What's In A Name?

I left sunday morning for parts more humidly oppressive. A route I’ve traveled often these past six months. A perpetual journey to inevitability. This time was different. I was held captive by my own thoughts rather than the light hearted banter I typically share with my partner. Usually he drives. I pour myself into a newspaper so I’m not visually connected with the traffic subjected to his impatience and uncharacteristic profanity. I’d rather not know who passed us on the right or why he is engaged in passive aggressive tailgating. I’d prefer to send my last moments on the planet engrossed in a crossword puzzle, something I enjoy, rather than engaged in a white knuckle grip of the oh shit handle, something I hate.

Passing the carpet warehouses, I noticed I sheet of paper fluttering across the highway in the wake of passing cars. It passed left, then right, caught like a butterfly in a transparent vortex. Ordinary. White paper. Unworthy of memory. Until a gust slowly shifted it so that I might make out a single word, James.

Six hours is long time to be confined to your own thoughts. James, however was not my thought, but my distraction of all things self-centered. For the next hundred miles, I contemplated James. Who was he? Am I being sexist in my assumption, or is it possible James is female. That would be unusual, but certainly not impossible. Perhaps James is nickname? Jameson?Hmm, kind of pretentious sounding. I went to junior high with a guy who said he wanted to name his son, James. That’s unusual. Not the name, James, but that a thirteen year-old boy is contemplating his future children, and naming them. I wonder if he ever had a son, and named him, James?

I see signs like this at the airport, walking through arrivals. The signs usually have last names, not first names, and the people holding those signs tend to look business-like, almost solemn in their demeanor. I guess it’s possible someone was walking along the interstate looking for James. Highly unlikely. Most likely this was a sign taped to James’ crap packing in the bed of a truck, covered loosely by a blue tarp, frayed and flapping in the breeze. So, why was James leaving? Was he going to someone or leaving someone?

And so the mystery of James accompanied my through downtown Atlanta.

Eventually, I became distracted by other things, as to their importance, I cannot say since I don’t actually remember what those details were. When I arrived at my destination, I found the paper with James’ name clinging to my front bumper. Maybe on a subconscious level, that was the reason I became obsessed with James, or maybe Jamesjust needed someone to consider hims for a moment in time.