l'eg(g)o

I long for the anonymity I suffered as a child, moving from town to town, across state lines; through to college and a year abroad, where even my language sounds unfamiliar, to them and me alike. It's anonymity from self that I find so attractive now. Friends would wonder in fear and angst and nauseating uncertainty, 'who am I?', 'what will I be?', and I shudder. I'm not ready to know, and the fear for me would lie in finding out. I enjoy my ego-mystique, having learned long ago that I prefer the company of strangers over kin. I like sharing this skin with someone who hasn't shared all his thoughts. To share my face and name does not, for me, betray that anonymity. I still don't know who I am. The photo's moot. Well, maybe not legally so. The post office has galleries upon galleries to the contrary.

Never truer than shopping for groceries. I never run into acquaintances in Aisle 5, I run. In Aisle 2, I browse seasonal ales, wondering if this one really tastes like winter wheat, or that one like polar bear milk. I ignore the ones that promise flavors of drool and mistletoe, both potentially poisonous, depending on the dose. And Cindy peruses wine, not a man's breadth from where I stand, cooled by the freezer and cooler in cognito. I feel her eyes lift towards my profile and I clutch the bottles close to my chest; my shopping done; my selection made by my desire to flee this erstwhile acquaintance. I pray that those words ringing in my head, 'Hi Brandon!' are reminiscences of strangers happy to see me, correctly guessing my name, or perhaps reading a conference name tag, still glued to my lapel. And not real words, real wonderment in having, how you humans say, 'run into an old acquaintance in Aisle 2.'

I think she's following me now, to be sure. I'm faster than Cindy, my years as a former ex-volunteer Firefighter/EMT, or FEVFFEMT for shor(r)t, paying off now, and I'm not against breaking my hand through the glass and setting off the sprinkler system to complete my escape and moisten the produce, Aisle 12. She'll ask me, perhaps even sincerely, how I'm doing and who am I and WHAT WILL I BE, and I'll tell her she doesn't know me, though she might recognize the face. And maybe even the faded name badge, hanging from the sleeve of my jacket.