One thing that every person in the Earth's 6.7 billion population has in common is a name. Parents bestow names, friends bestow nicknames, and so everybody on the planet is labeled.

I like my name, Allene, even though few people seem to be able to pronounce it. I'm called Eileen, Arlene and Aileen. Once, when I walked down the aisle at my beauty salon, the first hairdresser said, “Hello, Ah-leen.” The second said, “Hi, Ay-leen.” The next said, “Hi, I-leen.”

None was right. What's so hard about Al-een? I never correct anyone. They are not mispronouncing my name to torture me.

I was born Willie Allene Stout. It was a family custom to be called by one's middle given name. Thank goodness.

Fun nicknames

The fiction books I favored in elementary school all told the adventures of girls, two best friends with peppy nicknames like Curly and Sugar or Scooter and Sparky.

I thought my sister and I should have cute nicknames, so I named myself Carrots because I had a face full of orange freckles, and I named my sister Fluff because she had golden curls. She had no say in the matter because I was two years older and quite bossy.

Oh, how we tried to persuade people to call us Carrots and Fluff. Our own parents wouldn't even try. The effort faded. In adult years, however, at every Christmas, there were packages from family members addressed to Carrots or Fluff. Very funny.

Gender issues

When filling out the enrollment form as I entered the seventh grade at John Adams Junior High in Los Angeles, I dutifully recorded my full name, Willie Allene Stout. My program then assigned me to boys' gym and auto shop class. An adjustment was made, and that's when I got rid of the Willie, like eradicating acne or pimples.

Popular Betty

In pre-teen years when conformity is safest for social acceptance, I wanted to be named Betty. There were many Bettys around, but nobody else was named Allene. When the teacher asked for Betty to stand, three or four Bettys stood up, and that seemed fashionable and in. Why couldn't I be named Betty like everybody else?

A nickname was finally attached to me later in junior high, so I learned that nicknames must be granted, not assumed. They called me “Ovaltine.” In those days, print ads for Ovaltine always depicted a drawing of a thin, undernourished girl before drinking Ovaltine regularly, and the “after Ovaltine” drawing pictured her as husky and robust.

Skinny me reminded other students of the scrawny “before Ovaltine” pictures. I still remember the volleyball captain when choosing up sides saying, “I pick Ovaltine.”

I wasn't offended by being called Ovaltine. Rather, I took it as a friendly sign of being included.

Showgirl names

When I was a filled-out 19, freckles faded, my best girlfriend Penny and I saw a newspaper notice announcing that the Earl Carroll nightclub in Hollywood would be auditioning showgirls for its next production. We were pretty cute, and we thought it would be glamorous to parade around onstage in dramatic costumes and get paid for it.

Penny, who was into numerology at the time, thought we should have the advantage of professional names based on the principles of numerology. With whatever formula, she gave me the name Allyn Knight.

About 200 girls swarmed the Earl Carroll Theater, a typical cattle call, for the open auditions. We were thunderstruck to see that most aspirants were statuesque, painted in stage makeup, and half naked in showy outfits. These girls knew the ropes. In their midst, Penny and I in our best dresses looked like a couple of nuns in a house of ill repute.

But I obediently filled out the required form. Name, Allyn Knight, followed by a listing of my measurements.

Nobody interviewed me. No leering producer asked me to lift my skirt and walk. Allyn Knight never got a call back.

Fast forward. With marriage came my new last name of Fallis (pronounced phallus). I was writing short stories then, so I changed my byline name accordingly on manuscripts I sent to magazines.

Innocent enough

At some point, I decided that using three names — first, maiden name, married surname — had more dignity (like Adela Rogers St. John), so I became Allene Stout Fallis on manuscripts. Then I thought it would be even more writerly to start my name with an initial (like F. Scott Fitzgerald). I still wonder what editors must have thought when I innocently submitted stories written by A. Stout Fallis.

After the divorce and property split, I found myself operating the La Jolla flagship restaurant-bar in our chain. Some thought it incongruous that I, a proper PTA president and chairwoman of this and that charity committee would also be a lady saloon keeper.

A barkeep name

One of my bartenders decided that I should have a moniker in the mob tradition of career barkeeps, so he called me “Big Al.” The rest of the teasing staff took it up. After I later told the story to “Mike” Pollock of Palm Springs, she has called me Big Al ever since.

Nom de plume

One career later, after writing for the La Jolla newspaper for a few years, I was hired by The Desert Sun. Since I would be starting a new life with a new job in a new town, I asked my new editor, Lisle Shoemaker, what he thought of me also using a new byline last name. He agreed and asked me to send him a list of last names I liked.

Not wanting to stray too far from family identity, among others I listed Allene North (mother's maiden name), Allene Brown (paternal grandmother's maiden name), Allene Bowers (maternal grandmother's maiden name), Allene Pennington (sister's married surname) and Allene Arthur (father's given name).

Shoemaker checked Allene Arthur and sent the list back, thereby christening me with the birth of a new name.

I answer to Willie Allene, Eileen, Aileen, Arlene, Carrots, Ovaltine, Allyn Knight, A. Stout Fallis, or Big Al. Take your pick.

Please tell me your name or nickname story at any of the numbers listed below. Thanks.

Allene Arthur's column appears Monday. Reach her at (760) 323-6014; fax (760)323-5816; e-mail arth71@aol.com.