This story was based on my thought that nobody could possibly have been afflicted with a real name like Benjamin Coffin III. From that beginning, it just kind of -- grew. I take no responsibility for the dirty mouths of these boys when they're under the influence.

"All right, all right. How about – Maureen Maneater?"

"Christ, Roger, that's awful." A pause. "Although, um – not completely untrue."

Another pause, longer. Then Roger and Tom erupted simultaneously into giggles.

Mark turned a dusky shade of red and pulled a long swallow from the vodka bottle as it was passed back to him. He figured that he'd earned that one.

Tom had swung back into town earlier that evening, and by this point in the early morning, all three boys were thoroughly tanked. During his stay at Yale, Tom had picked up an affinity for marijuana, too. Though Roger scorned the "fairy-boy weed," preferring good hard alcohol, he and Mark had been pretty well enveloped in Tom's secondhand cloud, and now the three of them were tittering like schoolgirls.

Needless to say, what had started out – hours before – as catching each other up on the past seven months had taken a giddy turn. Mark had been needled mercilessly for his new relationship with Maureen before he'd been able to change the subject to Tom's job offer from MIT. As he'd hoped, Roger pounced on that gleefully. "A philosophy professor – at the fucking Massachusetts Institute of Technology? That department's, what, all four freshmen before they transfer into engineering or whatever?"

"Whatever, man," Tom had grumbled, "it's MIT. Looks good on a résumé for a real philosophy department. And hell—" His eyes suddenly gleamed. "I hear they pull off some amazing shit there. Working phone booth on top of a building. They're budding anarchists, they just don't know it yet."

Roger snorted and said something rude, which Tom answered with a shove, which Roger answered with a punch, and somehow Mark was the one who got a ratty couch pillow in the face. Shrieking like six-year-olds, they wrestled across the floor of the loft, a snarl of legs and loose sweatshirts and laughter.

The brawl ended abruptly when the well-being of the vodka was endangered. Wheezing, Roger untwisted his shirt from his torso and flopped onto his back on the floor. "This almost makes me wish April would get out of the house more often."

Mark rolled his eyes at the patent untruth of this. Then he had a lightbulb moment. "What are we supposed to call you, Tom?"

"Uh?" The man in question rolled onto his side, slitting his eyes quizzically up at Mark.

"Well, now that you're a real philosopher. What kind of philosopher name is 'Tom'? 'Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Tom'? No way. Gotta have a ring to it. Gotta change it."

"Well, what to?"

"Oh." Mark flushed – or maybe it was just the alcohol. "Um…"

"What's Greek for 'Smartass Gay Boy'?"

Tom lobbed the couch pillow.

"'Big, Black, and Beautiful'?"

"Give up, Davis."

Roger was silent for about thirty-five seconds. Then, as he opened his mouth again, Tom quickly suggested, "What about – Tomás?"

Mark and Roger exchanged a look. "Tomás?" they echoed in unison.

"Well," he started defensively, "y'know, it's different, but – the same – sort of…foreign-ish…" He trailed off, seeing their expressions, then waved his hands through the air in surrender. "All right, all right, stupid idea!"

"No…" Mark said thoughtfully, taking another drink from the bottle of Stoli. "'S not a bad idea, just – not quite right. Something more…like…Tommy."

Tom hated the nickname 'Tommy.' Before he could retrieve the pillow to express his displeasure, Roger interrupted, his eyes glittering as he caught Mark's line of thought. "Or – Tomkin."

"Or Tom-Tom!"

"Thomasina!"

"Tomato!"

Tom, about to launch himself at whichever of the two was within tackling distance, checked his attack and raised an incredulous eyebrow at Mark instead. "Tomato?"

"Why the hell not?" Mark retorted, grinning at his own cleverness. Tom grabbed the vodka from him and waggled it tauntingly as he stood up.

"Why the hell not is I brought this bottle of liquid nirvana with me, boy, and I can take it away with me, too."

After a series of satisfyingly abject apologies from both, Tom consented to resume his seat on the floor, adding, "So lay off of Thomas." Roger rescued the bottle from his grasp and slugged back a few long swallows, as if he were afraid it would disappear in his hands. He waved it at Mark, an invitation.

Mark took a more judicious drink, then wiped his mouth and shrugged. "What about Collins?"

