“Hello, I’m Micah, what is your name Sir?” After loitering unshaken, my palm blushed
and returned to its pocket. The man responded
“I don’t have a name.”
“Oh, well, what have people called you your whole life?”
“I don’t wish to be bothered.”
And that bothered me. Not his lack of courtesy but his namelessness.
Were his parents really that indecisive?
Maybe he has a name and just likes messing with people’s heads.
Maybe his stone cold persona is a façade as he snickers on the inside knowing I’m trying
to figure out how or if to respond.
Maybe, he’s a junior, named after the piece of scum that left his mom.
Maybe he’d rather be called nothing at all than the name of the man who abandoned him,
or body slammed him, or touched his private parts.
Maybe his name rhymes with some type of private part.
Maybe he’s still traumatized by the jingle kids sung on the jungle gym.
Maybe he has a lisp and can’t pronounce his own name right so he refuses to try.
Maybe he’s been called everything except his name for so long that he forgot what it was.
Maybe he’d be quicker to answer to bastard, or nigger, or hobo, or bum.
Maybe he had some regrets and sees everyone as a threat, afraid of what we would do if
we knew who he was, or what he’s done.
But speculation is dangerous, so regardless to the series of events leading to his present
state, this man claims to be nameless. And he doesn’t wish to be bothered.
Nor does he bother to wish.
He just sits, hoping to be ignored, or, expecting to.
Because before I made an exit, he found me, and apologized for being so rude.
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