thought. Only when I notice that she’s taking a long time to fill in the details do I remember that it would have my full name on it. Oh yes, legal documentation. Not even that dumbed-down version but the sixteen-letter real deal. Well, I’m caught out now. Eventually all my details are entered and my entry pass is printed.
“Oh sorry,” the assistant says as she slides the pass over and sees my now-filled-in first name, “I put the name that was on your Health Care Card instead of ‘Mary’. I can put that on your card if that’s what you prefer to be called.” She takes the pass back and moves to the computer before I can utter a word. My throat is stuck anyway. What can I say? Forget the whole thing! Just use “Piri”! Let me confuse things even more! The updated pass comes back. We discuss a few final details.
“All right, so I guess we’ll see you around,” the assistant says with a generous smile.
“Yes. See ya!” I say. I slip the new gym pass into my wallet. Boldly printed on the front is Mary Altraide. I walk out.
About the author
Piriye (Piri) Altraide is a Nigerian-born writer, spoken word artist and self-proclaimed dancefloor extraordinaire. Having escaped Perth and her past life as a Chartered Accountant, she is now a Melbournian undertaking a Masters in Creative Writing. Piriye’s work centres on identity, belonging and the journey to self-acceptance in the context of the African-Australian diaspora. Piriye has featured at Afro Hub, The Howler and for Multicultural Arts Victoria. She is a 2014 Perth Poetry Slam finalist, co-curator of RMIT’s Unlecture series, and has had her work published in Mirrors of Africa, Myriad, The Lifted Brow and Milk Crates.