A Nod To...(Guess who)

The door creaked open, having as much character as the house and people within. A woman stood smiling behind it.
"Hello, ma'am. I was wondering-" I started, but she, smiling, politely interrupted, as if sensing my purpose.
"I'll go get him." She called his name faintly as she turned and walked away. Turning back, seeing me standing in the doorway she laughed quietly. "Won't you please come in?"
"Thank you ma'am," I replied, "but I don't want to intrude."
She turned away again, faintly amused, and as she passed her husband in the hall she leaned in, pecked him lightly on the cheek, and looked to have whispered something in his her. He grinned like a noon-sun in spring and stepped lightly towards the door.
His grey eyes shone youth and kindness from behind his black-rimmed glasses. "What can I do for you, son?"
I had a veritable assortment of speeches planned, ranging from sobbing to insulting. I folded them, balled them, and tossed them. A past-love's letters scorned. He solemnly watched my face flex muscles into patterns of worry, anxiety, nervousness. Until finally my jaw flexed a mouth into existence.
"Sir," I began, "I have no doubt that you have had a vast amount of people like myself come up to your door and boldly introduce themselves into your life." I paused. "People like myself, but none of them me."
He stood there like an oak tree. Immobile, permanent, and seemingly impassive.
"What's your name, son?" he said cautiously.
"Sir, I am like yourself." I replied, gaining confidence.
"Oh?" he smiled. "Is that so. Then I guess I should ask, 'What is my name?'"
"You aren't somebody," I curled the toes in my shoes and when they no longer felt alien I continued. "you aren't any one person."
"Who are we?" he breathed
"You, sir, are Douglas. You're Charlie. Your Guy, Tom, Laurel, Hardy. You're last name is Spaulding, and Montag. Sometimes you don't have a last name, and you go by Grandpa, Grandma, Pa. You have too many titles to count: Mister, Missus, Miss, Captain, Commander, The Lonely One, Martian." As I spoke he closed his eyes and leaned against the door frame. "You sing opera with your hands! You write symphonies!"