A is for Anonymous

He sees an old lady staring at him, calculating. Her hands are bony and wrinkled, the veins standing out on her arms. He recognizes her, remembers the red glasses sliding down her nose, remembers the way the weathered skin around her eyes crinkles when she smiles. Her grey hair is pulled up into the same bun as always. His gaze travels across her face, and when he meets her eyes he knows she recognizes him. Oh no.

She shouts his name, the one she knew him as. Starts with a J. Four letters. Jake.

He's not prepared for the sudden wave of memories that floods over him. It's like his brain is flicking through every time someone had used that name in reference to him. In the clothing store in Maine, when he decided to try out a retail job, a slightly younger version of the woman in front of him now greeting him every morning. His roommate throwing him a drink as he walked through the door of their apartment, picking his way through the old paper plates and the drying canvases lying on the paint-stained carpet. The manager at his favorite coffee shop downtown nodding at him as he played his guitar on open mic nights.

That was when he decided to start dressing smarter, albeit more vaguely hipster. (He should've moved to Oregon instead of Maine.) That was when he almost got a dog, drawn in by the wide eyes gazing at him from the other side of the pet store windows. That was when he muddled around in tea shops for a month before making his way back to his beloved coffee machine, reveling in the bitterness on his tongue. That was when he was Jake.

He’s pulled out of the flow of memories by another voice, calling out a different name that he used to use. He spins around once before he spots her, but he can't manage to place her in his mind. Old girlfriend? No, wait. Coworker, the part of her drab brown hair and the kitten heels on her feet give her away. His old name tumbles from her mouth again. This one has nine letters. Starts with an S. Sebastian.

Oh God, he can still remember the bitter way his boss would bite out his name on slow days, back in that accounting job before he realized just how much he hated cubicles. It was back in the Silicon Valley, in some giant glass and steel skyscraper. The accounting floor had been filled with fluorescent lights that hurt his eyes, the blankness of the white cubicle walls made him feel confined, restricted. The people there always wore shoes that made too much noise and pasted on smiles. Manila folders were an ever present accessory there. The atmosphere had gotten under his skin like nothing else, making him loathe every second he spent there until he decided to take the already packed suitcase from under his bed and hop onto the next train going out of state.

Sebastian. A sophisticated name for a sophisticated persona. She calls it again, and he can almost hear fingers clacking on the keys of his computer. Looking up, he sees both of the women staring at him, slowly walking towards him.

He spins on his heel and remembers why he came to the airport in the first place. He does the only thing he knows how to. He runs.

With the steady rhythm of his shoes hitting the ground beneath him and his heart pounding in his ears, his brain starts racing. He's here to run away again, to get another one of his beloved fresh starts. He’s grown tired of who he’s become while living here. Seeing the two women from his past has reaffirmed his decision to leave, acting as involuntary reminders to never go back.

He turns his head around, sees the two figures behind him fading fast. One is crouched over the other. At least they've stopped chasing after him. He's gotten good at running away from unpleasant situations, both literally and figuratively. They're still watching him, still yelling his names so hard their vocal cords must be straining.

He runs. He keeps running. Just one foot in front of the other. He runs until their shouts are nothing more than memories etched into the ridges of his palms.

He’ll need a new name, of course. Nothing too unique, since it draws attention too fast. Something that blends in, forgettable.

The first name isn't too difficult. The best friend he had made in this life had been named Kyle, so he’ll adopt that name. He does that sometimes, stealing bits and pieces from his previous life. It lets him cling on to at least a little part of the recent past that he’s not ready to let go of.

Last name. He glances to his right. The gate that he’s running past is just starting to board a flight to Honolulu. Honolulu. H. He can work with an h. Hale is the first name that pops into his head. It rings a little familiar in his mind, common but not too much so. The boy he had a crush on back in high school had the last name Hale. It’ll work.

Kyle Hale. It doesn’t roll off his tongue very smoothly. He plays with it a little more, working it between his teeth and lips. Kyle Hale. It still sounds a little uncomfortable as he turns it over and over in his mouth, foreign. Good.

It’s all coming together. He can almost picture it somewhere. He’ll dye his hair when it grows back out, probably add a tinge of red. Trade in the contacts for glasses, too. Change his wardrobe, swap out the stiff collared shirts for red hoodies and plaid flannels. No, not plaid. It reminds him too much of the eight months he spent on a farm in Mississippi. Maybe his hands will stop shaking when he stares at the picture of his childhood home every night. He can see himself in a coffee shop in Seattle, or maybe Atlanta, a worn down copy of Invisible Man in his hands, its corners dog-eared and pages graffitied. A cup of coffee is in front of him. No milk, two sugars. Some things never change.

Kyle Hale.

Kyle Hale.

Kyle.

Kyle.

As he runs through the airport, he can feel himself coming together, piece by piece, starting with the letter K.