Short Story: Nameless

 

Nameless

Vivian noticed an old man a restaurant table away from him and decided he would try to strike a conversation with him.    

“Hi, my name’s Vivian,” he said to the old man.

“I used to have a name once,” replied the old man.

Vivian looked at him puzzled. The rest of the customers in the restaurant groaned.

“Here we go again,” grumbled a woman in the back.

“It was a long time ago,” the old man began. “I was a young lad just minding my own business pulling weeds out of my garden, when along came a friend of mine. He asked me if he could borrow my name.”

“So…he wanted your identity card?”

“No, he wanted my name.”

“But why?”

“He never said.”

“And you didn’t ask him?”

“…Anyways, I said he could borrow it so long as he returned it.”

“Why would you say that?”

“My friend agreed to the terms, and I let him borrow my name.”

“How is that even possible? Why would you even do that?”

“But he never came back to return it. Since the day my name was stolen, I have been called Nameless.”

“That makes no sense! You still have your real name anyway.”

“Weren’t you listening? I said it was stolen.”

“Yeah but—oh never mind! If it was ‘stolen’, then did you consider calling the cops?”

“I did, but I realized that doing so would require giving the officers my name, which was stolen from me.”

“But you have an ID card, don’t you?”

“I used to have an ID card once.”

“What?”

“It was a long time ago—”

“Oh, come on!”

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