“Can I get a name for the order?” The theater lobby smelled of butter and youth. Still, a name is a name. I straightened, and gave mine its full weight. “Nobunaga.” The girl smiled, tapped her screen, and a minute later called it proudly across the lobby: “NACHO! Order for Nacho!” A tray of chips. Before a hundred strangers clutching popcorn, the Demon King had been summoned to collect nachos. (A lesser man might have died on the spot. I merely considered it.) But the lobby had heard it now. To deny it would make a scene — and a samurai does not make a scene over cheese. “Yes,” I said, rising like a man called to the front. “I am Nacho.” And if I was to be Nacho, I would be a Nacho of unshakable honor. Greatness is not in the name they shout. It is in how quickly you stand when they shout it. So I rose every time, instantly, with the readiness of a man who has waited his whole life to be needed. (It was always my order. There is only one Nacho.) I gave my place in line to a mother holding twins. I caught a falling drink before it hit the floor. When a small boy spilled his popcorn and his lip began to tremble, I knelt, gathered what I could, and told him gravely that even great houses have lost a battle of popcorn, and risen again. He laughed through his tears. “You’re really kind,” his mom said. “What’s your name?” “...Nacho,” I admitted. “Cool name.” “It is from a very old family,” I said, and let her keep the warmer half of it. At the door, tray in hand, I turned to that bright, noisy lobby full of strangers chasing two hours of joy, and gave them the only line I had: “Answer to any name they give you — but answer like the name is lucky to be yours.” A kid clapped. The girl at the counter laughed. “...enjoy the movie, Nacho.” I did. The name was small. I decided I would not be.