“Count Lipschitz is on the phone,” Sue yelled. There was an unsaid “again” in her voice. He is becoming a pest, always calling just as I’m going out the door or just when dinner is ready. It’s uncanny how he knows exactly when I shut the door to the bathroom. He never wants anything, he just wants to chat about what he and Lady Lipschitz did last night — usually something I’m not interested in, like a masquerade ball or a dog show or a single-malt scotch tasting.

Count Lipschitz is not royalty; that’s just his first name. His parents had the wisdom to realize that with a name like that, he could get preferential treatment his whole life. Sure enough, he got into the most exclusive private kindergarten in his hometown of Newark, N.J. without having to supply seven character references and tons of financial statements like the other kids. They even gave him a scholarship. He can call the most popular, exclusive restaurant in the world and get a reservation instantly. Sometimes he doesn’t even have to pay. People fawn over him as if he were Pippa Middleton in a thong. He’s never had a job, yet he never goes hungry.

I suppose his parents could have named him Doctor Lipschitz or Cardinal Lipschitz or General Lipschitz and gotten some of the same effects — the instantly returned phone calls, the not-so-subtle sucking up, the feeling that when people ask “How can I help you?” they actually mean it.