If I haven't gone to another counter yet, I snarl apologetically and try reaching over her to get what I want. Sometimes I think I could run out into the street crying "Help me please I'm on fire!" and people would just stand there watching me burn, saying "Where are you from?"

THE BIGGEST nightmare, however, is going to parties here. I always run into some poor girl foolish enough to ask me my name. This may seem like an innocuous, everyday event, but its effect is always an evil one. For example:

"Hi, I'm Muffin Rockefeller. What's your name?"

This is a critical moment, and it leaves me with two alternatives. The first of these, the autistic imitation, seldom works, so I grit my teeth and opt for the second. "Ben Smith."

She stares incredulously, eyebrows flying upwards, "Bane Smith?"

If I am not already home in bed by now, I blush and stammer "No; Ben."

"Bane Ben??!!"

You can see how it goes.

In response to this dazzling array of horrors, I have thought up numerous ways to protect myself. An easy way to stop the "where are you from?" ordeal dead in its tracks is to say "Latvia." If they persist, demanding "Then where did you get that accent?" "Djakarta" and "Where did you get those teeth?" are personal favorites.

But even this is not enough. I can envision a placard hanging around my neck saying:

"Yes, I am from the South, No, I do not know your uncle in Mobile. No, I was not born there. Both of my parents, in fact, are literate. No, I do not like Molly Hatchet. No, I do not watch 'Hee Haw.' No, I do not own slaves. No, I do not want any. Thank you very much. Have a nice day."

No, that wouldn't do, because everyone would think someone else had written it for me, probably so I wouldn't have to memorize it.

I guess I could do a lot of things. I could start a Redneck Table at my house. I could tell everyone that it is unfair to judge someone by his or her accent, and whatever that type of accent may imply to you.

But I think I'll just sit back and smile, and when you take that vacation this summer, and your Mercedes pulls up in front of my gas station, it will be my turn.

"Hey, y'all fum Massytoosits! Dy all know Larry Bird?"