Slick

If you have spent much time around guys you know that we like to attach nicknames to each other. In my lifetime I have had several nicknames. I will gladly share several of them with you and where they came from but I will make no attempt to explain any of them. Well, maybe a couple of them.

My name is William Thomas McConnell, III. Obviously I am named for my father, something I came to appreciate only after coming to know and see my father through adult eyes. Since we were both “Bill” the family solved the confusion by calling me by my first nickname – Bill Tom.

In my growing up years, I had a favorite uncle that hung out with our family. He was single and we were his surrogate family. He came for Sunday dinner and even volunteered to umpire in our Little League system. He was umpiring the game where I hit my first homerun. They said it was hilarious to watch him try to pretend he didn’t care. His name was Hartsough. (Pronounce Heart Saw) He didn’t have a nickname. What could you do with that name to make it any more difficult or any funnier? I later learned that Hartsough was his middle name. His first name was Gano. It is amazing that he didn’t hate his parents. It is no wonder that he is the one who gave me my first nickname. Bill was much too simple for him. Anyway, Uncle Hartsough called me T.H. It was shorthand for a term of endearment that I can’t repeat in public.

Over the years many nicknames popped up. Mr. Wiekel, a crusty old man who befriended of my dad, called me Hard Work. I am pretty sure he was being sarcastic. It seems I was born tired and have had several relapses. My baseball buddies called me Kangaroo. My football buddies called me Mean Machine. My tennis buddies didn’t call me – I wasn’t on the tennis team. My best friend in high school called me D.N., another term of endearment I can’t explain in public. My college professions called me MIA. I guess I should have attended classes more regularly. We, the list could go on.

Nicknames can be fun. Having a nickname among the guys meant they liked you. Girls didn’t seem to do as well with nicknames. I had a friend named “Tubby” Barth. He wore his nickname well. I can’t think of one woman I have known whom I would call “Tubby.” To her face, that is. And live to tell of it. I ran around with guys who called each other Slim, Fatty, Goofy, Chubby, Doc, Dopey – wait a minute, I just realized that I must have spent part of my youth hanging out with the 7 Dwarfs.

I have always liked the nickname “Slick.” It gave me a feeling of being smarter than others. Perhaps able to get away with things others couldn’t. Quick and agile. All those things I never was or never could do. But I think I have finally earned that name.

In the past I have owned a couple of Honda S2000 roadsters. I loved those cars and hope to own another one before I get too decrepit to get in and out of it. They are small and sit low and close to the road. Those cars were an absolute joy to drive. Fast, corner well with a six speed transmission. A few years ago I lent my Honda S2000 to a friend to drive to Florida for Spring break. He really enjoyed it and, as usual, returned it in pristine condition. It looked good. The yellow paint job looked six inches deep. The wheels and tires looked like they had never been driven off of the showroom floor. The leather interior was gleaming. And that should have been my warning.

I had missed driving that hot little sports car. I loved putting the top down and roaring around the country roads near my home. So, without thinking, I grabbed the keys, fired that little baby up and took off. My joy was short lived. My friend, Mark, in his effort to return my car to me looking really sharp, had wiped down the inside with ArmorAll®. I use it all the time. Generally speaking, using ArmorAll® is a good idea. It is a great product except for one thing. Don’t use it to clean leather seats. Never wipe down the leather seats. ArmorAll® on a leather seat makes it the slickest surface in the world.

So, picture this. I am piled behind the wheel of my nifty little yellow sportster, top down, grinning like an idiot, as happy as if I had good sense, winding that little booger out in first gear when I come to the first stop sign. Being the law abiding citizen I am, I stopped at the stop sign. Or I attempted to stop at the stop sign. As soon as I applied my brakes my big, wide, polyester clad behind became disengaged from that ArmorAll® drenched seat and I found my big fat self on the floorboard, sitting on both the brake and the accelerator and wedged beneath the steering wheel.

Hey. Just call me Slick.

Copyright © 2013, William T. McConnell, All Rights Reserve