In the course of the novel's 879 pages, he is variously called Kid, the Kid, and Kidd. But there's really no right way to name him. His identity is dispersed, in space and in time. There's no common measure for the events recounted in the book, no focal point at which they might converge. Rather, it continually fragments on the terrible and vivid ephemera of now.
Time is shattered, as in a kaleidoscope.
Without a center to ground the flux, it's impossible to distinguish past from present, or memory from premonition, or actuality from dream. There's always an odd sense of deja vu. Each new scene Kidd comes across seems vaguely familiar, as if he had encountered it before. He even finds a notebook in which portions of his story are written before they have happened. There's a glitch in the process of repetition.