The Name of the Game
Last August, the new old house needed a chimney, and as we are not third-generation bricklayers, someone
else was going to do it.
Builder Dan gave us a list of proposed subcontractors. He wanted Company X, or maybe Company Y, but he did
not want Dick Chilton. As in, “I hope we don’t need to go to Dick Chilton.”
Why? It seems Dick was a masonry prima donna, and had built two reputations: one as "the best around," and
the other as an abrasive, thick-headed jerk.
When X and Y weren’t available, we were forced to go with Dick, and he more than lived up to his reputation.
He worked at a glacial place without interruption, glaring at assistants and scowling at bricks. He also scowled
at mailmen, truck drivers, birds, leaves, and the stupid people who were paying him well.
We started referring to him as “Dick Chimney," and don't bother asking why – I don't remember, and who
among us knows how private jokes begin, anyway? He didn’t speak to us, he would not be introduced to us,
would not look at us, but his name was Dick and he worked on the chimney, so he was Dick Chimney.
I confess that between us, we have a lot of private names for people. But this one struck us as especially
hilarious, because let's face it, the title had a certain X-rated ring.
”Who’s on site today?” we’d say. Heh.
“Dick Chimney.” Heh heh heh.
I think we play this shorthand game as a function of both humor and ignorance. We are either cowards who
snigger at people from afar, or we really just don’t know their name. Maybe it's funny, or maybe it's not, but it
is an unbreakable habit, the naming.
Let's take the petite young barista with a haughty tone - clearly it was our privilege to receive her coffee - Princess Pissypants. Credit Josie for the brilliant Pissypants part.
It is a neverending list of shame. The waiter who rushes dinner is Abrupt Guy. The crunchy fifty-something Nepal trekker is Buddhist Woman. (my e-mail to Greg - "Buddhist Woman's here. Headed home.") A pear-shaped retiree
holds court in the coffee shop daily at nine. He is Pontificus Blohardus.
Our friend’s southern husband, the one who looks like Morrissey? Kentucky-Fried Morrissey - KFM to those
in the know.
I'm sure that listening to us would be quite appalling. I might hate us.
The pale local weather girl is Ghosty. Dreemy is the Thai food server from another planet, and the restaurant
host who habitually over-estimates the wait time is The Voice of Doom, as in, oh great, the Voice of Doom
is working today.
Some of our other Hall of Namers include Chuck Wagon (sweaty and stout, brings onion sandwiches
to the library) Suspicious Guy (why is he looking at us?) and certainly Senor Crappuccino, a barista who
repeatedly made lousy drinks and what's more, filled them only halfway.
But we talked, he improved, and guess what? Senor Ex-Crappuccino.
I'm afraid it's too late for Josie, who frequently knows people by their pretend-names. Regarding one
young college neighbor who likes to run in a rather bouncy manner:
“Booby Girl got home really late last night,” she’ll say. “She was wearing shorts and she was not alone.”
I fear that both of our moms are right, that we are in fact mean and terrible people, but then again, we
amuse ourselves and we hurt no one. Come on, if a guy worked on your house every day for six months
wearing a black t-shirt emblazoned with "P-O-R-N," wouldn’t you call him Porn T-Shirt Guy?
The Name Game generally doesn't apply to anyone we like, and though we're not looking too kind right
now, believe me, there are a few. There was the nice quiet guy our handyman used to bring around - the one
with no nose. It's true - he lost his nose in some freak prison accident years ago, and now breathes through
two little holes like a gentle, pint-sized Voldemort. So we named him No-Nose.
Mean! Oh, mean, you say? Don’t kid yourself. Once you see a guy with no nose, that is their name.
And then there is Old Shoe. Old Shoe has since moved away, but one night, years ago, his wife drank too
much Pinot and casually told me that sleeping with him was like putting on an old shoe.
Oh, Shoe, I’m so sorry. In our little naming world, you are among the sad and unjust. Don’t get me wrong,
it gives me a giggle, a fine old Dick Chimney giggle.
