Lance

There's a guy who works in my building. Let's call him Barry. It's ok for me to call him Barry for now, even though that's not his name, because for one; I am acknowledging that Barry is not his real name in protection of his identity. And two; I am not personally addressing him as Barry, leaving him to wonder, "Why is he calling me Barry? That's not my name."
Strangely, as you are about to discover, this leads me to the crux of the matter:
Starting sometime around 5 years ago, Barry, a virtual stranger to me, would pass by in the aisle or the stairwell. A pattern began of him saying things to me things like, "How's it going, Lance?" or "What's up, Lance?" or "Hello, Lance."
And this is very strange. Of course, my main concern here is that my name is not and never has been: Lance. What's more: of the several hundred people who work in my building NONE of them are named Lance or even Lancelot, Lancebert, Lancington or anything close.
I remain unable to concoct a single theory as to how Barry first came to think of me as Lance. However, he's, no doubt, continued in this regard, because over the 5-year period I never said to him, "Hey, incidentally, Man, my name isn’t Lance."
That’s right, never once.
Initially I was afraid to create an awkward situation. I mean here is this guy trying his best to be friendly. Not knowing me, he goes out of his way with a personal touch to address me by name, its utter inaccuracy notwithstanding.
I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. I imagined him awkwardly fumbling about saying, "Oh jeeze, I'm sorry. @m, huh? Why'n the world did I think you were Lance?"
I just couldn’t so cruelly push a stranger into such self-doubt. I even felt kind of guilty for not being named Lance, wondering if it was even healthy for me to be so particular about what people call me.
It went on and on like that until it was just too late to ever go back. You can’t try to correct a 5-year long relationship that’s not a relationship if it’s built on a lie.
How unbalanced would I appear to be if after half a decade into our little agreement I inform Barry from out of nowhere that he’s been calling me by the name of a fictitious person all this time? I can not do it, so I’ve sold my soul to the Coward’s Charade.
There’s nothing left for me now but to spend the rest of my career hoping that Barry doesn’t call me Lance in front of some pain-in-the-A overachiever who happens to know my real name and immediately insists on getting to the bottom of the Lance thing.
“Lance!?!? Why’re you calling him Lance?” he’ll say.
Barry will reply matter-of-factly, “His NAME is Lance.”
“The hell it is!” will be Asspain’s prompt reply “That’s not his first OR last name. And if he had a nickname it wouldn’t be after something sharp!” laughing long and forcefully at his own stupid joke.
Then before you know it after a couple more perplexed exchanges they’ll both be looking at me, quizzically, as if all of a sudden remembering me from such films as ‘Awakenings’ and “’One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.’

I hate that look.