It was Chuck

Howard touched his table. It was a sort of fake linoleum. He checked underneath, compressed board with just some lino on top. Hideous. He thought. He remembered his friend Charlie's. There he had a real table. Wood, light like pine. He said he had made it just on his own. 

"I only used my knife." He'd say. Patting his pants, with one hand. The knife stowed safely away. It was not just a knife, he'd taken it everywhere with him. From Michigan to Minnesota to Oklahoma. All over the place. 

It had other uses though, it was a multi-tool. Had pliers, and a screw driver. Although that one he said sucked. 

Howard took a sip of his beer. He always like Charlie, adored him, wanted to be him. He even bought his own piece of wood to try. While he was cutting it he sliced his finger open. The piece was still in his parent's garage.

He took another sip of the beer. Like medicine or something. 

They'd call him Chuck. It started off he wasn't sure who said it, but it slowly became a thing. There was a Charles moment too, brief but bright started right before their winter break, and when they came back everyone went back to Charlie.

Then that summer, it was Chuck.