Peter, Not Pete

Peter at Bemelmans Bar at the Carlyle in NYC;
Pete would be at a random sports bar back in Cleveland.

I’m a Peter, not a Pete. I bristle at being called "Pete."

I recently phoned a restaurant to place a carryout order. When the woman on the line looked up my number, she asked, “What are you in the mood for today, Pete?”

I was not in the mood to be called “Pete.” The audacity! I immediately corrected her. She probably thought I was being a prickly Peter, but I didn’t care.

“Pete” is overly familiar. To my ears, it also sounds kind of dumb. I associate “Pete” with being a dumb jock.

We used to have a Dominican man who worked for us. Every time he saw me, he triple-“Peted” me:

“Hey, Pete. How you doing, Pete? Haven’t seen you in a while, Pete.” 

This made my shoulders hunch, and my hands tighten into fists.

For all that, I once introduced myself as “Pete.” It was when I met my college roommates for the first time in 1980. I was nervous and thought “Pete” made me sound less uptight, like someone you'd want to room with.

But “Pete” didn’t stick. Even then, my roommates and other college peers saw through the posturing and gravitated toward “Peter.”

Three people have called me “Pete.” My mother. She was allowed. My sister. Ditto. And Joe. For them, “Pete” is a term of familiarity and endearment.

But don’t go there if you’re not a family member.

Pete Davidson, Pete Weintz, Pete Townshend, and Pete Rose – good for them. They can be “Pete.”

I would rather be in the company of Peter the Great, Peter Frampton, Peter Parker, and Peter Pan. Oh, and Saint Peter.

It’s a tricky, nuanced matter, this Peter/Pete dichotomy. But if you’re taking my order in a restaurant or meeting me for the first time, it’s best not to “Pete” me. My tolerance might just Peter out.

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