Matthew Roberts sat in his living room, the afternoon sun filtering through the blinds. He sat on hold on his phone, staring at the football game, on mute.
“Roberts,” he said into the phone. “Matthew Dean.”
“February 16th, 1993.”
He gazed at the game.
“Yes.”
“4025, 1025, 9452, 2306. 11/23. 865.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Yep.”
He held. He got up and crossed the carpet to the kitchen, where he pinned the phone between his shoulder and cheek and opened the fridge and took out the orange juice and drank some from the carton.
“Yes, hello,” he said, when a person was back on the line. “Yes, a name change. That’s right.”
“Mercutio Swoosh.”
A pause. He put the juice back in the fridge and closed it with a slam.
“Why the hell not?”
“Well, I don’t think that’s any of your business — ”
“Would that be easier?”
He rolled his eyes and heaved a heavy sigh.
“Yes, Swoosh is a very sentimental name for me, it represents… uh…”
He cast around the room, looking for an idea. His eyes fell on a framed photo.
“My grandmother.”
“Yes, Mercutio is important as well!”
“Look, can I speak to someone else? I just want my name changed, why should it matter — ”
He threw himself down on the couch on his back
“Fuck!” he screamed. “I just want to change my name to Mercutio Swoosh!”
He thrashed around, rolling over onto his stomach. A throw pillow toppled onto the floor. He punched it and bit down on another pillow and screamed into it, squeezing his eyes shut, his face purple. His eyes bulged.
“Yes, I’ll hold!”
Somewhere deep inside his brain, something popped.
“Argh!” he made a strangled noise. His legs convulsed and he fell off the couch, still holding the phone to his ear. His eyes rolled back, and foamy spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth.
“Yej!” he slurred into the phone. “Mer- Mercutio,” he said, making great effort to say it clearly, “Mercutio Swoosh.”
“mmmff!”
His eyes rolled back in his head and he lay still.
Six hours later, he awoke in a pool of cold urine on the living room floor. He rose, as if lifted by angelic hands, and floated to the bathroom in a trance.
In the bathroom, he stared at himself in the mirror. He slowly raised a hand to the mirror, stroking the reflection of his jawline.
“Mercutio Swoosh…” he breathed. Suddenly, his jaw tightened. He ground his teeth together, and his eyes burned with determination. He gripped his phone and dialed.
He waited for it to ring.
“Screw you, Mom! I’m Mercutio Swoosh now!”
He ended the call, then cast the phone into the toilet with a splash.
He roared like a lion, then headbutted the mirror, which shattered into a billion pieces. Blood poured down his forehead, and he sank to his knees, then slumped onto the floor.
The end… or is it?
