The Art of Cursing
You’ll always remember the first time you hear your kid say the f-word. Like the Space Shuttle Challenger exploding or the falling of the Berlin Wall or the morning of 9/11…
The guard on the first floor of our building stopped me this morning in the lobby, as I was humming, about to board the elevator.
“You just reminded me of someone I used to work with years ago,” he said. “An old, black man from the South who used to say whistling and humming was a sign of contentment. When you came in here humming like that, you reminded me of him.”
It was January in Vermont and there were boxes everywhere.
Piles of empty boxes by the door. Next to them: permanent markers, paper, and tape. On the kitchenette countertop: empty boxes. In the bathtub: empty boxes. Potential vessels all.
Stacks of boxes on the ground. Packed neatly with cassette tapes, each box labeled with a name scrawled…