My younger brother was Bob Owens. I admired him for many reasons, one being his simple, easy to spell name. Unlike mine, Jack Owens.
When I made my first all star baseball team in West Chester, Pennsylvania, playing first base in my teens, I was introduced over the PA system as Bill Owens. Adding further intrigue, the league itself was named the Midget League. I was Bill Owens in the Midget League.
In the back of my senior yearbook at American University, where accomplishments were listed, my name shone forth as Hack Owens. From that time forward, over beers and grab butt, my brother called me Hack.
I took a slew of photographs of my 6 children when they were glowing up. I was always getting film developed. Remember film? Once, dropping off a role at a lab, a smiling, nice lady said, “Name please?” “Jack Owens,” I replied, clearly. “Thank you Mr. Morgan,” she said.
Unlike my brother, who never had his name mangled or dropped into the abyss, I experienced a bevy of names over the decades. Picking up a prescription, the pharmacist could not locate my envelop. Finally, after looking through dozens, he triumphantly proclaimed, “Here, I’ve found it Mr. Jackos.”
Collecting concert tickets at will call, I became Mr. Orange. I have been drop kicked as the following persons at various venues: Jack Klieg, Mr. Hans, Jack Alleno, Jack Zees, and Jackowens.
When I retired from the FBI after 30 years as an agent, I was not worried about a bureaucratic snafu in the paper work until I noted the name on the retirement documents: Jack Owens. Jack Owens? Who in the heck is he?