"Please Don't Call Me That"

Kira, my wife, has dinner plans with her college friends this weekend. I ask her who is going and she says, “Mara, Lisa, Karen, Kathy, Trish, Ann and Tom.” Don’t ask how Tom got in there, must be a masochist.

Kira asks me who is playing in our upcoming poker game and the list sounds a little different: “Bags, Pots, Murph, Peg-Nose, Weekend, Eric, Big Bill, Lynchy.” I am in the middle of the list and I realize she’s not blinking an eye. Juxtaposed (always like to work that in when I can) with her list, my list sounds odd, childish even. I am 45 years old and I hang out with Potsy, Murph and Peg-nose.

What is it with guys and nicknames? Conversely, for the most part, women don’t do nicknames. I suppose, sometimes there’s the one really cool chick that has a lot of guy friends, and she warrants a nickname. I’ve been working on this piece for a week and I have yet to think of one. It’s been my experience, and I don’t want to disparage all women, I know there are exceptions but female nicknames usually feel forced. Women for the most part can’t be bothered. They probably have better things to do. Guys? We live for it, we try to be the one to plant a nickname on somebody.

It starts at an early age. I would postulate it starts in gym class. The Gym teacher is usually some drill-sergeant type with a crew cut, a gray sweatshirt and a whistle. They like to use last names to take attendance, Smith, Spinner, Sullivan, Tomasi…. During the term, Smith becomes Smitty, Sullivan becomes Sully. And boys take it from there.

We did it on my block even before we could cross the street. Tommy Brennan listened to Hank Williams. So of course, Comper (a mutation of Compietello) called him Clem Cadiddlehopper as befits a “country boy” from Brooklyn. Speed being essential on the mean streets of Brooklyn, we shortened it to Clem. One of the guys in our crew had a slow metabolism, we called him, Bubba. Somehow Bubba turned to Yucca when that Yucca Dew shampoo came out….see, there’s history in them there nicknames.

Now if I’m at any social function, and I hear a cool nickname, I am intrigued to find the story behind it.
“His name is Richie Dunn. Why do you call him Scary?”
“Just why do you call Pete Sigismondi Meat?” Maybe I don’t want to know.
It might be cool to do a collection, "Chicken Soup for the Creatively Monikered Soul."
Let’s take a look at some of my favorite stories…

One of my college buddies at SUNY Buffalo, Jimmy Conroy, always had a knack for hanging the right nickname on someone, like…Raymond Lynch. Steve Lynch’s younger brother, Ray, transferred from the University of Rhode Island after his freshman year. The name Lynchy was already taken in our circle by his brother Steven. Initially we called Ray “Little Lynchy” but we all knew that wouldn’t stick.

Ray is a wise-ass, a quick wit and a pest, he likes to get under people’s skin, in a very funny way. He and Conroy have an interesting relationship. Ray looks at Conroy and says, “What’s the matter pal?” while he imitates Conroy’s various mannerisms (smacking his palms rhythmically on his thighs) and facial tics (pursing and unpursing his lips) and eventually Conroy belts him. Picture Ed Norton and Ralph Kramden. One Saturday, in early September of my sophomore year, we spent the day out on Fargo Field playing softball. Most of us are Irish so at the end of this very sunny day there were some red faces around. That night, down at the campus pub we’re having a few beers and a few laughs. Standing in the circle I notice Conroy, who was red coming out of the womb, staring intently at Ray. Eventually we all turn toward Jim and he says to Ray, in his Long Island, iron worker voice, “Eh, look at your nose. What’s going on with your nose? It’s all red. It’s stuck on the end of your face, like somebody put it there. Kind of like a PEG. Yeh, that’s what it is, it’s a Peg. I am going to call you Peg-Nose.” That was 1982, and Ray Lynch is still Peg-Nose.

It’s best to ignore it if somebody tries to hang a nickname on you that you really don’t want. Guys can smell that fear like sharks and blood. It’s in our DNA, we recognize the facial movement of Please don’t call me that, I really don’t like that name. If you display this face it’s automatically too late. For example…We are at a keg party in some apartment building on Columbus Avenue, Upper West Side. It’s post-college, we’re in our late 20’s so maybe it was more of a “cocktail party.” I am there with pretty much the same group of college buddies whom I mentioned earlier. At some point our circle begins to interact with this group of single women. Introductions are made, “This is Bill and Bill and Jim and Ray.” Trying to sound mature we avoid the nicknames on the initial interaction. As the beers flow and the hijinks ensue, one of the girls, this ditzy blonde keeps hearing us call Billy Murphy, Murph. But she hears it wrong and she asks in her high-pitched voice, “Why does everyone keep calling him Merv?” At this point everything moves in slow motion. Murph, who has been saddled with a relatively cool nickname his entire life (Murph) springs into action. Sharp on the uptake, he recognizes in that instant, in the chemistry of guys and nicknames, that he has to nip this NOW or he might wind up being Merv for the rest of his life. Murph’s mouth is open, he’s slowly mouthing the word, “NOOOOOOOO.”

At the same time Weekend Weizner’s head is turning toward the girl with a huge grin on his face. A grin that says, Yes, there’s years of torture ahead, “What did you say? What did you call him?”

Murph jumps in, frantically, “Nothing, she didn’t say anything. You said Murph! Right? Tell him you said Murph?”

It’s too late. Weekend turns to the rest of us and in unison we yell, “MERV!”
And that’s how you go from Murph to Merv. It happens that fast.

Which brings me to Bill “The Weekend” Weizner, currently my favorite nickname story:

Bill Weizner was still living in Porter Quad his 6th year of college. Most of his friends, Murph, Jack, O’Connell and Big Al had moved off campus. Their off campus house was on Minnesota Ave which was right near the Main Street bars we frequented. That year, a pattern developed. Weizner would pack a duffel bag and crash on their couch for the weekend in order to party. The dorms were a nightmare bus ride away. At some point, Al and the boys could tell what day of the week it was (usually Thursday) by when Weizner showed up at the house. The scene was similar for the first few weeks of school. Big Al, sitting in his favorite recliner, would bare witness and announce, “Must be the Weekend because Weizner’s here!”
Which shortened to “Here comes The Weekend.”
Finally to, “Weekend’s here.”
Bill Weizner is approaching 50 years of age and even my kids call him The Weekend.

Why do guys do this? How come Kira doesn’t have anybody named “Double D” in her crew? I have a few theories. Guys are fairly simple creatures. First, we like to get a laugh, there’s a little class clown in all of us. Second, we’re also competitive, it’s a source of pride to hang the right moniker on somebody, to be part of your group’s lore. Third, it’s how we show affection or admiration. Conroy liked Ray, so he called him Peg-Nose. Kira always says, usually to someone that I am poking fun at, “I can tell that Jim likes you because he makes fun of people he likes.” Women don’t need to use nicknames, they don’t have any problem showing admiration or affection for each other. Guys? We bust balls, we make up names for each other. A nickname says, I dig you man, you are my friend. I like hanging out with you, so I am going to call you this goofy name for the rest of your god-given life!

So, tell me your nickname stories. I’d love to hear them.