Maybe I’m just old-timey in a new-timey world. I like my coffee black, I like my shirts collared, and I like my neighborhood nosey.

Everybody these days wants to flip and flop out to the suburbs for their plot of land and their two-car garage, and their next-to-no-one-ness. What happened to the good old days when neighbors used to know one another, borrow each other’s ketchup, and talk suspiciously about the new couple on the corner? Where went the afternoon walk to the corner store to pick up some milk and pork rinds? Nowadays, everybody squeezes into the family minivan and drives 20 miles to the mind-numbing superstores where nobody knows a damn thing about a cup of coffee or a collared shirt.

But, if you live in Northside, you’ll find that those days of old still carry on. Let me explain.

If I take one step out my door, I can count on next-door Steve to holler a “hello” and offer to help me move in my new desk. If I’m in the yard, I can count on old Bob to be there with cigarette-attached finger, ready to lend a hand in trimming my catalpa tree. He’s like 104 but he loves to help. As I take off down the street, I know I’ll run into Skylar, Gabe, and Alex who’ll challenge me to tricks on their skateboards.

Once I turn left onto Chase, I’ll hopefully see Kevin at Portofino, and if I do, he’ll surely shout out a “How’s it going Two Veggie Hoagies?!” (That’s my new nickname and my favorite order.) I’ll walk a right onto Hamilton and head into Sidewinder Coffeehouse where Jen Shepherd will welcome me with a “Hey Jake, how’s the baby?” We’ll chat about newborns and music, she’ll get me my regular, and I’ll say “So long” and head right to Ace Hardware.

Once inside Ace, I’ll ask old man Bill for sixteen bronze screws, a pack of razor blades, and a wire brush, and he’ll fish through the mess and somehow come up with them. He’ll charge me $7.49 but I’ll only have a five-dollar bill, so he’ll just take it and say “Get me next time.”

I’ll step outside again, and sure enough Chuck Cleaver of the band, Wussy, will limp by, pull on his goatee, and chat a minute about taking the music on the road. As we part, Chris and Shelley will zip by on their new Vespa, honk a little dance, and park in front of Shake It Records. On my way to meeting them there, Ed at the Northside Tavern will be carrying in cases of beer and stop me for a second to book The Freddies and me for six more months of first Fridays at the Tavern. He won’t write it down – we’ll just know.

I’ll cross the street, smell the Park Chili “Veggie Mess,” but remember that I’m broke, so I’ll pop into Shake It where Darren will greet me with a “Hey Jake, I have a great old folk record that I’ve been meaning to give you,” and I’ll take it and love it.

I’ll spend the rest of the afternoon chatting with friends, browsing for new music, and sipping hot black coffee in my collared shirt, happier than hogs in honey in my old-timey neighborhood where everybody knows my name.

I just moved to Northside. I live around the corner from a barbershop. I never get my hair cut there, even though it’s a 40-second walk from my house.

As I walk by on my way to Shake It Records or Melt or the Northside Tavern, I always nod or wave "hello" or say "’sup" to the stoop of fellas who sit in rows behind the picture window. But the guys in the barbershop never acknowledge me. Where’s the jovial, Norm-from-Cheers-style "heeeey" that you’d expect from a shop full of jolly haircutters? Where’s the closed-mouth smile or the under-the-breath "’sup" or even the macho head-nod-reply? Here I am, committing an all-out "How y’all doin’?" with head-nod and partial wave (the two-finger point), but I’m like tumbleweed rolling by.

They always seem to have such a good time in there, shouting out jams and laughing like they just finished listening to Cedric the Entertainer go off on Queen Latifah. And when I hear their bellows through the open door, I can’t help but want to get into the action. But I never do.

As I pass the picture window, I shake my head in confusion as a skinny lady in a North Face jacket smiles big at me and raises her Sidewinder white café latte in a gesture of "hello." In my post-barbershop daze, I almost forget to return her gleeful gesture, but then her chocolate lab stops long enough to sniff my shoes, and I’m smacked back into the moment. I undo my furrowed brow, say my "hey there" to the dog and the lady, and then wave her off. I watch her as she powers down the sidewalk past the barbershop.

Maybe it’ll be different for her. She doesn’t nod. They don’t wave. Nothing personal. Just the way it is in Northside. 

All I ever wished for was a good nickname. Northside made it happen.

In high school, I tried to convince the baseball team to call me "Crazy Eights" or "Goose Egg," but 10 years later, I’m still the only one who remembers. My wife’s nickname is Flique, a shortened version of Flique Nique, coined by a long-gone friend after a night of margaritas. My unborn baby’s nickname is Steamboat, an allusion to his current situation. Even my guitar dons the nickname of Woody, a three-fold moniker. (Figure out all three on your own.) I love and long for a nickname so much that I work hard at giving them to people. I refer to my friend Caroline as "Lion." I call Chris Bongorno "Bibs." My friend Adam is known as "Double Stack." Bryan Wallace is "Dr. Double Jubs." Matt Reynolds is "Chicken Bone." I’ve given all of the Freddies their nicknames: J-Dog, Sugar Britches, and Kentucky.

Generally, the sequence of events leading to the acquisition of a nickname reveals an irreverent comfortability with someone else. The only way to get a good nickname is to either

A) do something memorable (see "Double Stack" and/or "Chicken Bone") or
B) be someone loveable who has a crappy Mom-given name.

Up until now, it seems that I’ve done nothing quite memorable enough to earn me a nickname (besides being born red-headed, a curse that came with the default nickname of "Red" which doesn’t count). And in an effort to maintain a relatively stable sense of self-worth, I’ll choose to believe that I am someone loveable. Therefore, I’m unofficially relieved to find that perhaps the reason I’ve never had a nickname is because my Mom-given first name of "Jake" actually sounds cool. And I was riding that wave for a while, but then I discovered that the name of "Jake" is cool if you happen to be a dog. According to statistics, American dog-owners have chosen the name of "Jake" over all other dog names for the last dozen years.

So, there I was, wandering the streets of Northside in a nicknameless stupor. And everywhere I’d turn, people were calling me to "come here boy" or screaming at me to "get back inside" or "roll over." I was hungry for a nickname. I was confused. Lost.

And then I heard it. The words sprang from the mouth of Kevin, the dude that takes orders at Portofino, the little Greek restaurant by my house. He spoke them with such love and memorability – they were more of a profession than just an utterance. He said, "Hey, what’s going on, Two Veggie Hoagies with Italian Dressing?" And there my nickname was born. "Two Veggie Hoagies with Italian Dressing." My regular order at the store. Yeah, a bit wordy and a tad awkward, but I finally have my very own nickname.

Kevin called me "Two Veggie Hoagies with Italian Dressing" at Ace Hardware the other day, and then again at the Northside Tavern. He’s used it twice on his walk home from Portofino. When I call the store, I say "Hey Kevin," and he immediately delights me with his currently shortened version, "Two Veggie Hoagies." I look forward to the days when Kevin and I are elders, and he simply refers to me as "Veg" or "Hoag" or just "Two." Maybe he’ll lose his voice in the end, and have to simply hold up a couple fingers when he sees me. That’d be great.

Any way it works out, I’m happy to know that Northside is the type of neighborhood where dreams really do come true.