If I knew one thing, in 2004, it was that I was leaving Charlottesville.

In 2003, when my wife came back from Baghdad, she didn’t want to be married anymore. The next day, she took my dog, Sapphire, for a run on O-hill, let her off the leash and into traffic. When I found Sapphire’s body on the 29 Bypass, she wasn’t bleeding, but she wasn’t breathing either.

So when I was living in my basement apartment on University Circle, I was not what you might call “happy” with my two years in Charlottesville. I was waiting to sell the house, sign the papers, divvy up the wedding gifts, and leave town.

As a transplanted actor from New York and Los Angeles, I avoided community theater. But I had done two shows at Live Arts, where I met great and talented people—artists making theater for the sake of making theater.

And, I used the Rivanna Trail a lot—to get outside, to get out of my mind, to remember Sapphire. One Saturday, I showed up to help maintain the trail. I started doing that monthly. The group was a community that was literally building the type of community it wanted to be.

I even met a beautiful woman. I instantly felt I would fall in love with her. And we tried to get together—start and stop. Then, she told me, with kindness, that I was not ready, emotionally. And when I was ready, she couldn’t promise she would be. But she said to let her know, and maybe we could be together then.

Then on my mother’s birthday in 2005, Hurricane Katrina hit the Gulf Coast. A few weeks later, I was south of Baton Rouge volunteering at a Lamar Dixon Expo Center, which had been temporarily converted by the Humane Society and LA/SPCA into an animal field hospital.

The Expo had six open-sided stables, each with about 48 horse stalls. Those stalls were made into holding pens for two to four rescued dogs each (cats in another building). And the barn on the end was a Veterinarian M.A.S.H.

I spent two days walking dogs and cleaning up dog shit. Plenty of pit bulls, plenty of unspayed/unneutered pit bulls. We watched one give birth at night. We slept in tents or on donated cots. Food, coffee, and Powerade was donated. It was September and it was hot.

The Humane Society leaders asked for new volunteers to go into New Orleans and search for pets left behind. I formed a team with Mark, a home renovator from Portland, Oregon, and Megan, a makeup artist from Santa Monica. Together we drove early each morning into a predetermined sections of city, ones that had been submerged in 8′ of water. There were no people in these parts of the city.

We rescued about five pets a day, some barely alive, and all of them hungry, thirsty, and in shock. Sadly, we found even more animals dead, having been trapped in a flooded house that now smelled of rot, mold, decay, or death—or any combination thereof.

My last day in New Orleans, we were alerted to two dogs that may be alive in a house around the corner. We kicked in the rotten door, as we were used to by now (having been underwater, the doors were so warped that they needed to be forced, sometimes broken).

Inside, there was no sound and no horrible smell. The floors were still wet and packed with canal mud. There were no paw prints either—nothing had been walking in here. Then, we heard the wimpiest whimper.

In the next room, two spaniel mix dogs were on their sides, stuck to the mud on the buckled wood floor. They were young, maybe 2 years old, and weak, barely able to hold up their heads. It was hard to tell that they were breathing.

We had the address of a nearby horse farm where a Seattle-based group called Pasado’s Safe Haven had set up animal rescue. Megan drove fast, of course, while Mark and I each held an emaciated dog wrapped in towels and T-shirts.

Using dog crates as an operating table and my camping headlight as an operating lamp, the doctor got a needle into one dog’s collapsed vein. With the slow injection of liquids, she was able to lift her head, move her legs, open and close her mouth, and take deep breaths.

A young woman from Pasado in camo pants and tie-dyed T-shirt named the dog Daisy-Ray. She took my number so that if there was no owner found, and when Daisy-Ray was well enough to travel, I could adopt her. Relieved and happy, I spent the night with Mark and Megan walking “bite hazard” dogs. And then it was time to leave.

