My family calls me Declan. But most people call me E.C. I think

Host: The evening light filters through the small pub window, painting everything in amber hues — the polished wood, the brass handles, the slow swirl of smoke curling from the candles on each table. The faint hum of a folk tune plays from an old jukebox, half-drowned beneath the low murmur of conversation and laughter.

In the corner booth, under a framed photograph of Dublin’s River Liffey, Jack sits with a pint of stout half-empty before him. His gray eyes are reflective tonight, not cold — softened by the comfort of whiskey and nostalgia. Across from him, Jeeny sits in the soft glow of the candlelight, her dark hair shimmering like ink, her small hands wrapped around a glass of wine she hasn’t yet touched.

Between them lies a newspaper clipping, slightly yellowed, folded neatly in half. Jeeny smooths it open, revealing the quote at its center, underlined in red:

“My family calls me Declan. But most people call me E.C. I think it comes from my dad. It’s an Irish convention. You usually call the first child by the initials.” — Elvis Costello

Host: The music shifts, blending into a soft instrumental version of “Alison.” The candle flickers. The quote sits between them like a gentle secret — simple, almost ordinary — yet heavy with memory and identity, with all the names we wear like armor and inheritance.

Jack: [grinning faintly] “Declan McManus. Imagine that — one of the greatest lyricists alive, and half the world doesn’t even know his real name.”

Jeeny: [smiling softly] “Maybe that’s the beauty of it. Two names, two selves. One for the world, one for the heart.”

Jack: [leans back] “Or maybe it’s just convenience. ‘E.C.’ sounds better on a record sleeve than ‘Declan.’ Artists have been reinventing themselves since the first man found a stage.”

Jeeny: [tilting her head] “You think it’s reinvention? I think it’s preservation. Sometimes a name isn’t disguise — it’s protection. It’s how you keep a part of yourself untouched by the noise.”

Jack: [pauses, studying her] “You mean, like the difference between who you are and who you show?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The name your family calls you by is the name that still believes in you. The other one — the public one — that’s who you become to survive.”

Jack: [staring into his glass] “So Declan belongs to his father. But E.C. belongs to the crowd.”

Jeeny: [softly] “Yes. And maybe he needs both. Every artist does. You can’t stay whole if you live only for the applause — but you can’t stay alive if you never step into it.”

Host: The light shifts, and the pub grows quieter as the night deepens. The laughter fades; even the music seems to lower its volume out of respect for the intimacy of their exchange.

Jack: [sighs] “It’s strange, isn’t it? How much power names hold. How they can divide you, define you, even rewrite you. When you think of Elvis Costello, you don’t see Declan. You see the glasses, the wit, the edge. The constructed man.”

Jeeny: [smiles knowingly] “But behind that edge was always Declan — the boy who listened to his father’s records, who learned to find himself in other people’s songs. The artist is the echo; the child is the source.”

Jack: [softly] “And sometimes the echo gets louder than the voice.”

Jeeny: [nods] “That’s fame — the sound of your reflection outgrowing your body.”

Host: A gust of wind rattles the pub door. Someone laughs at the bar; the jukebox skips. For a brief moment, the candle between them sputters, then steadies.

Jack: [quietly] “You know, I’ve always thought names are like songs — they only mean something when someone calls them. You can tell who still loves you by who still uses the old one.”

Jeeny: [smiling sadly] “Yes. ‘Declan’ was probably his mother’s voice, maybe his father’s. But ‘Elvis’ — that’s the crowd, the critics, the world calling him back onstage. Different kinds of love. Both real. Both demanding.”

Jack: [takes a sip of his drink] “It’s funny. When I was a kid, my dad used to call me ‘Jackie.’ I hated it. Made me sound small. Then he died, and no one called me that again. Now I’d give anything to hear it one more time.”

Jeeny: [softly, reaching across the table] “That’s what family names do. They remind you of the version of yourself that existed before the world taught you how to harden.”

Jack: [half-smiling] “Before you learned to need armor.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The camera drifts toward the window, where the rain has begun — slow, delicate drops tracing patterns down the glass. Beyond the pane, the city glows like a dream — blurred lights, a thousand unnamed souls moving beneath umbrellas, each carrying their own private name no one knows.

Jack: [watching the rain] “Maybe that’s why he said it came from his dad — not the fame, but the initials. A kind of inheritance. A small, secret way of saying, I come from somewhere real.”

Jeeny: [nodding] “Yes. The initials weren’t about branding — they were about belonging. About keeping family stitched into your identity, even when the world tries to rename you.”

Jack: [softly] “So E.C. is still Declan. Just... dressed for the stage.”

Jeeny: [smiles] “And Declan still lives in every note that breaks when he sings.”

Host: The music fades, leaving only the quiet hum of conversation from the bar, the rain tapping against glass, the candle’s faint hiss. Jeeny takes a slow sip of her wine, then looks at Jack with that knowing softness that breaks through his cynicism.

Jeeny: “You know, I think names are like bridges. You need one foot on who you were and one foot on who you’re becoming. Without both, you fall.”

Jack: [smiling faintly] “And what about you, Jeeny? Which name do you live by — the one the world knows, or the one no one hears?”

Jeeny: [her eyes glimmer] “Both. I let the world call me what it needs to. But I save my real name for those who see me when I’m silent.”

Host: The candle flame flickers, then steadies again — small, defiant, and unwavering. The camera pulls back, the two of them still there, two souls discussing identity in a world that constantly rewrites its own story.

Host: Elvis Costello’s words remain, deceptively simple yet achingly human — a reminder that every name carries history, and every self wears more than one face.

That the artist and the child are never separate — only layered.
That even fame begins as family.
And that the names we answer to are less important than the hearts that still call us home.

Host: The scene fades to the soft rain outside, the glow of the pub’s neon sign reflected on wet pavement — the last whisper of the song lingering like memory:

“Somewhere, the world calls you E.C.
But the people who love you —
they’ll always call you Declan.”