Name Change
I went down to the courthouse to change my name. I wanted a new name. I was tired of mine, Jeff. It now sounded frowsty and old fashioned. I wanted a cool name again. Like Liam, Rowen, or Ryker. Or maybe Beckett. The lady behind the window made me sign a form and that was that. I was no longer Jeff. For the time being, nameless. But when I went to submit my new name she asked me for a bunch of corroborating documents that I didn’t have. I’m very sorry, she said. There was nothing anyone could do. She was simply following policy. Ok then, I said. Maybe I’ll track down all these stupid papers. Come back tomorrow. Just then, two large men in quasi-law enforcement uniforms appeared next to me and asked where exactly did I think I was going? Home, I said. Do you have any forms of identification? I pulled out my driver's license and they looked at me funny over the top of the card. This isn’t you, they said. And they were right. It wasn’t me. At least not anymore. I tried to explain that I was in a sort of a transition period in terms of identity, but they weren’t having any of it. But by now they had me in cuffs and a black hood and they led me to the back of a steel gray paddy wagon. On the way to the detention facility some guy in back tried to interrogate me for a while. The old fingernail extraction trick. The old waterboard treatment. But you can’t torture an truthful answer out of kindness. It will just tell you whatever it is you needed to hear. When we got to the facility I was hosed down and sprayed for lice. Handed a crude outfit made of rough canvas. A number was branded to my forearm and then I was directed to a cell on the third floor. Once the swelling went down I spent a few moments every night staring at my number. It’s not one I would have picked. Just a bland assortment of 8 random numbers. Everybody in here has one. We go by each other’s first three digits because it’s too hard to memorize all 8. In here, I’m 772. I have a poker game every Thursday morning in the yard with 349, 901, and 635. Sometimes I see people in here I know from before. We always greet each other in silent gravity. It’s disrespectful to use our dead names. In any event, I don't think I’ll be here very much longer. I’ve found an escape route. Blowing this popsicle stand next full moon. When I leave here I’ll sear the numbers on my arm to an inscrutable black eschar. From then on, no name, number or mountain themed pictogram will ever capture my essence. I’ll remain nameless. Numberless. Except to you. I’ll answer to whichever name you choose.
3/17/25