I was raised by whom I always called my grandfather. Even if he was not my relative – I really guess he was not – he was the one who caught the remains of my full roaring bike, that was hanged on a tree, with my whole life upside down. That is where I began.
People ask me about my name. Where it comes from. And who was my godfather. I often don’t tell anything and most of the times I shut myself off, trying to mumble some birdish song between my teeth. Yeah, birdish talk. In other places they call this “speaking in tongues”. But then they ask something else and one second after they forget it, like no one cares. Like I would care.
Why should I tell them anyway?
Sometimes a bad word comes to my mind, with all those stupid questions. ‘Who are you?’, they ask. Or even in the third person, all eyes trembling with a funny face: ‘Who the hell is Ring Joid?’
As soon as they start, when I am sitting just in front of them – sometimes they are holding a pen or a sound device, to record my voice – I drift away to a faraway land, shifting reality to any forgotten dream I recall at the moment. There I loose myself driving in the middle of a road framed with dry unharvested barley, on some sort of fucking paradise. Yes! The sun up high, me raving the engine of some four wheeler motorbike. And suddenly something else. Crows or other type of straight birds, a swimming pool, some nice girls around, a glass of lemonade. As I don’t drink booze. Then how can I follow up the question held in front of me, searching for glory on some sentence I might tell?
“Hmm?”, I say, completely out of mark. And then: “I do not remember!”. Then they repeat the same thing again and again and I take a full breath to keep in focus for a while.
“Oh, my name…”, I sometimes restart, if it happens to be in a good mood. And holding my glass in one of my hands I say, “I got my name in this book, with this guy called Holden, a kid – you know him! – his eldest brother favourite writer was a guy named Ring Lardner, and I do not know why, that flipped my mind.”
The other part I really do not know. The surname. Even if they ask me with a hammer up, I cannot tell it. I think it was my parenthood or something. My mom Joy and my dad Void. “I really cannot tell”, I add. Because for real I never knew my parents, but anyway that is what I believe. Or maybe it was the name of a train station or the brand of the tyre on my full roaring bike.
Sometimes I get some piece of paper and I write them the place where they can find something about it. Something like this. And they sort of get happy and turn off the tape and go home. That leaves me satisfied. And so life goes on, like anything else.