
Paul’s name was not Paul. The name on his driver’s license was Apollo. His parents, particularly his mother, were living more like Andy Warhol than Andy Griffith around the time of his birth. There was a lot of experimentation in their life. And seeing as they weren’t particularly engrossed in Greek or Roman mythology, Paul considered their choice to name an unremarkable suburban Caucasian baby “Apollo” to be the zenith of their quest to experiment.
He didn’t mind the name on it’s own. What he didn’t enjoy was the conversation that inevitably occurred when he had to give the back story to the rare individual who discovered his true identity. No, I’m not into the space program. No, I’m not a big fan of the Rocky movies. No, I don’t have a twin sister named Artemis.
“Paul” is not only a common name, but it is a legitimate shortening of Apollo. He had no ill will towards his parents. This modified moniker, in his mind, maintained an appropriate level of respect for them. Paul is a low-profile name, and it is one that he wished he would have adopted much earlier in life.
This is part 6 of the story. Read the beginning of River Apollo here.
Paul pulled up to the Lions Clubs building that hosts the monthly Trout Unlimited meetings. The Spring Meadow chapter had been going strong for nearly 30 years. The members had done some truly remarkable things for the protection and conservation of cold water resources over the decades. Many of the local creeks had been polluted, scoured, and channelized at some point in the past two centuries. The time and finances garnered to restore some of the region’s creeks was truly respectable.
These sentiments Paul played over and over in his mind as he shut off his engine and sat in his front seat. It was 6:58. He gave himself another minute and a half’s worth of a pep talk. Flies with honey, and all that, he thought.
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