Not mine. Not now. Not ever.
Nobody
I've been a nobody my whole life.
Took my mother three days to notice she even had a kid. Another week to give me a name.
Didn't see the point, myself. It's not like anyone ever used it.
All through my childhood, I was Rat Boy. Tall, thin, lanky. Liked dead animals.
Every now and then they got creative. Scrawny. Dented Fender. The Kid With No Jacket. Hell, even my third-grade teacher called me Squirrel Nutkin. If anything, she was more kin to a nut than I was.
In high school, I didn't even need a name.
I was an ID number on my essays. A head in the cafeteria line. A lackey to the homecoming king.
I was reduced to That Kid. Thingo. What's-His-Face.
I still didn't have a jacket.
And now, after fifteen years of helping people the best way I can, I'm still a nothing.
I'm not even in the yearly picture. I don't count as staff, apparently. Yet I work to keep this hospital clean and fit for people to get well in. What the hell kind of thanks do I get?
"Clean this." "Fix that." "Get off your lazy ass and get back to work."
They don't know who I am. They don't care. I'm just a body to yell at, to prod, to kick in the guts.
I'm an everyman.
When I head down the hall to remind Scooter I still exist, sometimes I hear a patient ask, "Who is that man?"
The stock answer?
"Him? Oh, that's just the Janitor."
Well, I'm more than a janitor. I'm a man with hopes. Dreams. A squirrel army.
I may not have a name.
But that doesn't mean I'm a nobody.
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