On a Roll

My father wanted to name me after his brother, my Uncle Bob. In fact, he insisted on it, and that was how I became christened Robert Timothy Piatt, and how I am known by Kaiser, the IRS, the DMV, and various employers.

The problem was, my mother was an excellent judge of character, recognized my uncle for the scoundrel that he was, and insisted that I would be known as Rob, Bob, or Bobby over her dead body. My parents compromised on the diminutive of my middle name; and from the day they brought me home from the hospital, until now and every day in between, I have been plain old Tim Piatt. The unintended consequence of that decision has been considerable abuse, because most people missed the memo and have not called me Tim at all, but by my initials — T.P.

Just to make it clear, there are two pronunciations of T.P. The first is poetically trochaic, which means the stress is upon the first syllable – TEE pee. You would use that to describe a conical dwelling covered in buffalo hides in common use by the Native Americans of the Great Plains, also known as a wigwam.

On the other hand, my initials are iambic, which means the stress is on the second syllable – tee PEE. Just imagine the teasing and derision I have suffered, because of the popular use of my initials to describe a very ordinary but necessary paper product, which has been in great demand during the current pandemic. In fact, my initials are in such common usage that the Oxford English Dictionary has expanded the classification of the product they describe as being not just a noun, but also a verb.

“Friday night! What’s happenin’?”

“We’re going to T.P. the principal’s house. Wanna come?”

Because of my popular nickname, this emptying of the shelves in the paper aisles is fascinating. While wearing a mask and keeping my social distance, I conducted my own research as to the reasons for this toilet tissue buying frenzy and have found that most people are not selfishly hoarding tissue at all. They have perfectly reasonable explanations for this recent rush on my namesake necessity.

For example, do you see the woman over there in checkout line #12? She has six or seven enormous bundles, at least 200 rolls. It turns out that she is the little old lady who lives in a shoe. She has so many children that countless others have assumed she does not know what to do. They are wrong; she knows exactly what to do. She comes to Costco.

And the young lady in checkout line #5? She is the president of the club who will be decorating the principal’s house and yard tonight.

And that guy on #6 who is tenderly cradling his bathroom tissue? He is among those folks who are stressed to the max in these uncertain times. They seek solace from the isolation of social distancing. They succumb to certain fetishes and find it therapeutic to repeatedly, and at the same time very gently, squeeze the “Charmin.”

Others have shared with me that toilet paper is very versatile. You can blow your nose on it; sheet for sheet it is cheaper than Kleenex. You can dry your tears, remove your mascara, use it touch the buttons on the ATM, stick a little piece on your chin when you cut yourself shaving, and still have enough left over for your grandson to wrap you up like a mummy.

Over time, T.P. has been much-maligned product; but its many uses have taught me to be proud of my nickname and to stop blaming my parents for the bullying which I encountered from junior high on. My only real regret is that I did not have the foresight to protect my nickname with a copyright application. Just think! If all these people had to pay me royalties, I would be wiping up financially.