a PH short story
The time: sometime after school, maybe 3. The place: the dumpsters on the way home. The issue:
I really hate my name.
I mean, picture it! A slick blonde office worker who drinks coffee every morning and says "hello" with a forced smile every time his boss passes by, the kind of guy who got his lunch money taken every day in middle school, the kind of guy who fades into the background and nobody remembers, the kind of guy who doesn't matter. Picture it. It's not me at all.
So I got to thinking, if that's how it's got to be, and my parents aren't ever going to change my birth name, then I'll just take the matter into my own hands. I'll give myself a new name. It's like I opened a brand new door of possibilities, like I could just rebuild myself from scratch: who should I be? King Arthur? Napoleon? Julius Ceaser?
"Fuckin' weakling," he growls in my ear.
No. Not a weakling. That's not going to be my name, not by a long shot.
He grabs my hair and pulls my head back, back, until I think my spine's going to snap where his foot's dug into the nape of my neck. Things go numb, prickle, burn, then go numb again as sound flashes past my eyes and light tinkles in the back of my head. I can feel my heart beat into every inch of my skin.
"Go on, shorty," he whispers. "Cry."
I lick my lips, surprised to find them cut and bleeding. Good old Nero's in a bad mood today. Well, I am too. Something's changed in me all of a sudden, I can feel it.
"No," I tell him.
He stomps. Hard.
"I said cry! Shorty! Weakling!"
Whatever; they can call me what they want, because I'm getting my own name. I already have a good idea.
It's something cool. And something big. Really, really big.
"No. And I'm not shorty, or weakling."
"I can't hear you!"
I don't yelp like I usually do when I'm hurting. I'm not crying. I only look up at the twelve-year-old standing on my back and grin. He falters.
"Yes you are. Fuck you, you are! Shorty! Weakling! Shorty! Weakling!"
"Stop. I said stop!"
He really stops, probably as amazed as I am. Nah, even more. I'm more totally bonkers than amazed. He must've knocked a screw loose in my head back there.
"Listen, Nero. Nah, not Nero. You're just shitty little Gregory."
He starts to look at me in a new light--not out of boredom, or a general dissatisfaction with the day. He's starting to really hate me. This is good, I think to myself, laughing. This is good.
"Greg, you shit, today is the day you get to learn my real name. It's also the day I knock you off the emperor's throne. From today on, Nero is dead, and Greg bows to me. I am the Big Funk. All hail the Big Funk. Got it?"
He says nothing. Only hesitates, punches me in the face, and runs away.
But this is good. If nothing else I've got my name. Nobody else can touch my name. This is good.
It would be cool if I could fool myself into thinking that yelling at the sun would bring me closer to Earth. Well, whatever. My wings melt off so often I've almost gotten used to falling.