Call Me Rick
Patrick had the kind of name that commanded absolutely no respect.
Not that Patrick was a bad name—it was just too easy to shorten. And once someone shortens your name without asking, they own you.
For his whole life, everyone—from coworkers to baristas to his pet cat—had called him “Pat.” It was inevitable, like gravity or bad Wi-Fi.
And Pat hated it.
“Pat” sounded like someone who apologizes when you bump into him.
“Pat” was the guy in HR training who takes notes.
“Pat” was fine, safe, gentle. And Pat was sick of being fine.
One quiet Saturday morning, somewhere between organizing his spice rack and alphabetizing his utility bills, a wild thought invaded his mind.
He wasn’t a Pat. He was a Rick.
Rick was bold. Rick was mysterious. Rick didn’t have separate Tupperware for leftovers and soup. Rick probably owned sunglasses that weren’t prescription.
Pat stood up, full of caffeinated conviction, and whispered to his reflection, “You are Rick now.”
His reflection didn’t buy it.
Monday came. Armed with confidence and a fresh start, he walked into the office a new man.
Sue from HR spotted him and smiled.
“Morning, Pat.”
He straightened. “Actually,” he said, “I go by Rick now.”
Sue smiled. “Sure, Pat.”
And that was that. Still Pat. But he persisted.
At Starbucks, he ordered confidently. “Name’s Rick.”
Five minutes later, his cup read “Rat.”
Close enough, he thought. Rick adjacent.
That night, Pat sat in his kitchen, staring at the word “Rat” written in Sharpie on a now-cold latte cup.
He sighed. Tried again in the mirror.
“Rick.”
The reflection sighed back.
Nope. Still Pat.
He looked like a man pretending to be Rick while secretly worrying about his credit score.
That’s when he realized something slightly terrifying:
Rick wasn’t a name—it was a personality.
Rick lived fast. Pat owned coasters.
Rick took risks. Pat filed taxes early.
Rick flaunts the rules at Yahtzee. Pat wins on his own merit.
Maybe Pat is ok...
