Trouble With A Name

There I was, boxers around my ankles, balls deep in some near naked hooker bent over a sleazy motel's dusty chair, when the pounding on the door started. She was gone, leaving my dick swaying in the breeze she just created.

She raced through the connecting door screaming, "You ain't fuckin' takin' me in, Jonsie."

My first thought was, 'This is kind of funny, in an embarrassing sort of way. Watching her ass cheeks jiggling, titties bouncing, and arms flailing.' That thought quickly came to a halt with the door crashing inward, and realization, those were my pants she had been waving about.

"Don't move buddy." Like I'm going anywhere, hobbled with my underwear. Big bastard hollers out the door, "God dammit, Jenny Lee, you know I'm gonna get your ass. I told you quit peddling it in front of Pete's. And now you owe Fred for the damn door."

Turning his attention to me he says, "Your lucky day buddy, not after johns, just pros. You want to pull your drawers up? Whew, had no idea it was that cold."

In the present situation I let that jab slide, and pulled up my boxers. "You did know she was hooking, right?"

I was not sure if this tactic might be a trap, or could be considered a confession in court. On the other hand, I did not think I had much to lose, so sarcastically replied, "Had a pretty good idea when she asked for the money up front."

"So, you got a name there, smart mouth?" Cop asks, taking out a pad and nub of a pencil. Thought he would have entered gun drawn, with some sort of back up. Had seen neither. Two or three day old whiskers and clothes I probably would only wear if I were painting my house. He did not look like a cop.

"Homer."

"Nice start, finish it."

"Ah, Homer Simpson."

"Homer Simpson, cute. Homer fucking Simpson," he repeated, as he quit writing. "When I said, wasn't after johns, it was under the condition you cooperate with me. Get my drift?"

"Yes. Officer–"

"Sergeant, Detective Sergeant Jones, vice. Detective, or Sergeant will do."

"Sorry, Sergeant. Is this a setup?"

"Setup? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Your alleged target got away, leaving her panties and bra, but having the foresight to take my pants and wallet. You are here, and she is obviously not."

"I'll be picking her ass up later, you better worry about yours. Let's have your real name."

"Homer Simpson, is my real name. I'd like to point out, I've had it longer than the tv guy."

"Uh-huh. Let me guess, I.D. is in your pants. Which Jenny Lee took?"

"Yes."

"So, suppose you get a lot of grief from people?"

"I would, but I go by H.B.–"

"Ah-hah, an alias. Give it up."

"Officer– I mean detective Jones, it's not an alias. It's my full name, Homer Bartholomew Simpson. Yes, I know, this can't get much worse. Far as I know, it was no conspiracy, just a twist of fate."

"Oh, on the contrary H.B., it can get much worse, and will if you don't play it straight. DMV computers are down, so let's try telephone and address."

"Ah, 7-7-5, definitely." I closed my eyes and concentrated, then scratching my head continued, "1-3-7, or 7-3-1, but might be 3–"

"Never mind, you are still missing a number–"

"Last number is 9. Without a doubt," I cut in, thinking I was helping.

He grunted. The look he gave me, told me I was wrong. "Prefix is local. So, means you got an address right?"

"Orange Grove, near Park Ridge. Ah, 7-4-2-0, or 7-2, but–"

"Enough. How long have you lived there?"

"Twelve years, maybe thirteen, almost certain it is not over–"

"What the fuck? Do you want ran in, joker? Don't have time for silly ass games." Fairly certain that was rhetorical, and I did not answer. "You give me a phony name. Have no idea how long you have lived at your current residence. Much less where it is, or even your damn phone number. Gotta be honest buddy, I got rules to go by, and they're telling me to run your ass in, til we can get this straightened out."

"I understand completely how this looks, and can indeed sympathize with you, but given a chance, I can explain." He gave me a look that said, 'bullshit,' but waved me on. "See, I have a strange condition with numbers. Can't remember them for shit! I swear, it's the truth."

"You trying to tell me you don't know your numbers? Like you're illiterate, or something?"

"No, I know my numbers, and math functions. Just can't remember numbers, dates and such. Events? Not a problem, but the date of them is definitely a problem. I seem to have no concept of time, or just get confused with it. You give me a stopwatch and tell me to let you know when two minutes are up. Nine times out of a ten I will not be able to do it. Numbers just start clogging up in my head, and I forget what I am doing." I chuckled. "A co-worker suggested tattooing important numbers on my arm. Which in this situation would have been a godsend. I even have a card explaining my condition."

