Fun with Language

When Norman Mailer published “The Naked and The Dead” he used the made-up word “fug” to replace the common four letter expletive. He was vilified by some critics and fellow writers, but his novel is a classic and the substitution probably helped him to dodge unnecessary criticism and reach a larger audience. His compromise is still the occasional subject of literary studies on censorship. When I first read the book I, too, was disturbed by the use of the word “fug”, but the writing was so strong that I quickly overlooked it and only intermittently stumbled when it appeared on the page.

 “Swearing makes you sound stupid.”

“When you talk like that, you’ve wasted your education.”

“It sounds like you don’t know any better.”

“Your use of four-letter words is insulting.”

I live in a profane world. Anger and coarse insults have always been shouted in the schoolyard, at work, at the table. Steady vocal eruptions of anger and jealousy, envy and greed were part of the foundation of middle class, blue collar life. For a child, verbal expression was difficult in standard day-to-day activities and conversation. Who could a kid talk with? His teacher, parent, coach? Not in this world. You got hit in the face with a baseball? Walk it off, shake it off, turn it off.

Impure thoughts? Sinful. How does a fifteen year old boy not have impure thoughts every three to eight minutes? I couldn’t control mine, I know that, and with the help of the Catholic Church and a moralizing government, narrow-minded teachers and the babbling of unqualified authority figures, I spent my adolescence trembling with guilt and unable to stem the flow of images and desire. Desire which I acknowledged. A lot.

When contemplating, daily, the lives of those who had more than I had, more than they deserved, a sense of self pity engulfed me. I looked at their stuff and knew that my baseball mitt, shoes, car, were not as good, so neither was I. A lot of emphasis was put on what you owned. At fourteen I couldn’t figure out the socio-economic equation that created my place in the class system so, to alleviate my denigration, I learned to steal and swear and wear dark clothing. A friend shoplifted sweaters from clothing stores, and another took liquor from his parents and their friends. I stole books and felt fine about it. It doesn’t sound like a remarkable rebellion; actually, it’s a wimpy way to lash out, but reading, for me, could be as distracting as alcohol.

And swearing.

Man, could I swear. I loved the fricative sound of four letter words in my mouth and watching the faces of those around me when I let loose with a litany of vulgarity and anatomical curses. It was invigorating. My parents hated it, they shouted threats, but I was potent with words. I tried to keep my mouth shut when I was being scolded by Sister Mary Benigna, but inside, just at the boundary of my teeth, an instant before the lips part and sound becomes detectable, I was clicking my teeth and nattering the most horrifying descriptive dirt about her heritage, her vocation and her body.

If I was cut from a sports team, the coach or captain was drowned in a blazing satanic river of pre-verbal excrement as I looked at the ground or faked attention.

It was when I was with my friends that I found I could shock and disgust with volume and assurance. Even they, those young men from similar backgrounds, angry, repressed, guilty and newly criminal, even they asked me why I swore so much. That was when I knew I had a gift.

I went through college at a time when it had become OK to curse in class, it was part of our academic freedom, as long as it was “germane to the discussion”. I didn’t care about the discussion, my achievements in reading and writing were pretty good, and I could get attention with my ability to offend. My grades didn’t suffer, but my university experience was not as pleasantly social as that of my classmates. Other students engaged me in conversation, but after a short time they would wince and excuse themselves in order to get to the next class.

I played drums in a rock and roll band and there was never any criticism unless my timing was off. Who cares if the drummer has a filthy mouth as long as he can hit hard and fast?

I worked in a warehouse and found that I was competitive with the most threatening and angry employees.

I drank in bars that served cheap potent drinks to hard men and women who had little education and less opportunity. I was a noise that was only intermittently noticed by the sputtering clientele. When I could silence a group of ignorant drunks with an especially revolting stream of sewage, I was proud. 

