The Language of Men

Copyright © 2012 by Anthony D'Aries

Hudson Whitman/Excelsior College Press

7 Columbia Circle

Albany, NY 12203-5159

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

The Language of Men draws on material from the following previously published essays by Anthony D'Aries:

"Exhausted"

Motif, Vol. 3: All the Livelong Day: An Anthology of Writings about Work (Motes Books, 2011)

"The Language of Men"

The Literary Review, Spring 2011, Vol. 54, No. 03

"Chalk"

Solstice: A Magazine of Diverse Voices, Fall/ Winter 2010-11

(This essay also appeared in Tarnished: True Tales of Innocense Lost. Pinchback Press, 2011)

Lyrics from Try A Little Tenderness

Words & Music by Harry Woods, James Campbell & Reginald Connelly

© Copyright 1932 & 1960 Campbell Connelly & Company Limited.

All rights for the USA and Canada assigned to EMI Robbins Catalog, Inc.

All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.

Used by permission.

Lyrics from Piece of My Heart

Written By Jerry Ragovoy and Bert Russell.

Published by Sloopy II Music, Sony ATV Songs LLC and Unichappell Music Inc.

All Rights Reserved. Used by permission.

Cover design by Phil Pascuzzo

ISBN: 978-1-938564-75-8

For Vanessa,

for us

"It's a life's work to see yourself for what you really are and even then you might be wrong."

— Cormac McCarthy,
No Country for Old Men

Buddy of mine, this black dude, Waller. We were cool, but not always. Whole different time, boy. If we were alone, we were cool. But when he was with the brothas, doin' that hand jive shit, he looked the other way. Don't mean nothin' cuz I did the same.

One day we stole a case of dehydrated applesauce from the mess hall and took, it down to Saigon. The road was blown to hell by then, moon-sized craters, like we were drivin' over Jackie Gleason's face. Dudes used to warn us about little Vietnamese kids on the roads.
"They'll fill old soda cans with shit and throw 'em at ya."
But we didn't see any kids that day.

"Bout an hour ride and I was bustin' Waller's balls about James Brown the whole way. He was all into The Godfather of Soul and I was yellin' how Brown's sweaty ass wasn't nothin' next to Otis Redding. Monterey Pop Festival. Can't beat it. But Waller was stubborn, man. I tell ya.

So we pulled into the center of Saigon, right outside the Hotel de Ville. Dropped the tailgate and slid out the applesauce. It came in these li'l silver cans, no labels. Some mama- and papasans started shufflin' over and once we held up the cans they were on us like giant moths.

"Ladies and gentlemen. Number one fish for sale. Only five dollars."

You could say whatever you wanted.

"Act now, zipperhead. These prices are INSANE!"

It didn't matter. We had it; they wanted it.

Saw one poor old bastard bangin' a can against the curb:
"Hey, papasan. You break it, you bought it."

We didn't trust no one, but they were throwin' money at us, grabbin' handfuls of these silver cans. Mostly our money, too. We sold out in double time and hopped back in the jeep. Took the scenic route home.

We didn't wanna stop cuz once you did, it felt like somebody dropped a hot washcloth over your mouth. So we kept drivin', and Waller was screamin'
"I Feel Good,"
but I sure wasn't. Told him I never felt good when he was singin' and then I started in on Redding's
"Mr. Pitiful"
and Waller said,
"You got dat right."

The Beatles had just come out with
Let It Be.
You know the album. You or your brother got my copy stashed 'round here somewheres, I know. I took my cut of the applesauce money and bought that and a bunch of shit at the PX. Waller hated The Beatles, friggin' hated 'em, so I listened to the whole album over and over by myself, until my shift.

I was the night baker, and that was the first time I ever made doughnuts. Mixed the dough up in this giant vat, rolled it out, cut the rings with an empty soup can, punched out the holes with a salt shaker and shoved 'em in the oven. This sergeant came over and asked me what the hell I was doin'.

"Making doughnuts."
Though I probably said,
"Making doughnuts, sir,"
or some shit like that. And he goes,
"You're supposed to fry 'em, you dumb spoon."
They were always callin' us "spoons."

