people are strange

When I'm not visiting cemeteries, drawing silly pictures or leaving smart-ass comments on Facebook, I lead a pretty normal life. I got to work during the week and save those aforementioned activities for the weekend... except the smart-assing part. That I do on a daily basis. I work in the design department of a large commercial printer. My job keeps me busy pretty much all day, leaving very little time to interact with my co-workers.... and that is just fine with me.

I started this job two years ago, after being unemployed for a year due to massive layoffs brought on by the worldwide COVID-19 pandemic. After applying for numerous employment opportunities, a New Jersey printing company took a chance on a 60 year-old graphic artist with over forty years of experience in the field. My day-to-day responsibilities are, by no means, unfamiliar to me. I have done this sort of work at many different places throughout my career. To be honest, it's pretty mindless work — which is okay. At this point in my life, I don't need to impress or dazzle anybody with my innovative design ability. I just need a weekly paycheck and to not think about my job between 4:30 PM on Friday and 8 AM on Monday. So far, this job has fit the bill.

Like I said, I have very little interaction with my co-workers. I suppose they are all just as busy as I am. Besides, I greatly dislike obligatory office chit-chat. For nearly a year, I did my work in a large office with two other desks that remained empty most of the time. One desk is occupied for the last hour and a half of my shift by a guy who works until midnight. He nods when he comes in a three o'clock and I nod when I leave at 4:30. Other than that, nothing. I don't even know some of my colleagues' last names.

Sometime last year, a guy from another office in my department was moved to the empty desk in my office. His name is John or Joe or... actually I'm not sure what his name is. He is very quiet, kind of awkward and usually has a cockeyed smile across his face, like he just remembered the punchline to a joke he heard a few days ago. At our department's holiday party last year, I heard his voice for the first time. And — boy! — did I hear it. He went on and on and on about some comedian's routine that he saw on television. I don't remember the comedian, but John (or Joe) repeated every single word of this guy's routine. He even picked up where he left off after being interrupted by a waitress asking for drink orders. There was no shutting this guy up! After waaaay too long, he finally concluded his word-for-word account of this comedy act — which was neither memorable nor funny. After that, I don't think I heard him speak again.

Well, now, he is my office mate. His desk is situated sort of to my right and sort of back against the wall about eight or so feet away. In my peripheral vison, I can see him bobbing his head, I suppose, in time to whatever he is listening to through the wireless buds tucked into his ears. Every so often, he stands and lifts his convertible desk, working on his feet for several hours, Once in a while, he chuckles to himself or has brief — very brief — conversations on his desk phone. These conversations — as least from my end — include John (or Joe) saying — almost giggling: "No. No. You have the wrong number." (I realized that the owner of the company is also named "John" (or Joe) and he must be getting a lot of calls for the owner.)

A few days ago, John (or Joe) spoke.

Again.

Loudly.

Around 10 AM, as I pressed my face closer to my computer screen to get a better view of the artichoke I was clipping in Photoshop (ask a graphic designer), I heard a startling burst of foul language. I turned my head — just slightly — to see John (or Joe) bent over a pile of color proofs of the ad he was working on. This guy, who during the days and weeks, rarely opens his mouth, was now spewing a barrage of obscenities as though he was a longshoreman with Tourette's Syndrome who had just dropped a bowling ball on his foot. It was jarring. I listened as his tirade continued to erupt for what seemed like many long minutes, but was probably only a few seconds. And then he stopped. He sat down and continued to click his mouse and look at his computer monitor. But those words were still echoing in my ear... and my memory. I replayed it over and over in my head. It was surreal.

A few days have gone by and John (or Joe) has remained quiet. He still bobs his head, but he hasn't issued a curse word. Yet.

A new week starts Monday.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles

I have seen many interesting sights and scenarios in the short daily walk I take from the train station to the office building in which I work and back again at the end of my work day. Today, however, I witnessed something that could only be described as extraordinary.

After passing through the revolving doors that empty out on to the 16th Street sidewalk, I made my way towards the intersection at Market Street. Here, as I do every evening at this time, I would cross and head down the staircase that leads to the underground railroad station that offers train service to the surrounding Philadelphia suburbs. At the corner, a crowd of briefcase-toting men and women gathered and impatiently waited for the light to change, allowing pedestrian traffic to safely traverse the street. 

