"My name? There is no st--oh wait a minute. Yea man. So I had a bag filled with ganja, right." He picked up a brown paper bag and clamped both hands on the opening. "Four pounds. No, four kilos. And the police, they come an' take me arms." Still holding the bag, he crossed his arms, making eye contact with each member of his audience. "I go like this"--he flung his arms out and with his elbows tight began to flap--"and fly away. So my friends call me Father Tick Tock. I'm still running from the police and time..." His story faded there.
I nodded. The story only slightly helped make sense of the wonderfully bizarre name, yet I understood. Most likely the actual event connected less with Father Tick Tock than the friend who christened him.
We were sitting in a small circle on the prickly grass near the ocean--Father Tick Tock, Tim, James, Lis, Hilary, and I. Father Tick Tock was crouching on his shiny red and black basketball shoes and the red mesh tank top and three gaudy necklaces hung out from his torso. He had initially approached us as soon as we arrived at Boston Bay to sell us marijuana but even after we refused, giving different reasons for why ranging from a shrug to an elaborate lie involving Coast Guard drug testing, he continued to be friendly and interested in talking with us.
Having Father Tick Tock close by, I was more comfortable wandering the shoreline looking for shells and seaglass by myself as Jamaican men interrupted my childish venture to hit on me. New York City instincts still caused my chest to tighten and for my mind to jump to fabrications (I don't have a phone, I'm moving and I don't know my address yet, I have a Canadian boyfriend named Robbie), but when I pointed to where my friends were and Burt or Will or Papa turned to look, I was able to continue scanning the ground. Will even picked up some seaglass for me.
As we walked to Jerk Centre, where he was generously taking us to his favorite vender for dinner, I realized that Father Tick Tock answered my question better than I would have. What is the story behind Babby Malouf Gubba Gubba Dumptruck on Fire? Magubbagubba? Or Piccola Anguria? Chica de Sol? Wheeze? Aliza, even? I don't know but I remember who called me by each name. Nicknames bring me closer to people and I often brainstorm new names to give friends and family. Loula--that's my friend Mallory. Daniel is Bruce, Patricia is Martha, Ellis is Alaska, Rebecca is Cribut, my grandmother is Mother Gooseberry.
I found it strange that Father Tick Tock would adopt us as friends without a business incentive. New Yorkers are known for being snobby and aloof and I could only be skeptical of the sunny Jamaicans. A New Yorker would never run home to sell his mesh tank tops to tourists like Father Tick Tock did for James and Tim. But a New Yorker would not have any mesh tank tops in his dresser drawer either.
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