Hey, hold the phone. You steal my silver dollar, boy?

Wait, I got it. Sittin' on it. Had this since before Vietnam, went to Vietnam and came back with me. Feel how smooth the edges are. My old man used to do the same thing, 'cept his looked like a quarter by the time he died. Mine ain't that thin yet.

MY FATHER speaks his own language. A hillbilly twang of the Looney Tunes dialect—Foghorn Leghorn, Yosemite Sam—mixed with the African-American jive of the dirtiest comedians—Redd Foxx or Richard Pryor. His swearing is part of a well-oiled machine, except when a driver cuts him off—then higher-octane terms explode from his mouth. He cuts words in half, stresses whichever syllable he wants. Verbs become nouns and vice versa. He throws in song lyrics, movie quotes, even slogans from TV commercials. It all swirls together and all you can do is try to keep up.

I tried. Sometimes we could speak at his pace. Other times, he'd lose me on a
Sanford and Son
reference, and our dialogue became a one-man show.

"I don't know where he got that pig language from," my grandmother says. "None of the other boys talk like that."

He gave all of my mother's sisters and my female cousins flirty, construction-worker-on-a-coffee-break nicknames: baby, suga', sweets, momma, girl, honey. He calls my wife, Vanessa, "Van Halen," and when he met my brother's girlfriend, Lola, he spelled out her name, just like The Kinks.

In a letter to my mother from Vietnam, written in his scratchy mish-mash of upper and lower case letters, he called her "his little girl" and said "let's not go spoiling this by telling Maddy." Maddy being his fiancée at the time. He asked her, "Can you dig it? You gotta be jivin' me. Hold on, momma, I'm comin' home soon."

He is perverted, but in a way that no one in our family seems to mind. He can pinch his sister-in-law's ass or make a sly comment about the perkiness of her breasts and it doesn't seem to offend anyone. That's the reputation he's established, and the one we've all come to expect.

As a kid, I would hear snippets of my father's language everywhere: Other men on the sidelines of my soccer or football games, burly attendants at the Hess station around the corner from our house, and the slick or heroic guys in mob and war movies on HBO. Though none of these characters spoke exactly like my father, they shared similar phrases:
My old lady's bustin' my stones. Six'a one, half'a dozen of the other. Union's gonna screw the part-timers outta bennies.
I often wished I had a guide book, a Father-to-Son pocket translator, that could define these foreign terms.

For Christmas one year, he made a t-shirt for my cousin, Shannon, who was working as a stewardess at the time. She unfolded the tissue paper and read the front of the shirt while it was still in the box, while my father threw up his hands proclaiming his innocence. Shaking her head, she held it up for all to see:
Stewardesses Always Stay Face Down in the Cockpit.
When I found this scene in one of our old home movies, I watched my ten-year-old self stare at my father, then the shirt, then back to my father, wondering where his ideas came from.

I was twenty when my father had his second stroke. Of course, I didn't know it was his second. The first one had occurred two weeks earlier, on his way to the hardware store with his friend Bobby Haggemeyer. As they idled at a light, he felt the tip of his tongue disappear, a cold stream of drool on his forearm. He couldn't move his lips, form any words, make any sounds. Bobby asked him what was happening. My father rummaged through the glove box for a piece of paper and a pencil. He scribbled a question mark and handed the paper to Bobby.

Halfway to the hospital, his speech returned. He told Bobby to take him home.

The second time, the cold puddle of drool woke him in the middle of the night. He shuffled to the bathroom to examine his face. He looked like he had a fishhook in the left corner of his mouth, as if God were reeling him in like a bluefish. In the shower, he held his lips to the warm water, but nothing changed. He got out, dried off, and stuck a Winston between his teeth.

On his way to work, he sipped his coffee and it dribbled down his face, onto his lap, and though his hand and leg said the coffee was hot, the left side of his face heard nothing. He was pale when he got to Waldbaum's supermarket. A couple of his co-workers helped him to a bench. He said he just needed some air. They called an ambulance.

