quiet curses

 quiet curses



     One of the delightful signs of a strong friendship was Greg's involuntary silent curses toward anyone or anything that challenged me or friends who he felt were denigrated. In the good old days he would be bustling about the front room, building a fire, fumbling with remotes or tidying up the space when he listened to any tale of woe. Whenever I would inform him of what I considered an injustice he would move his mouth in curses with no sounds coming forth. I could read his lips saying "you god damned son of a bitch" or "god damn you!" when he heard about unfair treatment. I told him how a DWP crew destroyed my front yard garden that contained my Mom's ashes and then ignored my letter of complaint. I believe he mouthed "those dirty sons of bitches!" When I told him how some idiot wise guy at the Coliseum threw a gallon jar of mustard off the 80th row down onto my father standing on the asphalt far below. BC suffered a dangerously hard blow to his shoulder that could have been fatal. I saw Greg's  jaw working and his face reddening while he plotted breaking the jerk's skull with a pair of brass knuckles. If it were lighter fare like a cheap shot in a football game he would let you know how he would deal with that kind of cowardice, maybe with a blackjack to the front teeth. The fact of the matter was that he let you know he was always on your side and his lust for vengeance came from the heart. While I never saw or heard of the man actually performing fisticuffs he talked a vicious bit of retribution with a mind conjuring up curb-stompings, jaw-breaking, nose-busting and maybe even a golf club shoved up into the netherworlds of the male anatomy. The mouthing of curses was a silent movie of the love he had for those lucky ones who were his friends. You can magnify this if it were his children or wife where he earned the honorific RFD for his reaction to any stresses placed on his family.



Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Paul Knowlton's White Lotus

Image
 Paul Knowlton's White Lotus \      It is ironic that this post is titled something that means nothing to the protagonist. Paul, Zeke, "the Prince," "Senor Suerte" or the Snail (I never called him that.) My old pal just created a memorable vacation on the island of Oahu where the mean old world was a far off nightmare and the closest thing to stress was choosing which kind of massage you would request. Paul was the second friend in my life and we grew up about a block away from each other. We were Catholic boys and loved sports that created a bond lasting seventy years. This connection continued from grammar school to High School, to Community College to University. We were roomates from 1968 to 1972 and our families had a solid respect for one another. Paul grew up in a family of nine kids at a tract house in South Gate when the common man lived the American dream. Then again with 11 mouths to feed the American dream can only stretch so far. It is a cliche but ...
Read more

alright mother

Image
  alright mother- “You can find poetry in your everyday life, your memory, in what people say on the bus, in the news, or just what’s in your heart.” —Carol Ann Duffy  Greg was always delighted by a story told by his mother in law about a "sortie" dinner party attended by a Doctor "Putty" Putnam who had been forced to attend an opera by his wife. When asked by a clueless guest if he enjoyed the opera, his response was  "fuck you!" When I was visiting Bear Cove and sitting next to the matriarch Greg goaded her into telling the tale. But a rum n' coke had loosened "Minnie's" tongue and when she got to Putty's answer she blurted a rather hard FUCK YOU!  Roy, hearing his bride curse thusly said across the table "Alright mother!"
Read more

Athletic Club Flower shop

Image
  Athletic Club Flower shop      This phrase is actually the telephone greeting at Greg's uncle Johnny Tassano's flower shop at 808 W. 8th street near Flower street in downtown L.A. Greg loved the place and culled many a story and line from his experiences at a place he worked and visited fondly. Even when he wasn't employed he drove around with cousin Kent (Kevin Smith) and they had a ball observing the absurdities of modern living in the Southland. The phone was answered by different employees and each had a unique turn of "Athletic Club...flowershopppp" There was owner John Tassano, right-hand man Ronald P. Lord, "Speed," a delivery man, and Carmen who cut flowers and told odd anecdotes such as the origin of pizza. I believe Greg and Kevin could go on for weeks about the people they met on their deliveries as they set forth across the city of the angels to spread floral joy. This might include places to eat, fascinating neighborhoods, cemeteries, lone...
Read more