This month, I’m trying not to swear around innocent bystanders and I’ve had around ninety percent success. There are still those who have been offended, but the experiment has been, for me, dramatic.

Three weeks ago I was at a gathering and, for an instant, all the other conversation dropped away and I heard myself giving an opinion concerning something I cared about, but I was expressing that opinion with prejudice and shocking profanity. I looked around the table and realized that I was dismissed by my tablemates as a big mouth who was not to be taken seriously. I was annoying.

Sadly, there was a time when I considered being annoying an accomplishment. Twenty or thirty years ago I took pleasure in sending others on their way, watching them shake their heads in dismay.

No longer. I really don’t want more friends, I try not to encourage acknowledgment from my family, and I’m not offensively seeking attention any more. That’s a young man’s game. Being loud, cocky, aggressive, those are the traits of someone who is full of doubt and I’ve worked for a long time to be free of doubt. Ignore me and I’ll probably be alright. I don’t actually believe it matters what others think, but I don’t have to show it dramatically. Perhaps this is part of getting older, self esteem and contentment. A breakthrough, or a diminishing of the senses?

When I write, I use any words I want in a short story or an essay; a character in a novel can cover all the trashy ground I’ve already been over. I’m simply trying to re-train myself to use spoken language a bit more discreetly. I want to be effective in my communications and infrequent conversations.

Alone, I still use extremely bad words. When I hang up the phone, no matter who I’ve been talking too, an insurance company, a friend, the dentist’s office, I follow up “Good-bye” with a wretchedly insulting phrase full of sexual and bodily impossibilities. It’s a habit. From the comfort of my vehicle, I loudly snap out smatterings of vocal muck at other drivers. I don’t believe it is Tourette’s syndrome, though I have been accused of suffering from that sad, debilitating condition. It’s another experiment in word usage, not unlike the research I was doing in my early teens.

It hasn’t been easy getting through the day. I have to really explore  my entire database. What can I use instead of “P...M...ing...C…ing…S...”? How about “Inbred Stool-Swilling Pool of Vomit”? Catchy, no? Each word could stand on it’s own, medically, environmentally, without too deeply offending even the most prudish.

 In the end, I may give up and go back to churning out lewdness and filth for effect. It’s a relief to cut back, though. I have so fugging much less to say.

Today's Aneurysm

I arose late for my Aortic Sonogram. It was scheduled for 8 a.m. and I woke up at 7:30. The woman who scheduled it told me that I had to fast, nothing by mouth (what other method is there?), from midnight, and to please arrive early in order to fill out some forms. It’s part of the “Welcome to Medicare” program. When you become my age you are enrolled in Medicare, an allegedly free-ish system to provide health coverage to older citizens. It’s a way to see who is and who is not close to death. I am at the time in my life where there are many agencies that want me to pass away. They urgently desire for anyone who isn’t earning and buying and paying taxes to die quickly with no complications, no lingering, no expensive surgeries, treatments or hospitalizations. These are referred to as “The Golden Years.”

So, “Welcome to Medicare” (big smile and a handshake). During my last physical Doctor S. noticed my age and said that he was “required” to assist me with the “Welcome to Medicare” forms. There are always forms. He read off the questions and I answered. We got to “Have you ever smoked?” and I said, “Of course”.

“But not now?”

“Nope. Quit 17 years ago.”

“Good for you but you have to have a sonogram of your aorta. It’s required if you’ve ever smoked or if you have a family history of aneurysms.”

Unfortunately, both.

About ten years ago I made a pledge to never use the word “aneurysm” and if someone spoke it in conversation, or even if I overheard a stranger say it, I would rebuke them and immediately leave the vicinity. An aneurysm is a blister, weakening or ballooning of the wall of a blood vessel that, when it eventually bursts and gives way, blood gushes and splatters just everywhere, causing strokes, heart attacks, internal bleeding, a “high risk of death” and all the crap that I’ve been trying not to think of but do anyway. It’s an ugly word that can only lead to unhealthy obsession and distress.

