THE STORY OF Q
©Breeze Vincinz. This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce his story or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Quincy. Or Quinton. Or Quimby. Maybe Queen for a girl. Or Quinn. Something with a Q. Nothing simple that statisticians could use to make some moot point for whatever moot platform to convince a moot public to make moot decisions.
“Mary got pregnant at 15, had one and now the rest of her life is shit. Vote for me!”
“Little Michael didn’t have chance to chance to vote for his own existence. But you do. Vote for me!”
“Sarah thinks having one will ease her pain but now she’s just the mother to a dead baby. Vote for me!”
“Frank lives a happy and healthy life since his mom made the choice for life. He eats Happy Farms vegetables, brushes his teeth with Stay White toothpaste and has a strict policy of only fucking women. As do I. Vote for me!”
And nothing too off the cuff that starts with X or Y or Z. No. Something original, but rational. I don’t him (or her) to be a statistic for anybody’s agenda, no matter how spiritually accurate or liberalistically delicious it may be. Q is the perfect letter for this. Round, and interrupted. Never truly independent from support and just fanciful enough to hold its own in between its better known siblings.
When they tell me I omitted the name on the paperwork I tell them that I thought that the space on the paper was a typo or ill-mannered joke. Who would give it a name? And who would want to know? For what purpose? What platform? What vote? What toothpaste do you think either one us is going to sell for you?
My aunt holds my hand as I go under and asks me one more time. I close my eyes and tell her,