Do the children call me Harry because one of their parents mistakenly told them it was my name? Do they have me confused with someone else? As far as I can tell, no one else in this neighborhood is named Harry.

Do they find it humorous to call me by this name? Perhaps it is a reference to one of their classmates or a teacher or a character on TV or a doll. Perhaps I remind them of someone named Harry. Perhaps they find amusement in this.

I do not know what it means when the neighbor children call me Harry. My name isn’t Henry or Harris or Harrison or anything with Harry as a diminutive.

I know full well that I should have corrected them the first time they called out "Harry!" as I walked past the playground next to my home. I thought at first they were directing their shouts at someone else, but as I stood on my porch, unlocking the door, the children said the name several times. I looked over toward the playground and saw that all of the children — there must have been six or seven of them on that day — had stopped swinging and sliding and playing in the sand. All of them were looking at me, their hands cupped to their mouths as they said "Harry!" as loud as they could. When I glanced at them, they stopped saying the name for a second and then broke out into giggles. I looked toward the street and looked behind me, still thinking there might be someone else named Harry nearby. No one else was around.

That was when I should have told the children my true name or asked them what they meant by calling me Harry. Instead, I shrugged it off as harmless mischief. Let children be children, I thought. Let children use the name Harry for people who are not named Harry. After all, they're only kids; what can one expect?

As I entered my house, the children seemed to return their attention to the playground equipment. I did not tell Angela what had happened, but I believe she sensed that something was bothering me. When we made love that night, it almost allowed me to forget what had happened during the day, but afterward, when the two of us were lying side by side in bed, I whispered "Harry" to myself.

"What did you say, Gene?" Angela said.

"Nothing."

As I pulled my car up to the curb in front of the playground, I could hear their yells — even with my windows rolled up and my radio on. I looked furtively toward the swing sets and the jungle gym and saw a sight much like the one I’d observed from my porch earlier in the week. The children had paused in their play and were raising their voices in cries of "Harry!" There were more of them this time, a good dozen or more. They seemed to be watching me, eagerly anticipating the moment when I would step out of the car. I put the car back into drive and pulled out of the parking spot. I drove on, not sure of where I would go but certain that I could not go back into my house at that moment, unless I could sneak into the back door from the alley. Even doing that might draw their attention and more calls of "Harry!"

Instead I went to the tavern, where I knew no children would taunt me and people would call me by my correct name. Actually, no one in the bar knew my name, and the few people with whom I spoke used no name at all when addressing me or relied upon a generic term like "Bud" or "Dude." But at least they did not call me Harry. I called Angela from the bar and made up an excuse for why I was coming home late. I did not much enjoy sitting there and drinking the beer, because nothing in the dark, smoky room was interesting enough to hold my attention for more than a minute or two, but I stayed there until it was late and I was confident the children had abandoned their positions in the park. I returned home and though the playground indeed was empty, still I nervously scanned all directions around me as I unlocked the front door of the house. It was mercifully quiet.

Though I dreaded going through another scene like those of the previous days, I exited my car and walked hurriedly past the play lot, up my porch steps and into the house, trying as hard as I could to act as if I didn’t notice the chorus of children screaming "Harry!" at the full force of their lungs.

"Why have the children singled me out?" I thought.

"Peculiar?" she said. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, it’s just that they seem to make an awful lot of noise every time they see me, every time I walk by."

"Kids are always making a lot of noise."

"Do you ever notice the kids on the playground yelling out anything strange?"

"Strange? Like what?"

"Oh, I don’t know. They just seem a little strange to me."

"It’s just kids being kids."

"That's what I thought at first, but, but — oh, I don't know. I guess it's not important."

Angela gave me one of those looks, the kind that indicates I shouldn't pursue another one of my odd lines of conversation. I was not finding Angela to be very supportive in this situation.

I came upon a young woman who looked vaguely familiar, someone from the neighborhood I had probably met once, but whose name escaped me. She was walking toward me with a boy of about 5 or 6, coming down the sidewalk in the direction opposite from my own. I recognized the boy as one of those who had hung from the bars of the jungle gym during one of the previous "incidents." I imagined he would be embarrassed to see me in the presence of his mother, to be reminded of a shameful act he had perpetuated. I thought he would fear that I would reprimand him and that his mother would bring punishment down upon him. This did not, however, turn out to be his attitude at all. He was blithely unaware, glancing at me as if I were any other stranger out taking a stroll. He was either putting on an excellent act of innocence or he really did not realize I was the same man he and his accomplices had called Harry only a few days prior.

I stared intensely at the boy, hoping I might catch him letting down his guard, but he did not slip. I noticed his mother had noticed my staring, and had a somewhat troubled expression, so I immediately shifted my attention to her, smiling and introducing myself as if nothing strange were happening at all, nothing strange at all.

The only thing is, that since I was thinking so much at that moment about this whole Harry situation, I misspoke. I extended my hand toward her for an awkwardly formal handshake and said, "Hi. Remember me? I'm Harry—"

Yes, I called myself Harry. I darted my eyes toward the boy, but even now, he betrayed no sign of his previous behavior.

I corrected myself and laughed, acting as if it were the most natural thing in the world to accidentally call oneself Harry when that was not in fact one's real name. The woman — she said her name was Julie — laughed too, though I believe she found the whole encounter odd.

"My name's actually, uh, it's actually Gene. Or Eugene," I said. "Ha. That's funny. I was just thinking about how, uh, someone used to call me Harry by mistake, because that's not really my name, and so when I introduced myself to you just now, for some reason, the name Harry blurted out. How stupid of me..." I hurried along, anxious to end our encounter.

"Just one thing," I said. "Would you mind not calling me Gene any longer? I think I'd like to try out another name for a change, just to see what it's like, and..."

Angela put one of her fingers to my mouth and smiled. "Don't say another word. I know just what you mean. How about if I call you ... Harry?"

I suppose I should have felt a sense of shock, but it seemed so natural, as if I were waking from a dream in which I'd thought my name was Eugene when in fact it had been Harry all along. I shrugged my shoulders and said, "OK." Harry is certainly not the name I would have selected for myself if I'd been given a choice, but it didn't appear that I had much say in the matter. I wondered briefly if Angela and those playground miscreants were in cahoots, but the idea seemed too absurd. Something else was at work here.

I know full well that I should have corrected her and told her that my name was not Mr. Trumbull. That was when I should have told her my true name or asked her what she meant by calling me Mr. Trumbull. I shrugged it off as harmless mischief. Let children be children, I thought.