We're excited. Six months of collaboration has finally resulted in the first significant new business opportunity of our trial partnership. As my prospective business partner and I speed along the rutted concrete out of Manhattan, the rotten-egg stench of industrial waste informs us we're in the Jersey Meadowlands, just minutes from our new business destination. Our subcompact junker recklessly weaves between mammoth 18-wheelers, making me all the more grateful that we're almost there. Driving, as I'm discovering, is not a strong suit of my Manhattan-bred cohort.

The meeting we're about to have is a huge opportunity. The company is a highly visible retail chain and winning the business would put our agency on the map. My dark-suited mate and I have not known each other long -- 4 months maybe. When he viewed my portfolio at our first meeting his eyes bulged like a pubescent boy discovering a stash of Playboys. Since that moment he's been pressing me to print agency letterhead with our names and invest in office space. Considering our mutual disdain for the corporate world, it's an intriguing, if not premature thought.

Like many in this profession, my 10-year career -- up to this point -- has been a roller coaster After being the recipient of no less than four pink slips, I've managed to build myself an active freelance business. And, without the political tar pits to reckon with, my creative talent is at last being acknowledged.

The common complaint with freelance is that often the work doesn't get produced, and if it does, the freelancer rarely gets credit. Surprisingly, my work is getting both produced and some nice press which results in gigs at the best shops in town. Despite the good fortune, I still conclude that freelance is not a wise, long-term proposition. If I want to take things to the next level I realize that I'll probably need a business partner.

I wonder if the guy next to me, weaving between tractor-trailers, is Mr. Right. A good test will be the big meeting we're about to have. As final prep I turn to my partner who's had several lengthy conversations with the prospect...

      "So, is there anything else I need to know before we get there?"

      With just a slight hesitation, he replies: "Uh yeah. I'm thinking of changing my name."

      I pause. "You're thinking of changing your name?" I repeat.

For the next five minutes I listen uncomfortably as my partner reveals his inner agnst about his birth name, something he's apparently felt for some time. I begin to squirm. It doesn't seem appropriate that this latent identity crisis is what we should be discussing minutes before the most important meeting of our lives. Our car suddenly swerves again, narrowly missing a van.

       "So, what are you changing your name to?" I ask reluctantly.

       "Joe," he replies flatly.

       "Joe?" I repeat. "Not Joseph, just Joe?" I ask quizzically.

      "Right. Just Joe," he repeats.

This has to be joke, I tell myself... an account guy's attempt at humor.

      "You're not serious...are you? I ask.

He is. At this point I'm compelled to ask one last question. "So why are you bringing this up now?"

Even before the words leave my mouth I get the feeling that it's another question I'll regret. He candidly admits that he simply cannot remember which name he used when he introduced himself to the client. And to avoid an embarrassing and potentially deal-breaking faux pas he cautions me not to mention his name, either one, before the client does.

As our junker continues to bounce and weave at 80 mph the revelation that the guy behind the wheel is not sure of his own name becomes an unsettling thought. I find myself fantasizing about Allen Funt Jr. popping up at the next rest stop to reveal that I'm just the latest victim of The New Candid Camera. I try to console myself with the thought that this will someday make a great story, but in the moment I find myself calculating my chances of surviving a flying leap from a speeding vehicle.