He walked onward only looking at the sidewalk below his feet and only looking up to see if he had the light to cross the street. He was completely bewildered and no place to go and no name by which to introduce himself. “Hello,” he said, “My name is…” And his mind – a wasteland.
His walk became strange and instinctive, as if his feet knew where they were heading, but his brain did not. It was like finishing a sentence with an obvious word and not knowing what led to that word. He pondered that deep in his mind plying for answers, visions, places, people, and clues to who he is and to where he belongs. It was like pressing and squeezing the nectar from fruit. To taste the sweet nectar of remembrance seemed to be hidden just beyond his grasp.
He approached a corner and turned left and headed down another street. He studied each business and strolled by and nothing appeared familiar. No one seemed to notice him and give him a greeting of familiarity.
“How long must I follow this street? Where does it lead?” he thought.
At the next corner he stopped. He didn’t know whether he should turn left, right, or continue the course. His feet and brain were both lost now. Neither knew what to do. He pressed his fingers against his forehead in some vain effort to squeeze an intellectual spark, but it seemed as if he only shoved it further into the dark recesses of his mind.
“Think of something else,” he said. “I need a name.”
He turned to his right, crossed the street and continued walking, now, in a different direction.
He was lost in his thoughts; trying to come up with a name.
“Bill is a good name,” he said, “but it’s common. I don’t know if it’s common because I don’t know any Bills. In fact, I don’t know anyone. I think John would be good, but no for the same reasons.”
He crossed the street. He read the street sign. “Walnut Street,” he muttered. “Maybe Walt would be a good name?” He smiled. “Or maybe, Nut. That would be a good name and descriptive.”
He walked further. “Joe’s Bar,” he read from sign that hung over the sidewalk from a tavern. “That would be a good name. Perhaps I should go inside and ask Joe if I could barrow his name until I find mine. Barr, with two Rs, that’s familiar. Maybe my name is Joe Barr. That’s it! I’m using that name. Joe can take me to court over that one. He’ll have no case, I’m using two Rs.”
He walked and pondered. “It seems like insanity runs in the Barr family. I’m changing names.”
He walked onward as if drawn by some strange force which he was more than willing to surrender for there was nothing else to cling.
There was a sound, a distant sound – a familiar sound. It became louder with each step. It was rhythmic and good. He moved hypnotically toward the sound not knowing why it tugged him.
It was the sound of a pneumatic wrench removing lug nuts. He walked hypnotically toward it not bothering to stop for cars. They stopped and honked at him. He walked toward a garage with four bays, “Big Al’s TireRama.”