I open up my wallet, look at my ID, and say: “Joey, look at this man. I am Sam.”
“Yeah, I know,” he says.
“You knew who I was all along?”
“Yeah. I am sorry about. I had your wallet. I had to check man.”
“Oh, buddy that hurts. You knew who I was this whole time. I’ve been fighting to find my identity,” I say.
“It’s only been a day. I meant to tell you, and I was trying to make things right. Really trying,” Joey says.
I grab my forehead, my mind is foggy from all the booze.
“OK. I know. All is forgiven. You helped me. You got me medical attention. You drove me back here, and you gave me back what you took from me. We’re good man.”
“Friends then?” Joey asks.
“Yeah, we’re friends.”
“So what the hell kind of name is Sam anyway? And your last name. What the fuck was that again?”
“Well, Sam is a normal name, right?” I ask.
“Samuel, usually. I guess your parents might have just gone with Sam. It’s a bit different though. The last name though, sounds Asian or something.”
I look at my ID again and say: “Yaza. My last name is Yaza.”
“Well, you don’t look like anything but white. I’ve never met a white dude with the last name Yaza before,” he says.
“Have you ever met anyone with the last name Yaza?” I ask.
“That’s a strange name though. I wonder if you were adopted or something.”
“I don’t know.”
“Still though, a strange name,” Joey says.
Some guy who calls himself Joey Mac is telling me that I have a strange name, mother fucker.
“Well, Joey Mac! I’m just glad to know who I am. Maybe I should call that paramedic lady now.”