By Kent “Max” Stolt
If not fate itself, then it was timing and simple
geography that brought us together in high school. More specifically, Wauwatosa
West High School. The Trojans of ‘Tosa West. Class of ’79. From that class of
over four-hundred, we came to form our own circle of friends, partying and
laughing our way vigorously into young adulthood, with a little help from Ted
Nugent, Lynyrd Skynyrd and plenty of Old
Style beer. Thankfully we survived those comically heady days, and in so
doing established for ourselves some of the best memories and lasting bonds of
our lives.
And what a memorable cast of characters. There was
Skoj and Colonel Don, Tief and Willi, Hash and Baby Jeff, Jake and Fingers. There
was Rob, Craig and Jim. And Joel and Avery—for whatever reason not everyone got
nicknames. On the girls’ side there was Chris, Meg and Joan, Rachel and Kristin
(nicknamed Schmugli, though I can’t remember how she got that one).
As for those nicknames, that was no bullshit secret
club thing. None of us ever set out to create or assign nicknames for ourselves.
Hell, I don’t even remember the stories behind a lot of those monikers anymore.
They just happened. And somehow over the years they stuck. Sort of like our
friendships.
I got my nickname the first day of sophomore year, and
I have a German teacher to thank for it. His name was Gediminas Marchertas (That
didn’t sound too German to us.) and as long as we were in his class he wanted
us to call each other only by our corresponding German names. Logical enough.
Only problem was, there is no German name for Kent. So, what was I supposed to
do?
I found out soon enough. Gediminas walked over to his
desk, pulled a sheet of paper from his briefcase, and presented me with a
mimeographed list of first names—in alphabetical order—and told me I had to
pick one. (Now that sounded very
German.)
All eyes were on me now, or so it seemed, as I scanned
the column of names. Ernst…Hans…Markus…Max. Hmm. That one sounded kind of…I
don’t know, fun. Might be worth a laugh at least.
“Max,” I said, throwing caution to the wind.
Gediminas stared me down like a grim magistrate for a
few seconds. Finally, he nodded. “Very well, then. Max.”
He took back his list. I let out a slow breath. And we
all went back to doing whatever it was we used to do in those classes.
Well…little did I know.
From that moment on, my friends, many of whom were in German
class that day, decided to go exclusively with my chosen name. No matter when
or where. They greeted me as Max. They introduced me as Max. They asked for Max
when they called my parents’ house. Within a matter of days, my new identity
was firmly and irrevocably established.
Not that I had a problem with it. On the contrary, from
the beginning I thought it was cool having my friends call me Max. Why? For
starters, it’s a distinctive name: short and simple, strong and direct. It grabs
one’s attention, but does so without being overbearing or pretentious. I’m
guessing that’s why a lot of dogs are named Max.
There’s a reason why people who get nicknames tend to
get them early in life – there’s a hint of playful innocence to them. Unless,
of course, your nickname is “Psycho” or “Mad Dog.” Then all bets are off. But more
to the point with me, Max was the perfect sobriquet because it fit in so well
with the humor and camaraderie we all felt; part of the high school code of not
taking life too seriously. The real-world shit would come later.
The nickname wasn’t some silly alter-ego thing,
either. I didn’t act or think of myself any differently now that I had a new
calling. I never went into “Max” mode. It’s what everybody called me, and soon
enough it seemed perfectly natural, almost logical. So much so that after a
while I didn’t even notice it anymore.
Then off to college we went. Here was higher education
in every sense, where opportunities flourished and we could start getting more serious
about life – well, a little more maybe. Friends became roommates and constraints
were tested a little more. Through it all, those friends and those nicknames
remained reliable companions. Even more so in the years after college, it was
good to know a few precious things could, more or less, stay the same. That’s
the real story here.
Our high school days are long gone now, but it’s still
fun whenever we get together and get around to retelling a few of our stories.
And we still have our nicknames. Couldn’t shake them if we tried. I daresay any
of us today would damn near choke if we had to call one another by our ‘real’ names.
Bill? Scott? Kent? No way. For us, at least, we’ll always be Willi, Skoj and
Tief. And Max.
We wouldn’t have it any other way.
