What’s in a Name
This is written in response to challenge #4, “Good Ole What’s-Their-Name.” First person to guess the name gets a prize! Response form at the bottom of the page.
See that man over there? Yeah, the one in the corner booth, reading the newspaper.
Okay, well, don’t stare.
Did he see you?
No? Good.
Oh. No. He did.
He’s coming over. Just ignore him. Maybe he’ll go away.
Hello. What’s your name?
I said just ignore him. Just keep looking at me, don’t look up – why are you looking up?
WHY ARE YOU LOOKING UP?
Don’t worry about your friend here. It’s good that they’re so protective of you. I understand why. It’s probably a little strange for someone to come up like I did. I apologize. I have very little social skills. I’m trying to do better. Should I go back over there and wave first?
Say yes. Just say yes, then pretend like this didn’t happen.
What did you say your name was?
Don’t say it.
DON’T SAY THE NAME.
That’s a very interesting name. I like it. Do you mind if I try it out?
It’s too late. Why did you say your name?
Well, have a good day, you two.
We might be safe.
Wait, where are you going?
Hey, come back here!
Oh, hello. I didn’t expect you to follow me over here.
No, no, go ahead, sit down. I don’t mind. I don’t get too much company. Your friend seems pretty angry, though. Maybe you should go back?
Talk to me? Very well. What do you want to talk about?
My name? I can tell you that.
I do have one stipulation, though. You’ll need to be a ghost.
No, no, I won’t kill you. It’s difficult to explain. You’ll get it in a second, though.
A change.
A sensation like carbonation in your skin.
A deep breath before… Ghostly silence.
Then… The roar of an endless tide.
You’ve never been a ghost before. Or have you? I don’t know, you’re the one who’s lived your life. Or… Not lived, if you’ve existed as a ghost.
Either way.
Being a ghost is like being submerged in the water of thought and idea. You can see the thoughts of those passing by, but it’s like they’re yelling at you through a liquid wall. The words are jumbled, distorted.
You float. But floating feels like sinking. But is it sinking if there’s not bottom to sink to?
I’ll take that one back to the review board. In the meantime, you have someone to chat with.
Oh, you’re right. That’s me.
Hello.
You’re confused, most likely. It’s a natural first reaction.
But welcome to my life. A state of constant confusion, sometimes interspersed with moments like these. It’s like trying to say a terrible tough tongue twister and succeeding. The moment is confusing, but hopeful.
Why is succeeding confusing? Don’t ask me, you’re the ghost. Does that make sense to you?
Now, I understand it’s your first time. Who knows what’s going to happen, so settle into your spectral seat and enjoy the ride.
Who am I?
Right, of course, the question that got you into this town of ghostly gaggling and goggling.
There’s been debate throughout the years where I came from. Natural, I’m sure, given the whole “mysterious stranger appears in town, town-members disappear, name is forgotten” stereotype that I’m painted into.
Maybe you should’ve listened to your friend.
But, then, on the other hand, you wouldn’t be able to experience this whirlwind of a world that we’re wandering within.
Why is my voice so clear, when all those others are muffled by the waters of their thoughts? At least you’re picking easier questions now.
I’m also a ghost, just like you. Well, mostly.
Look over there. See that little girl? Try and punch her.
You can’t, can you?
Well, of course your inhibitions are going to stop you. You’re a ghost presently, not past the point of passing pointless pain.
But physically, you’re unable to make contact. Go ahead, try, you won’t be able to. Pound the table, if you want. No children need be harmed.
See my point?
Now try to hit me.
Didn’t even have to think about it? I guess I did get you good and ghostified.
Did that punch feel good? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.
“Ghostified isn’t a real word!” See, that’s just rude. Don’t make fun of the innovators. We’re the ones that’ll change the world, one way or another!
Don’t give me that look.
Remember, we’re in the waters of thought and idea. That’s their thoughts and ideas, filling this world like cloudy water fills a glass. But not our ideas. No, our thoughts are clear as day, like silver skates soaring along the frosty face of a frozen fjord.
That’s why you can hit me. We exist in this same space.
I just also happen to exist in the physical space, as well as this mental facsimile fashioned for mystical moments.
That’s also why all these thoughts are bombarding you. If I had any control – like those inhibitions you just displayed while refraining from hitting that little girl – I’d lift a finger to my mouth, plugging the raging river. But you’re stuck with it, now.
All for a name.
What’s in a name, anyhow?
Some kind of meaning, I know that. A meaning of your person.
But does that mean a name passed on through generations carries more weight? Does John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt have the same person as… someone else with the same name?
I might suppose slight similarity, seeing as so many shout while they stride down the street.
But think about a junior. Or a ‘The Fourth.”
Jacob Johnson. Let’s go with that.
Does Jacob Johnson the Fourth hold all those persons who came before him, wrapped up in his chubby little baby body?
Of course he doesn’t. His name is still unique, after all. He’s “The Fourth.” His father was “The Third,” his grandfather, “Junior,” and great-grandfather, “Esquire,” or however that goes, I don’t know, nor really care. My father never shared his name with me. Or perhaps he did. But if we did share a name, he never shared that information with me, so my point still stands.
And that’s the power of a name. It contains the person, wraps all the little nuances of their odd little traits into a neat little package.
