Pondering back over the years working in the Correctional field and blue-collar jobs, nicknames were a common and most times a fun activity. But at the Prison nicknames were essential and a vital means of identity—a serious and necessary consideration.The Inmates at the Prison Farm were mostly younger guys that got mixed up in the wrong crowd. Guys with psychological problems; mostly undiagnosed conditions that led to erratic and at times bizarre behavior. Self-medicating on Street Drugs and or Alcohol led to trouble. These guys were not hardened criminals-at least I never felt they were criminals. They were just guys a little too ornery with a lot of energy who broke the established set of societies rules and the legal system slammed them. No pun intended. Society feels jail is the answer. The lock them up and throw away the key mentality.

The Farm Work Program was an extension of the main County Prison System. Thirty guys, Inmates that were considered non-violent and not escape risks lived away from the main Prison in a three story Colonial house. Job skills were practiced that the guys could put to use when they were finally discharged. Live, sleep, and work all at the Farm. Do what you’re told and there would be no problems.

In a Jail environment Inmates thrived on giving out nicknames. The naming process became a “Committee” decision. All Inmates and Officers had nicknames. Some of the nicknames for Officers I won’t mention-and an Inmate would not mention one within earshot. Everything was not all work. There were fun times after work. Basketball, Softball, Weight room, Television and time for pranks and jokes-good clean fun.

The Farm was not “us against them”. I used to say one big happy family. On Sundays a non-workday I wore my Mr. Rogers button down side pocket sweater and would hum the Mr. Rogers TV show theme song. I didn’t get the Mr. Rogers nickname. I was “The Nagster” because of my erratic driving skills. I most likely had some other names and that depended on what mood I was occasionally in. The Inmates had their laughs when the warden caught me driving crazy-to me it was not that funny. Nicknames defined the person. A nickname could stick to you for a long time-especially if that name was an especially irritating one. That name would be a constant tease.

Over the years there were a lot of different Officers and Inmates at the Farm. Some just moved on, and some retired. Inmates were discharged and there was always someone to replace whomever. A constant rotation kept the Farm Program active. Many names I forget especially Sir names, first names I can sometimes remember-but nicknames I’ll never forget. Funny nicknames, especially the funny names follow you a long time.

The first officer I remember only by his nickname; “Dog Hair”. He got his name because he had a longhaired mixed breed dog that always slept on the officers’ overcoat. Everyday he came to work his overcoat was covered with dog hair and on rainy days that was an unpleasant smell. One day “Dog Hair” was driving the ton and a half all-purpose Chevy truck to the County dump with two Inmates riding shotgun. A cigarette was tossed out the passenger side window. One of the open topped galvanized trashcans started to smolder. Looking through the rearview mirror “Dog Hair” noticed the smoke and fire and pulled off to the side of the highway.

Everyone got out of the truck to fight the fire. “Dog Hair” started beating the fire with his prized overcoat. Needless to say the cotton overcoat was destroyed-at least most of it. One of the Inmates was intelligent enough to reach behind the bench seat for a fire extinguisher. The fire was put out with the chemical powder. Word spreads fast in a small group. By the time “Dog Hair” returned to the prison farm he already had his new nickname-“Fire Dog”. “Fire Dog” did not last much longer as an officer. He resigned when he was hired as a City Fireman.

Tony was already an older guy when he was hired as a farm officer. Tony previously worked in a steel plant until the collapse of that industry. Tony was a great guy and was looked up to by everyone as a grandfatherly figure. Tony was Italian and on weekends he would supervise the Kitchen Inmates. Tony’s specialty was Macaroni. Tony loved Macaroni and Tony loved to eat! Except Tony was no large quantity cook and when you cooked for thirty guys at a time you had to know quantities and portions.

The kitchen pots were big, about the size of a four-gallon water bucket. Boxes of Macaroni came in twenty-pound Government surplus boxes. Since Macaroni was Tony’s specialty both kitchen Inmates just stood back when Tony poured the entire twenty pounds of macaroni into the pot. Tony said that looks about right.

Kenny the cook, had to leave the kitchen before he would burst out laughing. The harder the water boiled the higher the macaroni bubbled to the top of the pot and over. The industrial size kitchen stove became a macaroni volcano. Was Tony in macaroni heaven? Macaroni covered the stove with the macaroni lava flowing on the floor. There still would still be plenty left over for dinner. Tony’s supervising the kitchen ended and Tony’s nickname-“Macaroni” fit him just fine.

My nickname came at me early. “Nagster the Dragster” because of the erratic way I would drive and plow snow. Except when the Warden caught me and it wasn’t so funny when he used that nickname with some time off to boot. I kept my nickname to this day.

