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, minutes from our new business destination. Our subcompact junker recklessly weaves between mammoth 18-wheelers making me grateful that we're almost there. Driving, as I'm discovering, is not a skill 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 his first Playboy centerfold. Since that moment he's been pressing me to invest in office space. Considering our mutual disdain for the corporate world, it's an intriguing, if premature thought.

Like many in my profession, my 10-year career 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 deal with my creative talent is finally being acknowledged. The common complaint with freelance is that the work often doesn't get produced. And, if it does, the freelancer rarely gets credit. My work is getting produced and some great press which results in gigs at the best shops in town. Despite this good fortune I conclude that freelance is not a wise, long-term proposition. If I want to take things to the next level I realize I 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 a last minute insurance policy I turn to my partner who's had multiple conversations with the prospect...

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

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

      I pause trying to pretend I didn't actually hear what I just clearly heard. "You're thinking of changing your name?" I repeat. A joke, I assume. But it didn't sound like one.

For the next five minutes I listen uncomfortably as my partner dodges trucks and reveals his apparent inner agnst about his birth name, something he's apparently felt for some time. I begin to squirm still trying to convince myself that I'm not really hearing what I'm hearing as our car suddenly swerves again narrowly missing a van.

       "Uh, ok... so...what are you changing your name to?" I ask reluctantly.

       "Joe," he replies flatly.

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

      "Right. Just Joe," he repeats almost defiantly.

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

      "Come on...you're not serious...are you? I ask.

He's totally seriously at which point I'm compelled to ask one last question: "So why are you telling me this now?"

Even before the words leave my mouth I get the feeling that it's another question I'll regret. He tells me that he simply cannot remember which name he used when he introduced himself to the prospect. So, to avoid an embarrassing and potentially deal-breaking faux pas, he cautions me not to mention his name, either one, before the prospect 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 being the butt of some reality show joke and then try consoling myself with the thought that this will someday make a great story. I also find myself calculating my chances of surviving a flying leap from our speeding vehicle.