When he was eight, he ran into the kitchen, wrapped his arms around his mother’s knees, and cried, “He’s calling me names again.”

“Donnie, how many times do I have to tell you: ‘At least he’s calling you.’ Remember what I said about sticks and stones?”

“Yes, Mommy.”

“Now be a good boy, run upstairs and play with your friend nicely. I need to finish making supper for your father. Maybe if you’re a good boy, we can all have dessert together.”

Donnie was already out of the kitchen before his mother finished the sentence. He had trouble separating fantasy from reality. The only thing in common with his friends and father was the letter at the beginning of the words. He was good at first letters. His aunt had taught him all about sounding out words.

He skipped into his bedroom and carefully closed the door behind, knowing how slammed doors upset his mother. “Only Big Donald can slam doors, Donnie. He works so hard, so I forgive him. But you must be a big boy. Don’t be afraid.”

However, he was afraid, causing him to wet the bed. First, he tried to blame it on one of the stuffed toys. “It was Eric, Mom.” Eric was the one with a funny smile. Donnie dunked Eric in the toilet up to his waist. “See, Mommy. Eric did it. He’s all wet.”

But his mother wasn’t buying. “No, Donnie, your PJs are also wet. Maybe we should call all your stuffed toys ‘Donnie.’” He had tried blaming each of his friends in turn for the wet bed, and not once had his mother accepted his explanation. Eventually, he would whine. “Well, if it wasn’t them, it was that evil king that made me wet the bed.”

So, he decided, if Donnie is going to be blamed anyhow, I just won’t have a name. Names are all jokes. And he told his mother he didn’t want to be called by any name. “Sticks and stones, Mommy. Everything is sticks and stones and I’m going to be a builder when I grow up. I’ll make humongous buildings out of sticks and stones.”

When he was eleven, little Donnie did slam his bedroom door. He had pouted when he was told he had to eat all the Brussels sprouts on his plate or no dessert so he was sent to his room. Hearing the door slam, his father had charged up the stairs, ripping his belt out on the way. Little Donnie couldn’t sit down for a week.

His mother felt sorry and bought a canary which she called “Hendrix.” It died the week before Christmas. It was only when he helped his mother carry the cage out to the dumpster that he saw the manufacturer’s name, “Hendrix,” on the bottom of the cage. He thought about it when he got back to his room. He told his Eric doll that all names are silly except for his.

Once, late at night, he whispered to his newest stuffed toy, “When I grow up, I’m going to build the biggest building right in the center of town and I’m going to have your name made in bright gold letters and they’ll be ten feet tall: Donnie Junior Tower. And there will be a big gold light bulb on top too!”

To make a long story short, Donnie grew up, or at least the years went by, and he built several tall buildings. The only name he ever put on any of the buildings was his own. He dreamt one night that all his stuffed toys were tucked under his comforter, and he boasted to them how people were finally calling him by his name whenever they’d tell a taxi driver to take them to the Donnie.

But stuffed toys know they can only tell the truth, and if they were still around, they’d have told him he was not a nice man and that cheating at golf was the least of his sins.

To shorten the story even further, when Donnie finally died, as we all must do some day, and went to the great beyond, he found himself standing in line and watched as one or another of the gentlemen standing around him was called up to the pearly gates.

He tapped the person in front of him on the shoulder and asked. “When do you think they’ll call my name?”

To which he was answered, “Maybe never.”