At the hospital, after registering and being asked more questions while the receptionist filled out a computerized form, I was directed to the Imaging Department where the technician asked me to lie on a padded table and pull up my shirt. She then smeared a viscous, somewhat vulgar lotion on my chest and stomach and prodded my lower torso with a hard plastic wand for about fifteen minutes. At times the sound of my heartbeat filled the darkened room as she broadcast it over a speaker so that she could hear if there were any audible anomalies. To my untrained but anxious and sensitive ears my pulse sounded like thunder; fast, thready, irregular thunder. A hyperactive kid stomping on a long sheet of bubble wrap, but really loud. I expected the tech to say, “Wow, there’s an aneurysm on your aorta the size of a ripe  cherry.”

There was nothing obvious in, on, or around the aorta that indicated that I would soon die and relieve the concerned agencies; I will continue to be a financial burr in their underwear. I wiped the lotion off of my chest with the provided towel and went to the grocery store, my next stop on this aneurysm-free day.

Filling out goddamn forms occupies a large part of my life. Ill die because I failed to fill out a form properly. How happy they will be.  Online forms, surveys, questionnaires, purchases, enrollment in various organizations, the gathering of data for research, opinion, support, customer satisfaction and aneurysm analysis,.

I use a plastic swipe-card at the grocery store that gives me barely perceptible discounts on certain items. A robot-woman’s voice says “Welcome, preferred customer” and it’s a little like a lottery. I swiped my card and noticed that the cherries which I thought were $1.99 a pound registered at 10 dollars for around two pounds.  Apparently my card, the one I’ve been using for ten years, was no longer accepted by the scanner and I was being charged the “non-discounted” price of $4.99 a pound, much more than I expected or would pay.

I like fruit. I’ve heard, and believe, that fresh fruit added to one’s diet is a good way to avoid health problems like high cholesterol and aneurysms. I use the word freely now. It’s too late to quibble.

I brought the high price of cherries to the attention of a clerk and he gave me a package with a new plastic card and a mail-in form. He explained that it would be easier if I logged on from my home computer and filled in a questionnaire, conveniently registering for the discounts and bypassing the U. S. Postal Service. He also swiped his own card and I got the cherries for the discounted price. God help me, I thanked him for his generosity.

The website for the supermarket chain came up on my screen and I completed the form and pressed “continue”. Nope. The scolding red line of text that says I didn’t fill in one of the lines accurately appeared at the top of the page with a lot of exclamation points and I was kicked back to the beginning and all of the info I’d entered was blanked out, so I started over again. The section for my phone number was marked with an asterisk. I retyped everything, paying particular attention to the phone number. Another red asterisk. I was doing something wrong, I guess. I knew the phone number was accurate. I separated the area code and the last seven digits. Red asterisk. Eventually, I tried it with a couple of hyphens separating the groups of numbers and it worked. I pressed “continue” and after a long wait was told that I was now enrolled in their Savings Program and was eligible for all manner of benefits. I declined a further relationship with the grocery store and their dubious largesse. Upon exiting, however, I was directed to log on to my email where I would receive a message from the company that would allow me to “verify” my data. I bailed, booted up my gmail account and saw that there was the expected notification in the inbox. All I had to do was hit a link that would take me to another page where all I had to do was acknowledge with another simple mouse click, that “Yes” I was me.

So now, while they’re in season, I can buy cherries for a relatively fair price instead of the inflated cost of $4.99 a pound. The cherries were a little tart but I ate them anyway. Aneurysm. Jesus Christ, imagine the forms that I’ll have fill out at the hospital if I survive.

Keyed Up for Judgment Day

It all happens so fast. This morning I stepped out of the house, feeling good, happy, sun, sky, blah blah. Approached the car, looking forward to getting to my spot at the coffee shop, doing a little writing and probably a bit of talking.

