Mr X.

When the redhead and I go out to eat, as we did this evening at Johnny Carinos, I never give my name. They ask for it and I tell them: Mr. X.

There isn't any reason for these folks to know who I am. They aren't friends. We aren't neighbors. We don't have business. Besides, they tend to REMEMBER exactly who Mr. X is, and get me a seat. Forthwith.

The other day we went to El Charro's and an older man was taking the reservations.

"Mr. X", I tell him.

"Mr. Rex"? He repeats?

"No," I insist," "Mr. X."

"Mister Rex," he confirms, and I let it go. (I am NOT unreasonable about this.)

"If he calls for Mr. Sex," The redhead declared, "I'm leaving."