Since I was young, I repelled nicknames. My folks called me Jazz when I was growing up. I hated it. I pitched so many hissyfits about it that sometimes I think they don’t even remember the moniker.
In school, if it wasn’t the odd “four-eyes”, it was simply my last name. Later on, some shining example of humanity tagged me with Stuart, from the old Saturday Night Live sketches. You might not remember those. I barely do myself, but it was Al Franken’s character. He’s a senator now, imagine.
That was all kinds of fun, especially after the sportos picked up on it. There’s a number of reasons I got into so many fights throughout school, and that was one of them.
At one point, I tried to self-apply ‘Dok’, but never really with any conviction. Thankfully.
So, going into college, I was 0 for 4, but extremely jealous of friends that had nicknames. It became apparent to me that it was something like a badge of honor, a symbol of others’ affection and just straight up baller all in one.
I guess it makes sense that I finally got my time in the sun, so to speak, when I stopped giving a shit about it and just wandered around the fourth dimension doing my thing, which was mainly complaining, writing, and complaining, but mostly writing. This illustrious if ultimately dead-ended pursuit gave rise to my second imaginary friend and literary alias, Vick McNair, Private Investigator. A few of my friends in college still give McNair a holler, and I still have arguments with him on particularly drunken walks home.
It’s a divine irony though, that my best friend has more nicknames than Jehovah. While she’s understandably curious about our man Vick, that’s not a name she ever spits out. On the other hand, her nicknames seemingly number like species in a rainforest. Here’s a sample; Cougar, Skip, Noonan, Bliss, and Rooster. Again, it’s because she doesn’t give a shit and rolls on her own groove.
So I was secretly overjoyed that right before the holidays fell like a cloud of mustard gas, a friend of mine and regular at the bar called me Sunny J. I was even more pleased that the name later passed the test and has been uttered by friends. Again, it was because I was just doing my thing.
While this story and the happiness it might bring me may seem trivial, I submit that there’s no such thing as Big Happiness. If you can’t get excited about things like slurpees, fresh cigarettes, a perfect Manhattan or a slightly breezy sunny day (or a slightly rainy day), you don’t really have any business being on this planet. You’re probably one of those people concerned exclusively with the Big Things, like buying a house, or getting married, and you probably don’t have the sort of nice and easy natural rhythm a human life begs. And while you might have a nickname, it probably wasn’t for something you didn’t already notice about yourself. It’s like digging through a cereal box for the prize as opposed to forgetting there is a prize, and just basking in the natural arrival of wonderful things. Those kinds of things can’t just be taken from life, someone else has to reach up to the high shelves and bring them down for you.
As much as I hated being called Jazz when I was young, I kind of wish my folks would throw it out there every once in a while. I’m probably ready to appreciate it, as long as they don’t do it more than once or twice. I mean, really.