Roger caught his half-formed derisive reply, tilting his head and considering. Tom's face took on a pensive expression. "You know…" he said slowly, looking at Roger.

"…that's not bad," Roger concluded. "Actually – I kind of like it."

Mark eyed them both, but could detect no sarcasm. "Really?"

Tom nodded, starting to grin. "It's obvious, yeah, but it is kind of catchy."

"And all real philosophers go by their last names, anyway," added Roger.

"True that."

Mark raised the Stoli in a toast. "To Collins – the top philosopher at MIT!" And dodged as the pillow flew in his direction again.

And with that settled, they'd moved on to renaming the rest of the group. Mark became "Cyclops" – because of his one-eyed camera, the new-baptized Collins explained, delicately avoiding mention of that incident with the X-Men comic book. Roger – despite his suggestions of "Fucking Amazing Rock God Whose Solo Licks Will Set Your Hair On Fire" or (simply and inexplicably) "Sex" – was dubbed "Hendrix," which none of them really liked. But the night was flying – and more importantly, their attention spans were growing rapidly shorter – and they agreed to the name as a temporary placeholder, to be revised later.

Maureen was probably the point at which the liquor and pot had caught up with them, and Roger and Collins couldn't get past the hilarity of "Maneater." Finally, Mark mentioned Benny, in a desperate attempt to change the subject.

Collins, lying with his head on Roger's stomach, disentangled himself and sat up with an effort. "Where is Benjamin?" he demanded. "You'd think a guy would be around to welcome his prodigal roommate back to town—"

"You did kind of come back without telling anyone," Mark pointed out.

"Oh. Yeah."

Roger took a drag from the joint – which he had acquired at some point from Collins, after all – and handed it back as Collins lay down on his stomach again. "Benjamin, Benjamin, Benjamin," he mused, linking his hands behind his head. Smoke eddied from his pursed lips as he considered names for the painter-turned-aspiring-tycoon.

"Benjamin, practically of Westport by now," interjected Mark irritably. Suddenly, his eyes grew huge. "You know what he told me? Alison? What her nickname is, out in Westport?"

Roger hitched himself up on his elbows, sensing something rich. "What do they call her?"

A grin stretched across Mark's face as he leaned in and replied: "Muffy."

They dissolved into gales of laughter, flung helplessly against each other as they cackled and whooped.

"Muffy," Roger sputtered, gasping for breath. "Oh, man. Oh, man. That's amazing."

"Almost laughed in his face when he told me," Mark said, remembering. "Don't know why he told me. Should've known that was gonna get out."

Collins wiped his eyes, still grinning, and asked, "He still dating that prima donna? Man, I thought she'd've dumped his ass ages ago."

Roger shook his head, mock-mournfully. "Worse than that, Thomas. I think he went and bought her a ring."

Collins digested that with a long whistle of disbelief. "Damn fool, Benjamin. Putting the last nail in his coffin like that."

Mark snorted. "Benjamin's coffin? Please. Hear him talk these days, you'd think this place was Benjamin's coffin." He waved a hand at the loft in general. "Fucking Westport—"

"Benjamin Coffin."

"What?"

"Benjamin Coffin," Roger repeated.

"Benjamin Coffin?"

"Fuck yeah." Roger leaned forward eagerly. "In a coffin right along with the rest of them, with their yuppie suits and their yuppie portfolios and their white yuppie picket fences…"

Collins stroked the stubble on his chin, looking thoughtful. "Benjamin…Coffin. Not bad. Not too bad. I think I like it."

"And," Roger added, looking sideways at Collins, "he is all dark and shiny…"

Collins socked him in the arm. "Watch your mouth, boy."

"Benjamin Coffin," Mark said slowly, rolling the name over his tongue. "Benjamin Coffin of Westport…" He shook his head. "Doesn't sound right. Something missing."

"Benjamin Coffin the third, of Westport," Roger crowed with a flourish of arms. He climbed unsteadily to his feet and made a bow to the other two, pitching his voice deeper to mimic Benny's. "Hi there, old sport, how do you do? Benjamin Coffin the third is the name. Money makes me horny as shit. My yacht or yours, Muffy dear?"

And Mark and Collins were gone, in hysterics on the floor. And the roommate in absentia had officially been christened – God save his soul.