Chuck was just “Big Chuck” for obvious reasons. Chuck was so big he was egg shaped. Chuck was so big when he sat in the wooden arm office chair and he got up the chair lifted with him. Chuck worked grave shift and his most important duty was an every half hour head count. Walk up three flights of stairs, count heads, and back down stairs write the head count in the log book and call into the main jail. I think the half hour call in was mostly to make sure Big Chuck made it back downstairs without having a Cardiac Arrest. Chuck’s triglycerides were leveled out at 1100.

Another officer was “Stash”-he had an unusual mustache. Another became “Big Foot”-he wore a size 16 work boot and he could use it when needed. “Hat Trick” was another quick nickname for a nervous officer-he would continually flip his prison ball cap and catch it-“Hat Trick”.

Official nicknames became a group effort. There was always a senior Farm Inmate Committee to either choose or approve a nickname. Nicknames either described or abbreviated a long and difficult Sir name and was much easier to remember. Sometimes a new Inmate would come to the Farm still carrying his “Street” nickname. These nicknames described his street activities or the crimes he was charged with. The “Committee” would approve this. The “Committee” had the last word on nicknames.

At this time I don’t remember a lot of first names or even Sir names-but I do remember most nicknames. One guy only bought cupcakes for commissary-to this day he is known as “Cupcakes”. One nickname he rebels about so naturally it stuck.

To this day I’ll never forget Kenny. One of the best Inmates I ever had on the Farm. He came to the Farm at our special request because he spent five years “Up State” working in the kitchen. The big house as most inmates call State Prison. He was finishing his time with the County system. Kenny was also a big prankster and he knew all the “ropes”. After spending all that time upstate you have to learn how to survive and Kenny survived.

Kenny’s charges were attempted murder, reckless driving, intent to do harm etc. etc. Kenny was rehabilitated. His nickname followed him from State to County. Kenny was classified paranoid along with an anger issue. What first got him the State time was a Smith and Wesson revolver. His x-wife was riding along the freeway with her new boyfriend-they passed Kenny driving his old Ford 150 and flew him the “Bird” out of both the passenger and drivers windows. Now who wouldn’t that piss off? Kenny was packing heat. Holding the wheel with his right hand Kenny aimed out the window with his left and let loose several rounds hitting the drivers door and cracking the rear window of the “Bird Finger Flyers”. Two more shots blew out the back window as he ran over a bump in the road.

Click-empty-if I only had one more round. Police cruisers surrounded him from every direction. He surrendered without another incident. He was cuffed, booked and a no contest plea got him five years and 3 years probation. What Kenny said to the Judge-if I only had one more round. Kenny was lucky he missed his main target. Kenny’s nickname-naturally became “Short Round”. Kenny was lucky he was a lousy shot or we would have never had a murderer at the Farm.

Karl was a “real piece of work”. Karl was not a criminal. Karl was a prankster and professional conman-one of the best before he was arrested. Karl was just Karl he had no nickname. Karl was a chain smoker-he loved his Salem’s. When the Federal Government came up with a monetary reward for prisons who cut out smoking our County was one of the first in the Country to stop all smoking in the jail. The main prison was slowly one pod section at a time eliminating smoking. Karl was keeping count. Karl knew the Farm would be soon on the no smoking list. Karl started pack-ratting Salem’s in every hiding place possible-like a squirrel hiding nuts.

Just a couple more weeks and his hell would begin. Karl was squirreling away Salem’s not only for him self but he was planning a wholesale business at the farm. I’m good at finding hiding places. I had years of practice. I filled half a trash basket of contraband Salem’s. Karl was going out of his mind. He told me I was destroying his inventory and livelihood.

One Sunday afternoon I was sitting in the office reading a Gurneys Catalog and Karl came into the office and asked to make an emergency phone call. I asked what was the emergency? Karl said he needed to call his mom and talk her into paying off his last County fine so he could be discharged. I agreed and Karl made his phone call. Karl was one of the best conmen I ever had contact with but his mother could play “tough love”.

Karl’s mom accepted the telephone call. In his most cunning, pleasant and convincing voice he begged his mom to pay the fine and she agreed. Now Karl was pushing the OH so nice con I will ever remember. MOM-one more favor. I just need a little money-walking money for when I get out. MOM asked how much? Karl said just maybe $500, or no more than $700 or a $1000 would last me a little longer.

Hello, Hello-MOM, MOM-silence. Karl spent another 3 months at the Farm smokeless. The Inmates across the hall from the office were listening-especially “The Committee”. Karl finally had a nickname, a long and most unusual one unless you heard the phone call—Hello, Hello-MOM, MOM!

Like I mentioned: nicknames are earned and well thought out-nicknames can follow you for a long time. Hello, MOM.