I had driven there without a break, but driving back, I stopped at a cheap motel in Tennessee. I was thirsty and hungry, but too tired to eat, when my phone rang. It was the woman from Pasado. She told me Daisy-Ray had died. All I remember saying was “thank you.”

I stood in the motel parking lot watching the sun set behind a strip mall that contained a Dollar Store, a gun/pawn shop, a liquor store, and a check cashing place. I tried to concentrate on all the dogs we saved, but I kept thinking about Daisy-Ray. I kept thinking about Sapphire.

I thought about the artists, about people I would see tomorrow, about my great and talented friends. I thought about the beautiful woman who, if I was ready, might be ready, too. I took a deep breath and said to myself, “Tomorrow I’m getting in my car and driving to Charlottesville. Tomorrow, I’m going home.”

Laurel always wanted to be treated special.  She needed some attention; and she wanted a reason for people to talk about her.

On the radio one morning, while she was driving to work, Laurel heard a report about nut allergies, “people need to be careful around other people with nut allergies.”  Some people had it so severe, the reporter said, that they died.

So, that day, Laurel started telling everyone – little by little, bit by bit, story by story – that she had nut allergies.  And, people listened.  This was great, she thought, people cared.

Co-workers put up signs in the break room to remind others about Laurel’s special needs.  To prep for afterwork gatherings, emails were sent out to highlighting the special care that needed to be taken while preparing food and drink for Laurel, “well, for everyone; but especially for Laurel.”   As a way of showing protection, friends would bring her copies of magazine articles, “look, all these airlines were switching from peanuts to pretzels.”

People were going out of there way to respect her wishes; to keep her in their minds; t o protect her.

But, after awhile, that wasn’t really enough.  Laurel felt like she was cheating and deceiving.  She felt bad.  And she, of course, felt like she couldn’t tell anyone – they’d all call here a liar.

So, Laurel thought, to validate everyone’s concern, the only thing to do was to truly make herself allergic to nuts.  She would eat a handful of cashews then make herself vomit.  Again and again.  She would sit beside someone eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and hold her breath until she passed out.  To simulate allergic convolutions, she took to eating peanuts and snorting cayenne pepper at the same time.  And overtime, she began to convince herself that she was allergic to nuts, she really was.

People would hear of these sneezing fits, “Oh, my god did you hear…”  And they would  talk about these episodes where of Laurel losing conciseness just by her proximity to nuts, “She wasn’t even eating them, she was just near them…”.   And as they would re-tell the stories, they would be even more protective and conscious of their actions, “This is serious, ya’ll, she could die.”

Then, one day, Judy brought banana-walnut bread to work without asking.  Laurel found out and sprayed herself in the face with mace.

Everyone was pissed at Judy. 

But at home, alone, her face still red, Laurel was singing in the shower.  She was so proud of herself for becoming the center of attention.  Then, she slipped, hit her head and died.

It was the nuts that killed her.

A small boy who had never had a name was wondering, “why don’t i have a name?”

He was right, you know, it seems everyone has a name.  But it didn’t bother him too much, he was just curious. He went on with his life as the young do, innocently.

When people would ask, what is your name? He’d reply, “I don’t have a name, what would you like to call me?” And that’s how he ended up with all the people he knew, for all the names he remembered, an additional name for himself.

When he was with Bob, his name was Arnold.  When he talked to Carol, his name was “Also Carol.”  And when he walked past Elvis, Elvis would call him “Hound Dog… thank you very much.”

One day he met a girl who also hand no name. He was shocked, he had never met anyone without a name before. And for that matter, neither had she.

“You don’t have a name either?”

“Wow.”

They didn’t feel the need to give each other a name. It just felt right to be in each others presence.

They were right, you know, i mean, when would you ever meet another person who knew exactly what it was like to live without a name.

They had so many shared experiences — well, they shared so many experiences… with each other… both before they met, and while they fell in love and knew they would spend their lives together.

They decided to have a child. And decided it was really important. And when that child was born, they named her…