During my high school years, I had a classmate named Jimmy Tremarelli. We shared several classes and would often cross paths in the hallway about three times daily. Each time, Jimmy would greet me with a nod and say, “Dr. Dowling,” to which I would respond, “Dr. Tremarelli,” before we continued on our separate ways.
As time went on, our playful exchange became more elaborate. On occasion, Jim would approach me at the end of a class, placing his hand on my elbow.
“Doctor,” he would say, “I know you’re busy, but I have a case I’d like your opinion on.” I would then look at him seriously for a moment.
“Call my secretary,” I would reply, and with a nod, we would part ways. We were merely 15 at the time.
Although I cannot recall how this tradition began, it persisted throughout our three years of high school. We never failed to engage in this exchange, seemingly for our own amusement rather than anyone else’s. I have a vivid memory of students bustling past us, oblivious as we pretended to hold consultations near the gym doors.
Initially, we didn’t know each other very well, and perhaps we never truly did. I don’t recall ever having a straightforward conversation; we were simply too invested in our routine.
After graduation, I lost touch with Jim, but I often think of him when I find myself clinging to a joke that has perhaps overstayed its welcome. Recently, this nostalgia struck me when I referred to Sainsbury’s as “Saino’s.”
The origin of this nickname is clear in my memory: I was walking through the kitchen with a shopping bag when I paused to check for my keys, wallet, and phone. My eldest child, who was seated at his laptop, looked up and asked, “You going to Saino’s?” His way of teasing someone who might actually use such an abbreviation, while clearly enjoying the jest, made me laugh. However, I realize it might not have been as amusing to others.
Nonetheless, I quickly adopted his playful moniker. For the past two years, I have exclusively referred to Sainsbury’s as “Saino’s.” No one else seemed to find it funny; in fact, my wife has expressed her disapproval numerous times.
“I’m heading out,” she said one day, peeking into my office. “Is there anything we need?”
I hesitated, considering my options, one of which is often to maintain peace.
“If you call it that again, I swear I’ll kill you,” she replied. “But yes, probably.” I paused again, weighing my choices.
“Big Saino’s?” I ventured.
With no real opportunity for humor to develop, my only hope is that my relentless repetition might eventually lead to some new level of comedy. So far, that hope has not materialized.
The true risk lies in becoming committed to the joke for its own sake. Rather than merely poking fun at someone who exclusively calls Sainsbury’s “Saino’s,” it feels like I have become that person.
During a weekend trip with friends, my wife was driving us back from a lengthy walk with the dog—women in the front, men in the back.
“Do we have enough wine?” one friend inquired.
“Will anything be open?” asked the other.
“There’s a Saino’s on the way,” I blurted out, without thinking.
“Shut up!” my wife exclaimed, turning to our friend in the front. “I’m afraid he calls Sainsbury’s Saino’s.”
“Why?” our friend inquired.
“I don’t know,” my wife replied.
“Why?” the friend then turned to me and asked.
“I’ll tell you,” I responded. “But as I’m explaining it in about ten minutes, remember that you asked.”
Recently, I decided to look up Jimmy Tremarelli to see if he had pursued a career in medicine. It would certainly demonstrate a remarkable dedication to our little joke. In a twist of fate, I discovered he is now a teacher at the same high school we attended, 45 years later. I like to think that if I were to visit the school tomorrow and caught his eye in the crowded hallway, he would still nod and say, “Doctor,” and I would happily respond in kind.
