A Rose By Any Other Nickname
I DROVE PAST MY NEIGHBORHOOD TACO BELL yesterday. I was glad to see that they are continuing to value their staff by naming another “Employee of the Month.” This month’s winner of the coveted “Golden Taco” is named “Ant.” That’s it. Just “Ant.” I’m going to go out on a limb and assume that “Ant” is a nickname.
“Ant,” Not “An Ant.” Thank Heavens; I’d hate to think that one of the ways to work there and be named “Employee of the Month” would be to have six legs. Although during a busy time at the restaurant that could be an asset.
Our Congratulations go out to Ant.
After considerable thought I have arrived at the conclusion that “Ant” cannot be his or her given name – unless I find out that his or her siblings are named “Cockroach,” “Mantis,” or “Cicada.” While that is unlikely, it is not beyond the realm of modern possibility.
“Ant” might just be short for “Anthony” or “Antoinette.” I had an Aunt Antoinette. I never would have called her “Aunt Ant.” Doing so would have assured for me a horrible death.
If “Ant” is simply a nickname and I was him or her I would try to find a better one. With my name having only four letters it would be hard to “nick” it. “Oh, here comes Joh.” It just doesn’t work.
At one time or another everyone has a nickname whether they know it or not. The unknown nickname is not as uncommon as one would think. Let’s face it –we have all worked with someone who, whenever they were spotted, was called by a nickname. “Here comes that ‘Stupid SOB’ again” or “There goes ‘Old Head Up His Butt.’”
Am I right? Yes, I am.
My first nickname came from my father who had an odd sense of humor. There I was a towheaded, cute as could be, little boy, and, no matter what bar we were in, Dad would introduce me as “Shyster.” That’s a good one to strap onto a seven year old kid.
I like to think that maybe he had hopes that I would grow up and go into The Law. No, that’s not true. I wish it was, but…. He also trained me so that whenever someone would ask me, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” – I would smile and answer, “I want to be a Bookie.”
“Shyster?” “Bookie?” Do we see a trend here?
I never became a lawyer, Shyster or otherwise, and the closest I came to being a Bookie was taking a date to see the movie “The Sting.”
These days I carry the lone nickname of “Krafty.” I do carry it – literally. It is on the license plate on the back of the Toyota. It is an innocuous nickname. Nothing shocking, disgusting, or likely to get me barred from polite society. All it does is trigger questions about my ability to get free Cheez-Whiz. I can’t.