Lost Journal

Humor Column
by Tim Mollen
January 19, 2006

Decoding Secret Nicknames

Journal Entry:  October 24, 1986 (age 17)

My buddies all have nicknames, most of which have been in use for 10 or more years.  In grade school, most nicknames are created using the time-honored formula of taking the person’s last name, cutting it in half, and adding an “s” at the end.  But now that we’re seniors in high school (and bored), the time seems right for upgrading to aliases with some creativity.  So a few weeks ago, my friend Pat McCormack and I sat in the school cafeteria and assigned new and improved nicknames to some of our friends.  Mark Murphy became “Cashmere,” Jim Root became “Asphalt,” and Vinny Gallagher became “Loose-leaf Binder.”

We didn’t make any kind of announcement of the new names; we just started dropping them into conversation.  Patrick Hull didn’t pay much attention the first few times McCormack called him “Mmm…Good Cracker.”  He was used to McCormack’s strange, and often mysterious, sense of humor.  But he started to get curious when, later the same day, I said to him, “Hey, Mmm…Good Cracker, are you going over to Curds n’ Whey’s house after school?”  After a barrage of questions from Hull, I explained that “Curds n’ Whey” was our friend John Crossett.  I refused, however, to explain the meaning behind “Mmm…Good Cracker,” or any of the other newly minted monikers.

McCormack was equally steadfast in his refusals to reveal the names’ meanings.  “You’ll have to figure it out for yourself,” he said to a perplexed John “Engineered Ram Tough” Giroux.  A few of the guys took the whole thing in stride.  Jack Donovan, in particular, seemed completely at ease with being called “Finger Bowl.”  But generally, interest in the names and their origins grew to a fevered pitch over the next two weeks.

To ease the growing exasperation of our friends, we told them we would reveal the meanings behind the nicknames Friday, which is today.  We arranged to meet at 9 p.m. at Recreation Park.  As a final dramatic touch, we asked each of the guys in turn to explain what they thought their particular nickname referred to.  Murphy conjectured that “Cashmere” was a nod to his impeccable fashion sense.  Hull spun a detailed narrative that involved faking a head cold, skipping school, and doing an impression of Andy Griffith’s TV commercial for Ritz Crackers.  Root said he wasn’t sure about “Asphalt,” but it couldn’t be good.

After everyone had his turn, the moment had arrived.  The park was getting cold, and everyone was stamping their feet and blowing warm air into their hands.  McCormack slowly took out a piece of paper, his face grave with the weight of divine revelation.  “Your nicknames mean,” he began.  He turned to me, and nodded.  Then, quietly and in unison, we said, “absolutely nothing.”

The adolescent-on-adolescent violence that followed was like a lost chapter from Lord of the Flies.  McCormack and I had broken some ancient law, and our tribemates would never again let us hold the ceremonial conch shell.

© 2006 Tim Mollen

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