"Really. How about letting me see it?"

"Well, it's in my wallet–"

"Which is with Jenny Lee," Detective Jones sarcastically finished my sentence for me, giving me a major dose of stink eye. "What else you lose?"

"About three hundred in cash, but half of it was hers–"

"You gave Jenny Lee one-fifty? Jesus Christ, you are a damn tourist. She'd done you for fifty, and split the cost of the room with you. Hell, you don't let the working girls even eyeball your wallet. It's like a big ass, juicy bone to a junkyard dog. Too damn tempting, and gone in a heartbeat, no matter what the risk." He shook his head. "Dammit man, common sense should tell you, keep your pants around your ankles, so you get to keep them as well. How about credit cards? She'll go ape shit with–"

"Don't have any. Banks take one look at the name and think it is a crank."

"Well, that'll save you some phone calls. Once we get this cleared up you can file a report. Gotta warn you, your pants went one direction, wallet the other, and Jenny Lee in yet another." He pointed at the phone book. "Suppose not much chance you're listed?"

Gave him a shrug. "Unlisted, too many obscene calls."

"Got a ring on. Let me guess, Marge?"

"She goes by her middle name, Ann."

"Alright, how about we give Ann a first name?"

"That would be Margaret."

"O-okay, Margaret it is. Naturally, Marge for short. Is there a Bart, Lisa or Maggie? Anyone home that might identify you?"

"We were going to name our daughter Maggie May, after the Rod Stewart song, but thought she might get made fun of too much. We picked Julie Ann, and our son is Jonathan Bartholomew, although he likes going by Bart. But, wife and kids are up visiting relatives for another week. No one is home."

"How about a car, with your registration?"

"Truck. In the bar parking lot down the street. But, it's registered in the company name–"

"That'll do, someone can verify your name at work." I started shaking my head, and he added, "Discreetly. I'll just tell them I'm looking into a traffic ticket, or–"

"It's not that. I'm self-employed. Person you will want to talk to is me. But, I can assure you, I am me, H.B. Simpson."

He let out a deep sigh before requesting, "Company name?"

"Toppers, for all your roofing needs. Have business cards, in my wallet, and listed in the phone book. But, that doesn't matter either, it's Saturday afternoon, and no one is in."

"Well Mister Simpson, afraid my hands are tied. I'm going to have to take you in, til I can get everything verified."

Which is what he did. Not sure of the charge, just heard numbers rattled off while I was being booked. Took my fingerprints, mug shots, and had me fill out the standard forms. That was a joy, seeing as I tried to be honest, and told them I wasn't sure of the numbers. I was labeled a transient, and saw one charge, indecent exposure. Not sure how that applied, seeing as I wasn't running around, but taken outside. Didn't ask too many questions. That just pissed them off more, and I didn't get any answers.

Saw the judge Monday morning, but he postponed the case, until I could be charged under my correct name. Tried to tell him, it was my legal name. But, he said something about a competency hearing and contempt charges.

* * *

It is now Wednesday, and I haven't had any progress with this situation. Called a lawyer Monday, but haven't heard from him, and I can't remember the number I called. Tried to call my sister-in-law's collect, but no one would accept the charges from jail. Still haven't heard from Detective Jones. At least three times a day I've asked people to relay messages to him. Always get the same reply, 'Duh, will get right on that, Homer.'

Even though I am not clear of the charges against me I thought they could only hold me for seventy-two hours, a number I can surprisingly remember. A lot of good it does me, seeing as apparently it is bullshit. Either that, or no one will take my paperwork serious.

Unsure how long of a sentence you can get for being a transient and indecent exposure. But, know what I'm doing when I get out, changing my damn name, legally. I've had a lot of time to think about it, and was trying to choose a first name that isn't common. My first choice was Blow Me, so it would be on the police records.

However, after the second day in jail I decided to drop the revenge angle, and go with a real name. Besides, it would have to be like one of those long Spanish names, Blow Me You Ignorant Assholes, or something similar. Next, I considered last names for a first, as in Monroe, Lincoln, Jefferson, but quickly saw the pattern this was leading to, and discarded the notion. Naturally, this led to thinking of simple basic names like, Adam, Ben, or Charles.

Not wanting any more trouble, I'll probably just stick with initials. So, after careful consideration I'm definitely going with, "Owen- Owen James Simpson."

Wizard