Keyed. The driver’s side door was keyed. I stood back and looked, gasped, swore. An eight inch streak of metal on the blue paint.

Why? Who the hell would key my car? Breathing harder now, I searched my mind. Who were my enemies? Christ, I didn’t even think I had any. Not now. Not after all these years. They’re all dead, forgiven, I’ve moved to the mountains of northern New Mexico and haven’t participated in any illegal, alcoholic, angry events that would give rise to an adversary. Not that I know of. Did I do something accidentally; did I insult someone, demean or ridicule or undervalue them? It’s very possible. That’s the way I behave sometimes. I know I have a tendency towards arrogance but the pivotal phrase is “I know”. I recognize my tendencies towards arrogance, narcissism, anger, sarcasm and obscenity and I try to keep them reined in, under cover, controlled. Of course, regardless of the above listed traits, I recognize that I’m not perfect. But to piss off someone so much that they would run their key over the door of my car, blemishing the smooth, well-cared for surface? Damn.

I was now in hypervigilant mode, running through the past several days, trying to pinpoint a moment of social infraction. Who? Ron, Sarah, Ken, Deborah? I know I’ve said things to all of them, my friends, which may have been misinterpreted. I’ve always figured that, if you don’t like something I’ve said, that’s not my problem. If you take it personally, misinterpret or misunderstand, disagree or become enraged, that’s your issue. Tough. Grow the hell up.  Did I swear at one of my acquaintances or ignore their needs? Too bad, really, but such a response is truly inappropriate. The violent forcing of metal against metal to cause a blemish. Get a grip.

Fear. It may have happened in my driveway, so they know where I live. Oh, God, weapons. I haven’t had, or needed, a real weapon, anything more aggressive than a pocket knife, in years. A gun. I should give in to the ongoing, highly encouraged impulse to arm myself with a serious handgun. Carry it in the car, or in an ankle holster like my brother, Rich. I’ve always considered Rich a bit paranoid, showing up at family weddings with a 9 mm, wearing his 22 magnum on his hip at my mother’s ninety-fifth birthday party, but now I wonder if he’s just more socially conscious than I am. It’s possible. I’m arrogant, as I’ve admitted, but there are forces at work in the world that may be unfamiliar to me and hostile. I don’t know everything. I’m still capable of surprise. So, perhaps a gun.

I considered driving into town and retracing my steps. The coffee shop and the grocery store. That’s about it, so it shouldn’t be too difficult. I’d start with the coffee shop because the same people are there every single morning, like me, tapping away on their laptops. I’ll look at each of them, gauging their mental health, their potential for anger and acting out. Mostly writers and baristas who have, thus far, remained pretty anonymous. We rarely talk about anything of importance and the conversations are short, everyone anxious to get back to their novel. There is a therapist who comes in often. Possible. I can’t imagine any of those nice people, the creative and educated, manifesting such a destructive impulse. Keying a car. It’s so primitive, so unevolved.

I will look at each one of them, catch their eyes and if they waver, avert their glance or grimace, show resentment or annoyance, I will know. My instincts are good. I will know which one of those bastards keyed my goddamn car, or at least I’ll have a general idea. I’ll make a list and analyze it when I get home. It may help me to remember a specific event.

I was grinding my teeth. The nerve of anyone. Fools. Assholes. I was seeing cataclysmic confrontations, Lord of the Rings-type battles, dismemberments, torture, fire, shrieks in the night. I was worried that I’d have to move away and, in this economy, it was going to be difficult to relocate. How much is my house worth? Where will I go? What would my wife say when I tell her that we have to sell our home because we are now under attack, at war, with mysterious  forces bent on our destruction. My stomach churned acid, I leaned forward to brace myself on the car before my knees buckled and I collapsed.

My palm touched the scratch and it came off on my hand. Mud. Not a scratch, but a thin line of mud, splashed up by my front tires. It’s been raining, which is great. We really need the rain.