I stood in the center of the crowd. Above the horn honks and general city noises, I heard a distinctively male voice. And it was yelling. And it was a pretty loud yell. I looked towards the source of the yell and saw a low, silver, sporty-looking car waiting for the light to change. It boasted very dark tinted windows on all sides and its front bumper was well into the pedestrian walkway that was boldly painted on the blacktop. A man in an electric wheelchair was stopped directly in front of the car's bumper. He was close enough to touch the car's hood. And, taking full advantage of his proximity. he began to beat his clenched fists on the aforementioned hood. The man screamed indistinguishable words, emphasizing several sounds with another pounding on the car's front end. From the few words I could to make out, I understood that the car was blocking the wheelchair ramp that is built into the curb, denying the man unimpeded access to his sidewalk destination.

Suddenly, I saw something I had only heard about. Something referenced in many books of religious worship and stories passed on from generation to generation. Something that is the basis for average men and women to be elevated to the exulted position of "Pope" or even "Saint." I watched, along with a stunned crowd of my fellow office workers, as the man slowly — but steadily — excised himself from his captive wheelchair. He rose up, gripping the armrests with his large, clamped hands. He removed his feet from the footrests and placed them flatly and firmly on the black macadam of the street. He stood. He actually stood. I think I heard an angelic choir lift their voices in jubilation. I swear the heavens opened up and a bright beam of light illuminated the formerly incapacitated gentle soul. Once a prisoner in that wheelchair, now he stood strong, certain and unencumbered. He walked with deliberate strides in the direction of the driver's side of the car as the crowd silently marveled at the divine exhibition on display right before our eyes. The newly-healed blessee opened his mouth. I expected words of praise and devotion and gratitude. Instead, I heard him holler: "You're in the fucking crosswalk, you motherfucking pussy."

A miracle indeed. Hallelujah.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

It's only words and words are all I have

I was twenty-four the first time I said "fuck" in front of my parents. I suppose it was a "respect" thing, but something must have pissed me off so much that the heretofore unspoken "F" word finally breached our dialogue. However, I was already married for two years and I no longer had to abide by the unwritten rules of my parents' house — so saying "fuck" was fair game. I mean, they couldn't very well spank me or ground me or send me to my room! My room was at my house and I lived in it with my wife! So, with no fear of repercussions, I allowed "fuck" to enter the conversation.

Which brings me to a question that has been the topic of many a discussion at the Pincus house: "How well do you have know someone before "fuck" is introduced into the verbal exchange?"

Now, I am not prudish by any means. I acknowledge the fact that my speech tends to be "colorful" and is peppered with an overabundance of salty language — especially during baseball season, when, in the course of a Phillies game, it can get particularly vulgar. My wife and I made a conscious decision to watch our phraseology around our son as he grew up. For years, we never uttered anything more crude than "darn" within range of his young and impressionable ears. But, somewhere around his sixteenth birthday, all heck broke loose. The gloves were off and the "fucks" were flying. I don't know what specifically triggered the transformation, but almost overnight, our house went from a convent to a day of working down on the docks. Despite the freedom of expression I employ in my vocabulary, I am still taken aback when a total stranger speaks that word I so liberally use myself.

Last year, my wife and I were at an invitation-only dinner hosted by several celebrity chefs from The Food Network. We were seated at a large round table with four other couples — none of whom we had met before. To my immediate right was a couple who were close to our age. (In reality, the other couples were closer to our parents' age!) We struck up a very benign conversation with them, when suddenly — on sentence number three to be exact — the gentleman allowed "fuck" to compromise the conversation's security. My wife and I were briefly startled, but after several more "fucks" were sprinkled throughout the next few sentences, we were becoming desensitized and eventually more comfortable. I may have even spoken a couple-a "fucks" myself — just to let him know we were on his side. Hey! What the fuck!

This past Sunday, Mrs. P and I attended a particularly tedious Phillies game. Our hometown boys were getting their sorry butts kicked by the pathetic Miami Marlins and the game grew more painful as the innings ticked away. To bide the time, my spouse amused herself by playing a few distracting rounds of the addictive, online game Candy Crush Saga on her smartphone. The unmistakable digital sound effects from the game caught the attention of the couple sitting in the row directly in front of us. We have been Phillies season ticket holders for eighteen years, but we have never seen this couple before. The woman turned around and asked my wife the updated version of the mid-70's standby "What's your Sign," and that's: "What level are you on?" And those were the last words we understood her to say — except for "fuck." She slurred her words and talked fast and guttural, but "fuck" came through like an obscene beacon, loud and fucking clear. My wife nodded and smiled as the woman's speech just became a barrage of sentences of "fuck" after "fuck" after "fuck." The fellow she was with was totally unintelligible — even his "fucks," if he was indeed using the nasty word.

So, have I reached a definitive answer to my question?

How the fuck should I know?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com