The Nameless Man

The nameless man sat dumbly at the coffee shop table. He did not write thoughtfully in a notebook or discuss spreadsheets with coworkers. He did not rock gently to the music in his headphones nor did he glance at around at the other patrons trying to sense some bit of their stories. His face was empty and his clothes were plain - a white t-shirt and jeans - but they held none of the charm that the same outfit sometimes holds when worn by a blue-collar, rough-and-tumble man; on him they only seemed drab and boring.
It is a hard thing to imagine . . . being nameless. There is too much of yourself wrapped up in your name, for you to understand what it would be to be nameless. See, there is a remarkable limitlessness to a name. With a name you can be anything. It is not bound by merely that which you have been, or that which you are in a single moment, it describes you in your entirety. All that you have been, are, and ever will be. You are so-and-so. You did not need to win battles or impress patrons or earn degrees to be gifted a name, a name is not something that must be earned. It is given freely, and with it you are given a freedom to decide what your name will stand for.
One of the greatest compliments you can receive is when someone says, “Classic so-and-so!” or “That is such a so-and-so thing to do.” For it is only those who know you in the most intimate of fashions who understand all of the things that make you, you. Yet, this limitless understanding can only be, if you have a name.
The nameless man is doomed to forever be bound by those titles placed upon him. He can only ever be a father or a writer or an old man. With no name, all of his qualities slip from his being like drops from an icicle in the thaw of spring. There is nothing to capture his essence. No place to hold all of the characteristics which are him, outside of the titles placed upon him by the rest of the world.
To strangers he can only ever be Sir.
To a book he can only ever be a Reader.
To his friends he can only ever be Pal or Buddy, and if you are only ever Pal can you truly be considered a friend.
To a son he can only be Father and to a mother he can only ever be Son.
There is no story that can be his, there are only the forms of stories, already written, which he can be placed into as needed.
Do you remember the first time that you learned that your mother or father had a name outside of Mom or Dad? This revelation that allows you your first glimpse into this idea that they are people outside of the role that that they were cast in your own life. All of a sudden, every person you come across becomes so much more than what they were. It is like seeing your first grade teacher buying grapes at the grocery store and watching someone call her Linda - Linda who loves grapes. The world suddenly falls in on itself. The shackles which you had placed upon Linda, or upon your father, fall foolishly to the ground, and in that single moment they are free to simply be who they are.
That freedom, that limitless opportunity, it does not exist for the nameless man. It cannot exist for the nameless man.
So he sits, unable to act upon the world, instead doomed to be a blank canvas for all of us, the named, to place our impressions upon.
The nameless man grinds his teeth at the blasé carelessness with which we hold names. We hold these little pieces of each others possibility in the palms of our hands, and decide that they are unneeded. We will have entire conversations with one another, and not use our names once. Worse yet, we will have entire conversations with one another, and not even bother to learn each other’s names. Willfully choosing to shackle another to the role that they have so seamlessly taken up in our lives, and with that simple choice cutting off the things that they could be.
He watches you talk to your waiter, never once using the young man’s name. He is merely a waiter, that is all I need from him after all. Why should I bother to learn his name?
He watches you hold an engaging conversation with a stranger at the table next to you, and fumes as you walk away glad to have met that guy.
Truly, how dare you. You who were blessed with a name, to take such a thing for granted. To not treasure your own name and the names of others as these pure and limitless sources of energy which they truly are.
Instead, he watches you fight to be called anything but that which you are. He watches you desperately try to be a champion or a writer or wealthy or clever. He watches as you get angry when someone calls you by your name rather than calling you Sir or Doctor. He watches as you work so damn hard to gather up all of that limitlessness that exists in your name, and package it into nice, tidy boxes.
How dare you?
So the nameless man sat dumbly at the coffee shop table and waited for some ungrateful so-and-so to come and tell him what to be. He waited to be the Stranger or the Coffee Drinker or the Listener. He waited hopefully, thinking that perhaps, if the right person came along, someone who even bothered to ask, then he would remain nameless no longer.