“Thanks Mr. Henshaw.”

There is a secret about me that you all don’t know about. I have a wife. Her name is Katrina Henshaw. She lives in Richland, WA. And every time I shop at Safeway, they call me Mr. Henshaw.

No, I don’t really have a wife. But I do get called Mr. Henshaw every time I shop at Safeway. See, I never updated the phone number on my Safeway Club Card from the phone number we had in high school. I have used this number all through college, graduate school, and through today. And sometime during the fall of 2004, Katrina Henshaw was assigned our old phone number and signed up for a Safeway Club Card.

Hence Mr. Henshaw. I don’t know anything about Katrina, other than her phone number. And I find it jarring every time they call me Mr. Henshaw. Even after seven years. I must shop at Safeway at least twice a week and it is “Thanks Mr. Henshaw,” every time.

I know that I should just get a new club card. But I’m unwilling to let go one of the remaining pieces from that period in my life. We sold the house we lived in while I was in high school. They remodeled the school and tore down the music room. My high school car, a red and white Ford Thunderbird, leaks gas and is covered in dusty boxes. My Homecoming and Prom dates are married and have kids.

This is ridiculous, I know. But if I must be called Mr. Henshaw twice a week to keep a piece from my past, then so be it. It is a small price to pay for one last connection to home.