Hospitals were his pit stop, a body shop where, every ten thousand miles or so, they pulled him in and threw him up on the lift. Each procedure a quick fix, and as soon as the doctors said he could leave, he tore off his gown, threw on his jeans, knotted his white Waldbaum's apron, laced up his Reeboks, bought a 7-Eleven coffee and a pack of Winstons, and gunned his Chevy pickup into traffic, merging onto the Long Island Expressway until he was indistinguishable from the other commuters. He told us it was no big deal, leaving out or not remembering or just plain never hearing the doctor's diagnoses and recommended treatment.

When he had his varicose veins removed, he couldn't remember why the doctor told him the veins were collapsing or what the name of his new daily medication was. But my father described the veins themselves in detail: how, from his perspective on the operating table, he saw the doctor pulling and pulling a ropey, tangled mess.
Like an eaten cassette tape, boy. God damn.

His mouth and tongue repaired themselves. His voice returned. Sometimes, though, when he's tired, his speech starts to slur and he moves his mouth like a horse. Soon after the second stroke, I bought a tape recorder and started asking questions.

When I interviewed my father about Vietnam, he twirled his silver dollar in his fingers and told me about a girl in Saigon —
she was kinda like my girlfriend.
The first time he was in her house, in her room, her whole family was sitting in the dining room. After he came out, they served him
pho,
a spicy soup, and my father listened to their strange chatter as he gulped down large spoonfuls.

Before his second visit, he used his GI discount to purchase an iron from the PX. Then he brought her a television. After that, a can of peaches. He'd walk to her home with his duffle bag slung over his shoulder like a Santa Claus in camouflage.

"It wasn't love," he said. "She took the shit I brought and gave it to her family." The silver dollar froze in his fingertips, and for the first time during the interview, he looked me square in the face.

"After a while it was like: Who's screwin' who here?"

In January 2007, I visited my father's mother at her apartment in West Babylon, New York. I had written her a letter several months earlier, explaining that I was working on a book about my father's experiences in the Vietnam War and asking if she'd be willing to answer some of my questions. "Sure," she wrote back. No hesitation, no questions about why I wanted to know these things. All she asked was what I would like to eat.

I walked down the concrete steps to the door of my grandmother's basement apartment. She poked her head of white hair around the corner, cinched her robe at the neck, and shimmied down the hallway. She had that spry, frantic energy old women sometimes have, as if someone is always chasing them. She kissed me, pulled me inside, and locked the door.

Ushering me into the kitchen, she fiddled with her hearing aid, asked if I wanted something to eat, something to drink. She told me to sit, please sit, on a white vinyl chair at the kitchen table. In a skinny wooden box beside me was a clear folder containing a list of phone numbers.
In case of death, call those checked.

The cuckoo clock ticked above my head. I remembered that clock from her farmhouse in Mattituck, where she cooked me pizza on an English muffin. I'd stand on a chair so I could reach the hands of the clock, wind them around and around until the bird popped out of his house. Or sometimes I'd just stop time and wait for her to notice. She never seemed to mind.

Once she settled at the table, she pulled a narrow piece of stationary out from the soft pocket of her robe. The stationary had a border of bright sunflowers which framed her neat script. Only three or four items on her shopping list of memories:

Would I ever see him again?

Come back safe and sound.

Grandpa didn't say much.

"All I remember," she began. But very soon after telling me what she remembered about Vietnam—what she thought when they took my father to the airport, what she said to him, what my grandfather didn't say—she continued to talk for over an hour about her four bookkeeping jobs. One had been above a beauty parlor and she'd run upstairs, her hair heavy with dye, to balance the books of an asphalt company. I was tempted to stop her, to tell her I came here for a story about my father, a tale no one in our family knew. But then we were talking about her promiscuous old neighbor, the one who had affairs with the mailman, how my grandmother knocked on her door once and told her, "What you do in there is your business, but I want my mail." She told me how she opened bills and flipped through circulars, how she sat by the living room window, wondering when my grandfather would return from his nightshift as an airplane mechanic, and how, sometimes, he didn't come home.