But Shoe, I’m just so glad you don’t know who you are.
Dick Chimney at work. Don't talk to him.
There's also Werewolf Girl, for me. But the comments are limited to 3,000 characters, so I'm not *even* going to try and tell that story.
Reply to this
My parents used to do this and we still use those names years later when commenting about those particular people who earned inside nicknames... The Fiance and I do it too...but I think you and yours have turned it into an artform!
Reply to this
We do this, too... there's Shotgun Man down the street (sometimes seen walking out to his truck with his shotgun) and Psycho Dog (the little schnauzer that wears booties year-round and froths at the end of his leash to reach my 10x bigger dogs for a fight) on our block alone!
Reply to this
Oh, Marilyn, this had me laughing the whole way through. It seems we all do this; Ted and I have our favorite diner in Uptown where we sit in the same booth and mock everyone who walks by the window.
But now you have me wondering--what nicknames do people in the neighborhood have for me?
Reply to this
Yes, I've often wondered if I am "bitchy cappuccino girl." It's entirely possible.
Sadly, many dear friends did not make the blog, including Miss Piggy, Nazi Meter Maid, Dillon's Man and Gay Satan. So many names, so little time.
Reply to this
Oh, I laughed and laughed! But it was a guilty laugh, because everyone in my life has nicknames, even the people I like. Especially the people I like. My partner at work: Evil Pixie--she's tiny & has a brutal sense of humor. My friend Eric: Michael Stipe, because his initials are REM. One of the guys at PD: Ice Cream Man, because he wears pastel shirts and he's, well, yummy. It goes on and on. Glad I'm not alone in this affliction!
Reply to this
And do you give each other mean nicknames? The Fiance and I have at least 6 not-very-nice nicknames for each other...
Little Miss Menses...for about 4 days out of the month
Little Miss Pissypants...for our cat who has renal failire and is forever going potty...
Gordo...short for Gordon...when the Fiance is actin' kinda "gay". Gordon was a mentally handicap gay man that my parents were friends with...now I call my Fiance Gordo in his honor.
We also have a list of screwed up Irish names when we do something odd like Crabby McSchidter Kpants when someone is making a mad dash for the bathroom in a public place....the K is silent in Kpants.
Reply to this
Strangely enough, we don't have any nasty nicknames for each other - just other names we use instead of our real ones. If we ever called each other "Greg' or "Marilyn" I think it would be an enormous shock.
I do call him Mr. Fabulous when his "gay enough" gene kicks in. It is very useful when antique shopping.
Reply to this
Gordo just called me, he's going to a Broadway show/matinee today.
Reply to this
Maybe Mr. Fabulous will join him.
Reply to this
Come to think of it I don't think I've ever heard you call each other by your given names. Do you still call Greg "Toadie?" (Or was it just "Toad?") I hate to think of what you've called me!
My Mom and I have a name for a neighbor of hers who is rather nitpicky. We call him Peter Piper. Can't remember what his real name is! We used to call my sister Little Miss Chatterbox when she was young. Have you ever read the Little Miss or Mister Mr. books? Very cute.
Reply to this
Hey Cath, thanks for outing The Toad. I was trying to spare him the indignity!
Reply to this
Hysterical!
Reply to this
Well, I've been entranced by your archives and so sitting here for hours -- HOURS -- on end. Now I'm LMNAO (laughing my numb ass off).
Hubby and I "name" people, too. Your post brings to mind two notables from our local coffee shop. They always come in together. One is huge and Lurch-like. The other wears one of those Bluetooth dealies like he's Secret Service. Their "names" are Cave Troll and Cyborg, respectively.
We're in Joplin, MO, btw, and our son's teacher is Jayhawk-crazy since her son is a freshman there (she's actually a K State alum). So our homework this weekend was to get online and learn the Rock Chalk chant. Henry is 8 and thought it was pretty dang cool. Daddy is an Arkansas boy and asserts that the Hog Call is cooler. Being a neutral party from California, I throw my hands in the air and say you're all nuts!
Reply to this