A few years ago when I was living in Juneau, Alaska, I worked with a kid who’s name was long forgotten by most of the restaurant and bar staff of the places he frequented daily. The lapse was a result of his steady diet of ceviche, a cocktail of raw fish and lemon juice, that he consumed as often as he could. So his meal of choice became his moniker.

While wandering the isolated roads in a unregistered pickup truck with a full cab of unlicensed drivers, we had to stuff Ceviche in the bed of the truck. Like coroners, we covered him with a sheet as it is illegal to transport a person in the back of a pickup (nevermind the legal issues presented by us in the cab who shouldn’t have been driving in the first place).