When we were in high school my friends and I used to fuck with each other by calling each other ‘Jerry.’

Guy friends these were. With us, ‘Jerry’ became a count noun, applied most often in this way:

You’re a Jerry.

Don’t be a fucking Jerry.

From all sides the response was laughter.

The principal of the high school we attended was named Jerry. Jerry Conley. He was a tall, stooped man, impervious to unvoiced derision. That’s to say he smiled. Widely. Constantly. He’d amble the sonorous gray hallways, smiling.

And we laughed. As if none of us would ever comb our hair, as if none of us would ever shake the hand of someone we couldn’t give a shit about, we laughed and laughed.