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There’s a server at the coffeehouse standing 4’10. I call him “Life.”
“Why do you call him that?” they ask.
“Because Life’s too short.”

I grew up in an era where nice people didn’t stress political correctness, an epoch where insides were judged not by whether you took a sensitivity course but through behavior and warmth.

We’d play up at Rowland, the big Wrenford diamond—where the tree shaded first base. Two captains “chose up;” others hung out to be picked.

On any given day you’d find my brother “Little Herb”, or Chris Hovanyi. Few knew that Chris’s given name was Alex (junior, to be exact). Even Chris was a nickname! That having been said, due to the shape of his skull we later called him “Bulb,” (a tag he never liked).

And there was “Turd” Rosenberg of Beaconwood, and Jimmy from across his street. Masseria, like Bulb, was one of the few non-Jews around. We converted him, in a way, labeling him “Hymie Massarabbo.” Turd, like Fromin, was a year older; he hung out with the Mesnick boys, both “Hoof” and “Mooch.”

It was 1959: Murderer’s Row.

The good times, of course, continued to the sixties and beyond.

Alan became Wido, or Montana, (among others). We lay in our bunks at Drackett one night when Fenton, trying to get on Wieder’s nerves, dubbed him “Vestibule.” It didn’t take. For a time though, we called Al “A.” (Short splash that it was, this moniker formed a ripple in the stream of ultimate nomenclature. One other night, Stuart, still agitating, aggravating—still keeping us awake, announced to the dark room “If we call Alan ‘A’ we have to call Bruce ‘B.’ So enamored of that name was Al Bogart that the patriarch proclaimed “If we call Bruce ‘B,’ we have to call Harold ‘H.” And THAT, asPaul Harvey would have said, is the rest of the story.

Aside to “Tooth”: Does any of this surprise you?

It all began long before college. From our sixth grade club “The Excels,” to the adolescence of REN, through expulsion from AZA, we had names. There was Erv (Ermine), Raisinbrain or Fool, (Randy), and Glassman, (whom we called Codgie). Fred was not only “The Head,” but also Chico Santanna Guadlahari Gomez, Jr., (or Chico). Or…lest I forget Snyder who somewhere along the way became “Groovy”…or another comrade—one of us—who, although he denied it, rarely showered. What else to call him but “Desert Flower?”

No one, by the way, got upset. None was insulted. Not even Arthur. The Germans, be aware, had f’ing killed his older brother; Art’s family had fled the Holocaust. Still, to us he was “Kraut” or “The Nazi,” and he never complained.

The thing about nicknames is….they breathe identity. Four decades later the forefront of my mind is filled with those that might otherwise be marginalized. Consider the animal kingdom alone: I met “Squirrel” in the 50’s, “Monkey” in the 60’s, and “Owl” in Columbus. Not to mention “Phil The Skunk,” (named by Fenton), and “Phil The Fish,” (named by a card game).

The downside of nicknames, if any, surfaced in my family. I grew up in a house where our mom’s twin cousins were not only “The Bookends,” but, frankly, and perhaps because of this, no one ever sought to tell them apart. Indeed, to this day, (and this is sad), if I ask “Wheelchair Sheila” which of The Bookends— HER FIRST COUSINS— has died, she hesitates. Similarly, our father’s cousin Ruth had three daughters, with Nina the eldest. They lived out of town and our dad never bothered to learn names. In his lifelong homage to Christopher Columbus, our he never referred to them as anything other than “The Fleet.” (Put a gun to his head and the man couldn’t name the other two).

Nicknames, of course, can also tell stories. I re-singled in the 90’s and re-entered in the dating scene….Friends, for the most part, didn’t meet ladies in my life. They did, however, learn of Rolo, or The Envelope Lady, or the one Stuart, to this day, calls “Fatal Attraction.”

Outside Caribou, a pal on the way, I’m reminded of a story….

My friend divorced last year and was seeing a woman whose home was of major proportion. I never saw it but he wouldn’t shut up about it and how huge it was. Me? I could care less, but as a courtesy to him, named her “Big House.” They weren’t exclusive, though and when weeks later he developed another friend, we termed her “Little House.” This became, after a time, a bit cumbersome. As such, I’d just generically ask about the real estate. It seemed to work.

And the beat goes on.

My friend just texted. He’s running late. What to do? What to do?

I could call New York. Rooney’s visiting Moshe. But then, The Prince might be napping…and I’m tired—could use the caffeine. Nah, I’ll call them later; maybe we’ll skype. As for now I need coffee.

To Life!

This entry was posted on Sunday, April 24th, 2011 at 6:37 pm and is filed under Up From Dysfunction. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.