I know from my friend Susan from tiny Neola, Iowa, about the concept of small-town nicknames. They help bond people together in a tight community, like twins sharing a private language. The names may be placed, almost inexplicably on a person who is destined to live out his days as, well, "Mouse," or "Gunner," or maybe "Bruiser."
My first winter, before the washer and dryer were installed in the apartment building, I had a special window into life in Van Horn through the laundromat. There I'd see all generations--mostly at their worst--as laudromats don't seem to bring out the best in us, now do they?
On one of my first visits to the laundromat, a guy tried to pick me up. His opening line was, "got any kids?" He was missing several teeth, was impressively rotund, and had trouble putting a full sentence together. At least he was clean, and fairly polite for not seeming to know, really, how to be polite. He was awkward and stumbled around and seemed a little surprised when I wasn't interested. Maybe he was more than a little miffed, but he retreated at my rebuff with some dignity. And thanks to Doreen, who's well-timed call to my cell phone allowed both of us a respectful parting.
Later I learned his name was "Caveman." But recently I learned the genius of that moniker. Apparently, Caveman didn't walk upright, so the story goes, until he was in SECOND grade. Poor guy, he may never escape that.
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