On a superficial level, it’s random allotment of sounds to get someone’s attention. For example, my name could be a series of glottal stops, and you’d never know how to get my attention without getting everyone’s attention.
But.
This odd assortment of syllables is much more than a calling card.
It’s connection, creating a causeway clear to the carrier. As soon as you know the name, you take one step closer to their heart.
Their soul.
Their… Spirit.
I like your name. I like it a lot.
I know you can’t hear the outside world that well, but I’m using your name today.
Don’t worry, they won’t remember. No one ever remembers my name, whichever one I use.
You’re asking again? My name?
I did say that I could tell you if you were ghosted.
Not better than ghostified? Even in a world quite literally made of free ideas, the critic assails the creator.
Well. Isn’t “proper English usage” just up to the English user, and thereby a moot point? And by the same logic a moot point?
How is it the same logic? You’re the English user, you figure it out.
What if we just drop it? I’ll borrow your name for today, then let you go back to the natural world, blissfully ignorant of a name you wouldn’t be able to retain regardless. A trade, tilted toward for your favor, but fair, in final form.
No. Don’t ask.
I can tell you my name, don’t say I can’t.
Why don’t I?
I suppose I don’t want to.
Can’t a man have freedom of choice? Can’t someone just refrain from sharing personal information without it being a travesty of the worst kind? Isn’t this the land of free thought and expression?
I’m being too free with my thoughts, I think.
But you asked for a reason. So now I’ll give you one.
I’ve walked a long ways.
I’ve worn a lot of faces, and carried many names.
None of them have ever stuck for very long.
They can’t.
Remember what I said? What’s in a name?
Can’t have a name if you don’t have a person to attach it to.
So we wander.
So I wander. I wander witless, lighting my way with wants and wishes.
But is it me, if my name means nothing?
Or is it we, for I bear on my mind all the names I have seen and held.
Even yours.
Your name will be burned in the back of my skull, revealed every time I look in the mirror of my closed eyes and see the emptiness of my reflection. When your eyes close, you will see the dreams and identity of the person who holds your name. You will escape this twisted nightmare, where the flood of thoughts and ideas rises, threatening to drown you with everything that is clamoring for your attention. You’ll wake up to cold clarity, old reality, breathing the fresh air with a new appreciation for taste of being caught up in your own thoughts alone.
I’m never alone.
But I’m always alone.
In the middle of a crowded room, a thousand names carved into my heart and my mind, I stand without one of my own.
A rope, binding my soul, fraying to dust before a helpful hand will wrap it and pull me into the light. A rope made of a thousand vines, each one growing from a person with a life deeper and fuller than I will ever know, my opportunity stolen and carried away beyond the clouds.
That’s why I will not share my name. Because all it will do is bring once again to the cold clarity of my own reality, face to face with the faceless facts of fallible memory.
You’ll forget this day. I can guarantee it. Eventually, you’ll step back into your body, pick up your name, and walk on, like nothing else has happened.
But in the meantime, you’ll be here. An ear to listen to my voice. A voice to remind me that there are other voices in this cacophony of chaotic consciousness, not just my own vacant screams echoing back against me.
Do you see my dilemma?
Ah, a solution. You’ll give me a name.
This is what the riddle of logic meant, yes? What I’ve been leading to in this rampant train wreck of a thought process? That my name is given to me, and so I must be pointedly muted on the matter?
Yes, that’s never been thought of before.
I’m sorry, did you not catch the sarcasm?
Never.
Where do you think the John Jacob Jingleheimer joke came from? Hey, that’s my name, too!
No, I’m not being serious.
And now it appears, the shining sympathy that seeps from the soul and seeks to soothe the sorrow. Sorry, spurious or sincere, such sympathy softens nothing here. Suck it up, that’s the motto, dear.
You’ll guess my name?
The curse is not that, if I should speak my name, my name shall be blotted from thine memory, like a stain from a pristine carpet.
The curse is that, upon the terrestrial sphere, I have no name to claim for my own sake.
There is no name to which can be ascribed fame, no name that can accept blame, no name with which to ascertain if I might be sane.
But I do, and that’s the curse.
The curse is that to the physical world, my name cannot exist.
It can only exist here, in this half-life of ghosts and visions, cursed to die as soon as the spirits of your thoughts and dreams and hopes and fears reconcile to the brutal authority of the reality to which all things much adhere.
My name has no place there, for my person has no place there.
It is older than that place, and the new cannot accept the old. They are in conflict with each other. One will always be pushed outside of the other. The name, out of the physical’s memory. Anyone with the knowledge, out of the memory turned physical.
It is a name held by many, but known by few. A name carried by every man, but no man.
Can you know my name? Yes.
Can you remember that this was me?
Never.
Culture, humanity and all contained within will know my name, but none will remember it.
Guessing it would only force you out…
No.
Don’t. Don’t say it.
Please. Stay just a little longer.
When you say it, you’ll be gone.
And I don’t want to be alone again.
No… Don’t say-
Carbonation, fizzing out of existence and into reality.
Breath. Cold air.
Feeling in your hands and feet.
The shocking quiet of the murmured conversations of the physical world.
A tickle in the back of your mind, a spot your finger can’t pinpoint.
What was that name?
Have a guess what the name might be? Let me know! You can message me directly on social media, or respond via this form.