National Pride

Because he was a typical child to born to typical parents, he was automatically destined to be born on a Tuesday, the most common day of the week babies are born. The month was August, the air outside stifling and humid as it always is during the Dog Days of Summer.

Shortly after the doctor had cut the umbilical cord and the infant was pacified and given a clean bill of health, the mother and father were discussing names while basking in the joy of new life.

Unlike other parents in the world -- and even those in the surrounding rooms, they had not yet thought about names. Their reasoning was that they could not properly name someone if they did not know them first.

"How about Jeffery?" asked the mother expectantly. "Uncle Jeff has always been a favorite of mine."

"No," declared the father urgently. He did not wish for his child to be named after some other man even -- and maybe, especially -- if he was a favorite of his wife. "How about Glenn?"

"I'm not fond of juniors, honey. You know that."

"Well then, what do you suppose Kathleen?" he snapped, starting to become irritated at the lack of a decision and the fact that she had stubbed his pride.

"I like Thomas."

"No!" he nearly shouted. His loud voice this time was for a different reason. Glenn would not live to have his wife know about Tommy, the boy who used to tease and push him about the playground when he was barely into preschool. To have a son named after him! It would not do!

"Something else then," his wife soothed, looking demurely at the bundle in her arms. To think -- that little creature came out of her, was a part of her. Surely it was a miracle and not just the scientific uniting of cells.

"Augustus?" asked the father thinking of the month and the Caesar it was named for.

"Randolph," the mother voiced, reflecting the most original name she could conjure.

And thus a list of names began.

"Kingsley?"
"Aidan?"
"Wednesday?"
"Ashley?"
"James?"
"Montgomery?"
"Ryan."
"David."

Each had something wrong, something that either upset one parent or was deemed able to be picked at by schoolchildren in the future.

Just when it seemed like no name could be found, a sharp ringing pierced the room. A cell phone that was supposed to be turned off but wasn't.

"Oh, Glenn, Glenn, get that before it wakes the baby! It's in my purse."

The newly frantic man rushed over to the bundle of personal items and retrieved the phone. He handed it to his wife who, after looking at the caller ID, answered happily.

"Chris, I'm so glad you called. Yes, I had the baby. Yes. Mmhmm. Okay. I will."

After Kathleen shut the phone, she answered her husband's raised eyebrows. "He wants us to name the baby after him."

Glenn was going to say no way, that the baby was theirs not his wife's deadbeat brother's, but he didn't. The more the name Chris sank in, the more he realized it was perfect. No one could make fun of a kid called Chris. He imagined being in the backyard playing catch, shouting for Chris to straighten out his arm, to throw with a bit less curve and a bit more force.

"Yes," he affirmed finally after completely his fantasy.

"What?" questioned his startled spouse. "You're actually considering it? I thought you hated my brother."

"I'm not saying we should name him Christian," he explained. "I think we should name him Christopher."

"Please, no. Christopher was such a popular name a while back and I don't want his future teachers thinking me a follower of a fad. It's even worse if you're the last person on the bandwagon."

"Well, it's either Christopher or just Chris."

Kathleen sighed. Either was she had lost. She didn't like the name Christopher for its previous popularity and she was fiercely against nickname-y names. They might as well slap a sign on him that said FUTURE SLACKER and be done with it.

Tears started to well up in Kathleen's azure eyes either from an abundance of hormones or the distress of not getting her way. Whichever cause made Glenn feel horrible. He truly had no right to solely decide their son's name. Who had, in fact, carried the little tyke for nine months?

"Shh. Shh. It's okay," Glenn murmured, squishing the bundled newborn a bit as he hugged his wife. He kissed the fuzz-topped head of his son and said, "I'll tell you what, I'll go buy us a baby book and we'll look at it for a bit. Maybe there's a better full name for Chris."

"Sure," Kathleen sniffled in response.

A bit later Glenn reentered the room with a tiny bag. He pulled his treasure out of the plastic covering and proudly said, "I had to fight for this, Kathy. Seems a few other parents haven't decided yet either."

Kathleen didn't comment on the fact that he only had names A through D or that most pages were grimy and some torn. Instead she nervously flicked to the C's and contemplated the whole ordeal.

"Well," she started, "I suppose Christopher isn't so bad, but what about Christophe?"

The father grinned. "Perfect. We can call him Chris but his name will still be totally original. I mean, what American names their kid after the French culture?"

More discussions were made considering the middle name and eventually someone ended up signing the birth certificate to Christophe Hugo Jones. The nurse on duty did not even blink when she heard the name given to the boy; she was accustomed to parents and their outlandish ways to be different. Ironically, in their attempt to be different, they usually picked the same names. But typing the names into the database was just her job and nothing more so she had no emotions as she clicked away.

After a few more hours at the hospital, the Joneses were finally able to leave. The doctor was sure to give instructions, and possibly a prescription for mild pain killers, and so they all lingered behind waiting for the moment the doctor had a free moment and checked in.

Because she was still a bit tired, Kathleen was propped up in a chair. On the other hand, Glenn, a natural father, was gently cradling Chris as he slowly paced the room.

A few thumps were heard outside the door and Glenn stopped moving his feet and turned toward the door.

The flimsy door was flung open and several men dressed in dark clothes entered.

"We are here for ze child," said the one who had entered first.

Kathleen leapt from her position but the speaker quickly pulled a gun from his pocket. She gasped. Guns meant business especially in a hospital. She slowly sank back into the chair.

"Wh-- who are you? Why are you here?" Kathleen stumbled.

"Get ze child," the ringleader motioned to another.

The appointed one moved forward to take the baby from its father but Glenn tried to hold his ground. He tried as hard as someone can with seven pounds' worth of precious balanced in their arms.

Glenn inevitably had to give up Christophe when the gun was pointed at him.

Both mother and father were wailing with tears as the men moved toward the exit.

"But why?" they both screeched.

"You make ze mistake of naming him Chreestophe. Et iz our national pride. He iz our property now."

And with that the four men left the room.

After a few seconds the weight of what had happened sank deeply in and Glenn ran to the corridor expecting to see the esoteric men in black. But he didn't see four men stealing another baby from someone else nor did he see them entering the elevator shaft with his son or bunches of passed out bodies in the hallway.

He only saw the stark white of the hallways and the bustling people moving about unaffected.