I was seven years old when I met Joe. Joe was much older, a big kid, and I thought them very, very cool. Now that I am at an age I shall not disclose, I am most certain that Joe was just as nervous as the rest of us. I can tell, because in my blurring memories their speech is stilted and they are laughing far too often. At the time, though, seven-year-old me only saw the curly hair that looked more tamed than my own ever managed and the Element t-shirt with the seams cut off. I bounced over and grinned as big as I could, showing off all three of my missing teeth.
“Hello!”
“…Hello?”
They were very polite, far more polite than anyone needs to be to random children showing off their smiles full of holes. At seven, I am certain I must have recognized this, because to my memory I got even happier, pushing up on my tip-toes as though to bring my smile even closer.
“What is your name?” I ask.
“… It’s Jo.”
“Joe?”
“…yeah,” and then they smiled back. It was much softer than my own, crinkling near the eyes in a type of joy I was yet to feel. Nowadays, I see it in the mirror every morning and it is miraculous, just as Joe’s smile suggested. I didn’t understand all that then, though. So, I simply
focused on pointing out every detail I liked about their physical appearance, then how they spoke, then how the tree behind them swayed in the wind. It was a very nice tree, dogwood, I believe, in full Spring bloom.
I never knew Joe much beyond that moment. We lived in the same school district, but being so many years apart there wasn’t much intersection in our lives. It was about ten years ago that I found them again. Funerals are wonderful places for reunions.
“Josephine?” A voice had called from somewhere, I don’t recall whose. Joe turned, yelled something back.
“I thought it was Joe?”
They blinked. “That’s a nickname,” they said. That, of course, absolutely baffled my small brain. Whoever heard of a nickname being another person’s name?
“You can do that?”
They shrugged.
“I do.” Then they ran off to who I can only presume was a parent, and I was left reeling in my tiny yet too big boots, wondering how I’d ever missed such a fabulous opportunity.
I went home that night and went to bed early, supposedly. Truly, I was under my bed covers with a notebook and a reading light, writing my name over and over again. Sometimes it was in cursive, sometimes print, sometimes upside down but rarely right-side up. I made anagrams and ambigrams and at one point got bored and just carved it into the wood of my bed frame. Mom was displeased about that one. I was mostly displeased about the lack of conclusion I’d come to, given how incompatible every variation was with being nicked of its name. Who can care for being grounded when there are such opportunities being squandered?
For a few days after that I continued to experiment, but, being seven, I forgot within the month and moved on to the splendid fun to be found in designing my own clothes. It was so simple— just take a plain white shirt and some marker. Mom didn’t like that phase either, but she
always was rather dull creatively, God rest her soul.
I asked around over the couple of years after that, every time I met somebody with a particularly short title they were going by. Sometimes it was just their name, like Bob, who I later found out lied and was actually Robert. So a bad example. Mostly it was shortened but rather boring versions of their full name. Nothing that struck me as fascinating as Joe.
I was ten years old when I met Lisa. Lisa had a strong nose and stood a bit taller than me. She was also two months younger, which made me feel rather mature. Now I am aware, in hindsight, that Lisa had a wisdom much closer to that of thirteen and was therefore much farther along than I was. She didn’t show it in her test scores, or some sage wisdom, though. She
showed it in how she wore her hair.
“You’re wearing a ponytail,” was the first thing I said to her. She grinned.
“My dad did it for me.” I thought that was very cool, so I deigned to return her smile.
“What’s your name?”
“Lisa,” she said. Lisa? I thought.
“You don’t look like a Lisa,” is what I replied, and at this point I can only hope I said it kindly. She deserves kindness, because I owe a lot to what she said next.
“I chose it myself!”
I think if I were a cartoon character my jaw would have dropped rather dramatically.
“You can do that?” There also would have been stars in my eyes.
“I did,” and she shrugged. So, yes, I am grateful for Lisa. I went home that night feeling a rather intense sensation of deja vu and pulled out my old notebook. Suddenly, using the same letters didn’t seem so important. I turned the page and wrote Thomas.
I crossed it out.
I wrote James and Eli and Chris— which I tore out entirely— and so on for about a year.
Despite the infinite wisdom I felt I had garnered directly from Lisa’s soul and the knowledge I’d gleaned from Joe’s mind, this didn’t come to me in a vision. It felt like those two did, and if I wasn’t sitting next to Lisa right now, I’d still think perhaps they had.
I did choose a name though. I rather like it.
Atticus Garrow 