My Real Name Is...

So I was shopping at the grocery store the other day when a little old Italian man came up to me and asked "Excusa me, miss, ah, but woulda you happen, ah, to know where I canna get some, ah, facial crema?"

"Sure!" I said. "Just let me grab this deoderant real quick, and we'll go look for your face cream."

"Ah, thanka you, thanka you," said the man. "You know what?"

"What?" I said.

"You were given, ah, the wronga name," he said, gesturing in a way that only old Italian men do.

"When you were, ah, born, ah, you were born with, ah, clear eyes. Eyes with no color. Did you know that?" he asked.

I shook my head, bemused.

"And, ah, the good Lord, he ah said, ahhhh! I will take the blue from the sky and I will put it in her eyes," he said.

"And so you had, ah, blue eyes! And when they went, ah, to name you, they didn't know your name was Perfecto! And so they gave you the name you go by now. But you should, ah, go to the courts. Yes! Go to the courts and demand that your name be changed back! Because it is not, ah, right for you to go by that other name," he declared.

"Er, thank you," I said, blushing. "Thank you very much." Feeling rather common after that speech, I added "Uh, here's that face cream," as I handed it down to him.

The man blessed me, dramatically told me to follow my dreams, and we parted ways.

At the cash register, as I was being rung up, I saw him in the next lane over. He was speaking to the cashier, a pretty black girl with long braids.

Faintly, from a distance, I heard him begin.

"Do you know what?" he asked her. "You were given, ah, the wronga name..."