My Name Is Paul
This was not meant to be a story. This was headed to be but an answer to a common question. Only I talked to a machine. Machines don’t talk back. That’s usually how imagination fires. And time expands to fit a story.
*
P as in Patience
When I told mom I was fired, she frowned at me like I was to blame. She said I’m a patient and I shrugged because I already knew. I felt sick to my stomach. Probably a vitamin deficiency was to blame, or lack of intrinsic value. In hindsight, I think I probably misheard. All mom meant to say was I should be patient. I’d find another job.
Liz is my girlfriend and she laughed her heart out when I told her what mom said and what I understood. I know Liz is worried ever since I got fired. She’s worried about how this will affect our future. At least she still has a job.
*
A as in Against
When I kissed Liz for the first time, she said she realized we’re soulmates. I didn’t even know the meaning of that, so I nodded not to disappoint her. Now Liz blames machines for me being jobless and she’s mostly right. It’s not that I was bad at my job or anything. It’s that a machine will take over my job and won’t ever ask for a raise like I did.
I told Liz I don’t like technology, because if I were a rock star I wouldn’t be able to make money with all this downloading nonsense that’s been going on lately. But she looked at me perplexed and said she doesn’t get it since I’m not a rock star, and I should be grateful to technology for letting me enjoy my favorite songs for free. She doesn’t like technology for different reasons, like it’s ruined her favorite songs, because now she can find the lyrics and most of them say something different than what she’d had in mind when she first heard them.
The thing is she’d decided long ago to use song lyrics as life advice, as others use the bible or philosophy. She chose song lyrics as the main wisdom source, because she thought wisdom lay hidden within them, and now she worries she may have messed up because she misheard. But that’s how it goes, she claims. We all mess up in the end.
*
U as in Unrest
When I asked my boss for a raise, he fired me. He said a machine could do a better job than me. That’s theft, I told him, but he showed me the door. That stupid machine stole everything: my job, my life, my future, my identity. I’m nobody now.
Liz can’t stand my sadness and she desperately looks for answers in favorite songs. Last night, she told me that all that came to mind were songs about traveling, and traveling takes away the pain. Liz suggested I should take a trip but I can’t afford a trip now that I’m jobless. It’s better for the environment, she told me. But I could afford it if I were rich, I thought. Only the rich enjoy that stupid technology. Technology is the enemy of the poor. If we were all rich the planet would collapse, Liz said and I couldn’t help but agree, for the planet is already collapsing, and only the richest among us travel. That’s unfair but obvious.
There must be songs about us, I think. We’re the outsiders, Liz says, like in many songs, like in that REM song, or that Franz Ferdinand song. I nod. I’m not sure what those songs are about but I guess Liz may have misheard the lyrics again.
*
L as in Love
When I ordered the burger, it wasn’t a human that took the order, but a machine. I wasn’t prepared to talk to a machine at the time. I stuttered, mumbled, the machine didn’t understand and asked again and again, but still, I had no reason to panic.
The machine kindly asked my name, like I mattered, but I know well I didn’t. I was but a number to that stupid machine, an incomprehensible algorithm at best. My name, I thought, my name is mine, you can’t take that from me, you won’t steal it away. I started kicking the machine and punching it but it didn’t kick back. It didn’t even get angry.
When Liz looked my way, she tucked a blanket of tenderness around me and I knelt, fell on my knees, and Liz grabbed my arms and pulled me up and I felt her hands in mine and I knew, I knew nothing bad would happen. I was safe and loved, almost happy, under that blanket, and no machine in the world could make me feel hopeless, or useless, or empty.
My name is Paul, I said and confidently spelled it out: Poor And Undoubtedly Loved.
This can’t be a story. This may be a four-letter word, or a name, my name, or maybe a story about a name, or a manifesto about the story hidden behind a name. For every name is a manifesto of the person carrying it. This may not be a story. This may just be a number, disguised as a name, my name, pretending to be a story. But Liz loves me and love is what transforms a number into a name. And a name transforms into a story.
Bio: Mileva Anastasiadou is a neurologist from Athens, Greece. A Pushcart, Best of the Net and Best Small Fictions nominated writer, her work can be found in many journals, such as Litro, Jellyfish Review, Queen Mob's Tea House, Moon Park Review, Okay Donkey, Kanstellation, Open Pen and others. You can connect with her on Instagram.