My name is not Mike.

The title of this blog reflects one of the first experiences I had as a bartender in a small, Minnesota farming town.  My name is Alan.  I am affectionately known as Mike, the bartender.  Since this is the original experience that led me to think I ought to be writing this stuff down, here is how I came by that occupational moniker.
Every small town bar has its regulars.  They don't think of themselves as the town drunks, but that's essentially what they are.  Its what the people who live in the town and don't go to the bar almost every day think of them.
One of these regulars, who's nickname he shares with a famous serial killer and has a hard time with long sentences or multi-syllabic words was in on one of my first nights.  It was moderately busy, and I was working with the assistant manager, Dave.  It wasn't my first night, but close to it.  I had worked a couple of day shifts already and this was my second or third night.
Serial Killer, the nickname I'll use here, was sitting at the bar and had already disposed of several shots of Jagermeister and as many or more cans of Coors Light.  He asked me what my name was, adding that he was probably not going to remember it anyway.  Wanting to keep things simple, I replied that my name was Al.  I had been briefed that the fewest letters and the fewest number of words at once was the best way to ensure understanding with Serial Killer.
He nodded, shook my hand and said nice to meet you.  He went back to his drinking and cursing about whatever it is farmers curse about.  I hadn't figured that out yet.
A little while later, a different patron of the bar sitting near Serial Killer asked me what my name was.  The regulars don't want to refer to you as "Hey, Bartender" and six months later I know almost everyone that comes into the bar and what they drink.  I told the new questioner that my name was Alan.  Upon overhearing this, Serial Killer looked up from his empty shot-glass and warm Coors can and said "You fucking liar, you told me your name was Al!"
The couple of people who knew what was going on and knew himlaughed and told me not to even try to explain it, so I didn't.  But he continued, "Hey, Mike, I need a beer and another shot."  I wasn't sure he was talking to me, but Dave was out of earshot, making me the only thing nearby that resembled a bartender.   "I'll get ya, man!" I said.  "Thanks, Mike." he replied.
Over the next few weeks, Serial Killer continued to call me Mike. He said I looked more like a Mike than an Al or Alan anyway.  The hilarious part is that several other regulars that I either hadn't met or didn't know well yet thought my name actually was Mike from hearing him address me as such.  A few of them I corrected, others I just let it go.  Its become kind of a running joke over the last few months.  I respond to bartender, Al, Alan and Mike now.