My sister Allison comes home for the weekend. Stuck in traffic on the 405, she mentions a strip mall.
“The one with Humphreys?
“Yeah,” Allison says.
She reminisces about Humphrey Yogart.
I mock her pronunciation. She hits the a-r sound hard, like she saying cart.
She says they called it that because of Humphrey Bogart. “Everyone knows that,” she adds.
Nobody knows that, because it’s not true.
She insists it is true. For this, Allison cites a source: a high school friend. She uses the girl’s first and last name, so the information is obviously correct.
Except, the weird thing is Humphreys doesn’t do a single thing to let you know it’s a tribute to the actor. There are no images of Bogie in the store. Nothing is named after Bogart, or any of his films. “There is no Maltese FalCone,” I say.
Nobody bothers to Google it, so my joke wins the argument for the weekend. But when my sister leaves, I get an awful feeling in the pit of my stomach. What if she was right? She would cackle at me the way only a sibling can. She would lord this fact over me from now until the end of time. She would pretty much own my ass whenever the topic of frozen yogurt, or really any dairy-based frozen desserts, comes up. So I Googled it.
Allison, if you’re reading this, I was right.
Tell your friend, too.