If the shoe fits..

Nicknames. I’ve made a career out of them. A large percentage of the people that I consider friends and family have a nickname. The great ones evolve. I’ve got some great ones.

And I’ve been given nicknames too. I’ve made a career out of accepting them. In many cases, I make subtle suggestions to the giver of the nickname, how he or she might even improve it. It can be a sensitive subject. But trust me, I’ve been given real stupid ones. And in some cases, the only reason why I am given a nickname is because the person figures I have one coming. Have one coming?

I know this guy that I have given about eight or so nicknames to. One of them I use more than the others. But about eight all said. Well it came to a point where he finally drummed up the courage to give me one.

Unfortunately, the nickname he chose was Milky. And his reasoning is that I milk everything. And he’s right. Problem is, I have already given that nickname to somebody else. I’m sure my Milky milks everything too, but I can’t say that with 100% certainty. But that’s not why we call him Milk.

And like I said, I’ve been given plenty of others too.  And you might even know one or two of them. But the very best of the best, most all ya’ll don’t know. 

Of the best, here’s one you probably don’t know. It’s a small circled nickname that continues to pick up speed. There are probably, ohhhh, say about 10 women, 25 men, and but a handful of children(one in particular) that know me as Bird. Bee Eye Are Dee, Bird. I think it was given to me in 08′.  A star was born.

But Bird has been good to me. Heck, I might have even given it to myself, I forget. Regardless, what’s interesting about Bird, is that long after it should have been buried in the vault, it’s still lingering. Lingering hard actually.

Which is why, on February 19th, 2014, when my partner said to me, “You will now have to be known as Pollo, Pollo Fresco,” I was immediately taken back by it. Like it was meant to be.  

****** 

OK, so I needed a place to crash last February for about five nights. My partner said I could stay with him. I told him that I would have a BBQ chicken dinner ready for him when he came home from a long work day in the hot tropical sun. When he came home from work, I had done nothing. I mean I tried, but I just couldn’t pull it. Puerto must have had me in the grind.  Anyway, I told him that I couldn’t find any chicken.  He stood there motionless with his mouth open.  He said, and I quote, “You couldn’t find any chicken in Puerto?”

Of course then he went on to say stuff like not being able to find chicken in Puerto is like not being able to find ice on Everest. Or sand in the Sahara.

“Well i guess from now on, you will have to be known as Pollo. Pollo Fresco.”

Works for me..