I’ve never really carried a nickname, save “faggot” or “queer” for any length of time, save Rickroy. My first week (in 1986) at Saks, there was an event, at the store, called “Riding High with SFA.” It was a Western themed, anniversary event. (Marking the fifth anniversary of Saks on the Plaza.) Our visual merchandising team, Michael, John and I instantly dubbed each other with nicknames for the week. There was Michael-Bob, John-Earl, and when we came to me, Michael said, “Rickroy.” We set all the mannequins in the store in Western-ish attire (there was a fashion spasm in that direction at the time). We set piles of televisions stacked on top of each other with mannequins sitting on top of the piles in the windows. There were speakers installed in the canopies over the windows on the sidewalk. The TVs were threaded together to a VCR where we had John Wayne in The Cowboys playing 24-7. I remember, when we went outside to look at the “finished product” we were out there at the exact time in the movie where (was it John Wayne? or maybe one of the cohort of lost boys he had cobbled together to make the cattle-run from someplace south to someplace north.) Whomever it was, the scene was “Say it, say it.” The poor stuttering member of the lost group said, “F-f-f-f-f-FUCK!” to cheers all ’round from his compadres.
I think I said to Michael, “You know this idn’t gon’ fly.” Michael shrugged. We let it stand. I don’t remember anyone complaining.
Rickroy, it came to be a nickname my later Boss, Dennis (god rest his soul) got wind of. He called me that ever after. Danny came along about that time. He picked up on it too. He may well be the only one who calls me by that name now. When he does, I’m flooded with memories. Sometimes I can hardly stand the flow.
