(I first started writing this on 25/12/2020)

I can’t remember his name. We were both around 12 years old, he was a bit older than me. We went to English classes together. The nicest fella I knew there. But I’m not here to tell you about our English classes. Even if that’s most of what I record of him.

(29/07/2025, Five years later)

I guess what I wanted to talk about was how this now nameless pal taught me about telling a good story.

It was the first day of class, and the teacher had us introduce ourselves. She was one of those older teachers at school who already kind of knew everyone and had a fun aunt demeanor to her (it wasn’t a very big class anyway, fewer than 5 people, so the mood was already amicable from the get-go). But nonetheless she kept to the standard practice of having each student present themselves with their name, what they do (we were mostly middle schoolers so nothing particularly interesting here, except for one or two adults who later ended up dropping the course) and, most importantly, an interesting fact about ourselves.

I’m not quite sure if he was the last one in order, but when we got to Mr. Nameless he was very calm, he was a loud kid at first but actually paid close attention to everyone else’s story. At least more than I did, I used to have quite a short attention span at those classes, I hated wasting afternoons ripe for naps there. But something about him grabbed my attention, even before his turn to speak had come, I knew I’d like to be friends with him. He had an interesting air to him, but even my assumptions couldn’t have prepared me for what I was about to hear.

He told us his name, that he was in 7th grade (or 8th, I’m not sure), and started patiently telling us all about how he had recently become the state champion for dominoes. It all started with his grandfather who taught him how to play and how much they practiced for the championship. He had only just won it and was happy to see his family so proud, especially his old gramps. Everyone, other than me, had questions. Questions about the rules of a dominoes championship. Was it one on one or four vs four? Was there any difference in the way they played compared to how we usually play? Who hosts the event? Is there a national level? An international one? He answered them all.

I was mesmerized; he was so captivating with his words. How could he be almost my age? I was funny and interesting alright, but nothing close to that mastery of wordplay. Even the teacher was caught off guard by those facts, she had known him for some time now. She had even warned us that he was a “trouble kid” as a half-joke before class started. (I remember him joking back at her). Awestruck nonetheless, she kept asking questions about dominoes and he kept answering. When, after a good while, he finally said:

Yeah, but that’s a lie.

What was a lie? We all asked.

I never played dominoes.

The room erupted with laughter; he was cackling. That was so crazy, the amount and depth of the details. The length of the story. He hadn’t stuttered once. And it was all a big ol’ lie. That was the most hilarious thing I had ever seen someone do with that little effort. He just told a tale. That’s it. Nothing much — yet everything he needed to get us locked in his world for that afternoon. I learned a lot that day. Words, they’re all there is, everything else follows. Like dominoes.

I became quite a proficient liar in the years after that, inspired by this Domino Man and many other storytellers I met. Almost 15 years later now, I still lie sometimes, but I assure you there’s more of me in my memories than in my tales. As it should be!