First day on the dock, they stuck me with the two oldest guys in the place.

Nobody told me their ages, but you could tell by the way they moved. Not slow exactly. Just careful, like every joint had a memory attached to it.

Socrates ran the pallet jack like it owed him money. Issac stacked crates with the kind of precision you don’t learn in training videos. Nobody talked unless they had to.

I figured I should say something. Probational workers are supposed to be friendly. Show initiative. All that crap.

We were unloading a truck full of boxed fittings, metal edges biting through cheap gloves, the smell of oil and dust hanging in the air.

I cleared my throat.

“So… uh… my name’s Greg. Gregory Allen Parker.”

Neither of them looked up.

Socrates slid a pallet into place and muttered,
“That so.”

I kept going anyway.

“Allen’s my middle name. Named after my grandfather.”

Issac grunted. Could’ve meant anything.

We worked another minute in silence. Forklift whining somewhere behind us. A chain clanked against the dock wall.

I tried again.

“What about you guys? You got middle names?”

That got a reaction.

Socrates stopped pushing the jack and turned his head just enough to look at me over his shoulder. Not angry. Worse. Tired.

“You asking for conversation,” he said, “or you taking a census?”

“Just talking,” I said. “Trying to get to know people.”

He stared at me another second like he was deciding whether I was worth the effort.

Then he sighed.

“Socrates Eugene Carter.”

I blinked.

“Socrates? Like… the philosopher?”

He went back to moving the pallet.

“My mama liked books,” he said. “Didn’t mean I got to read ’em.”

Issac snorted.

I looked at him.

“And you?”

He kept stacking, slow and steady.

“Issac Thomas Reed.”

“Thomas got a meaning?” I asked.

He shrugged.

“Means my daddy had a brother named Thomas who owed him twenty dollars.”

I laughed before I could stop myself.

Neither of them did.

We worked another few minutes. My arms already burning, sweat running down my back, shirt sticking to me like I’d worn it three days straight.

I didn’t know why, but the silence felt heavier now, like I’d stepped into something I didn’t understand.

Still… I opened my mouth again.

“So what about middle names… you think they matter?”

That did it.

Socrates stopped the pallet jack and leaned on the handle, looking straight at me for the first time.

Up close, his face looked like old leather left in the sun too long.

“You on probation, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then listen close, Greg Allen.”

He tapped the crate with one knuckle.

“Out here, nobody’s counting middle names.
Nobody’s counting stories.
Nobody’s counting what you were supposed to be.”

Issac set down the box he was holding and wiped his hands on his pants.

“What matters,” he said, “is what they call you when the work’s done.”

I frowned.

“What do they call you?”

Issac gave a crooked half-smile.

“Still here.”

Socrates nodded once.

“That’s the only name that means anything.”

They went back to work.

I stood there a second, then grabbed the next crate and started stacking.

Didn’t feel like talking anymore.
Out here, nobody’s counting.