Every year up at the farm, people switch up Evan’s and my name. It’s not that we’re really that similar, outside of both being dark-haired quasi-Jews with gray in our stubble. But everybody does it, calling Evan “Ethan” and me “Evan.” Probably it’s just the mind’s lazy conflation of a two-syllable name that starts with “E.” Last night I went with Evan to Better Burger, where he goes after the meetings. The cashier knew him and they bantered back and forth. At the end of the order, Evan asked the guy if he remembered his name. The cashier faltered and Evan gave him his name. The guy said, “Oh yeah, that’s right, Evan. But I always think your name is Ethan.”
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