THE GUY WHO SAID FUCK A LOT
jason pettus
I knew this guy named Phil once. And he liked saying the word “fuck.” I mean, he liked saying “fuck” a lot.
“So we’re at fuckin’ Estelle’s and it fuc sucks, so we decide to go out on the fuckin’ sidewalk and light up a fuckin’ joint. And who should come by but the fuckin’ man, the fuckin’ pigs, you know, and they look at me and say, ŒWhat the fuck you got there?’ and I say Œa fuckin’ cigarette, man’ and they say, Œthat’s some fuckin’ wacky tabacky, ain’t it?’ so I say, ŒFuck you!’ and they fuckin’ arrest me and haul me off to the fuckin’ jail. I mean -- fuck!”
This was Phil’s nature. If you could point at someone and say, “That person is the physical manifestation of the word Œfuck,’” it would pretty much have to be Phil.
“This is what I don’t fuckin’ get, okay? Every day, I walk down the fuckin’ street, on the right hand side of the fuckin’ sidewalk, and every fuckin’ day I run into some fuckin’ asshole who’s walking the opposite fuckin’ way on the left side of the fuckin’ sidewalk. I mean, this is America, for fuck’s sake! Where’ve these people been their whole fuckin’ lives? You fuckin’ drive down the right hand side of the fuckin’ street, and you fuckin’ walk down the right hand side of the fuckin’ sidewalk. I mean, even if they just got off the fuckin’ boat, even if they’re some kinda fuckin’ wetback, can’t they see that the rest of the fuckin’ city’s walking down the right hand side of the fuckin’ sidewalk except them? Fuckin’ SHIT!”
Phil really liked to drink. And more than drinking, Phil really, really liked to smoke pot. He was doing it constantly, which was the catalyst for many of his problems in life. Also, when he’d get messed up, he would more than likely turn a little abusive. This also was a source of the problems. Not to mention the aforementioned infatuation with the word Œfuck,’ which was usually the capper, the turning point between a simple disagreement and a fistfight.
“What? You want some fuckin’ change? Wait, you’re fuckin’ asking me for some f change? Tell you what, you fuck, why don’t we both empty our fuckin’ pockets right here on this fuckin’ table and whoever’s got more fuckin’ money on Œem has to give it over to the other person. No, you won’t do that, will you? Fuckin’ asshole. Fuck me? No, fuck you! Don’t give me any of your fuckin’ bullshit about buying some fuckin’ dinner -- I know what the fuck you’re gonna do, you’re gonna walk down to the fuckin’ liquor store and buy a fuckin’ forty, and that happens to be what I’m gonna fuckin’ do with my fuckin’ money, and I’d rather get myself fuckin’ trashed with my money than you, you fuck, so fuck off! That’s right, fuck you! No, fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!”
These incidents would embarrass me and frequently cause me trouble, too. And every so often, you’d never know, he’d get messed up and start up on you, which was never pleasant. Not to mention one night Phil almost got me arrested, and I think pretty much the last thing I wa nnt in the world, besides maybe getting back together with my ex-girlfriend, would be to go to jail again. As a result, I didn’t hang out with Phil a lot. It wasn’t that he wasn’t a nice guy or anything, it’s just... I don’t know. It’s hard for me to hang out with a mean drunk.
“I mean, you’re fuckin’ healthy, why don’t you go out and get a fuckin’ job? You think the world owes you a fuckin’ favor? Fuck you! I’m a fuckin’ drunk, and I have to work my fuckin’ ass off to be one, you stupid fuck! Fuck you! Hey, don’t fuckin’ threaten me, you fuck. I’ll kick your fuckin’ homeless, scraggly, drunk, jigaboo ass all the way down the fuckin block, motherfucker. Don’t fuckin’ remind me you’re black, I can fuckin’ see you’re fuckin’ black. We get in a fuckin’ fistfight, guess whose side the fuckin’ pigs are gonna take, so don’t even fuckin’ think of fuckin’ threatening me Œcause you’re fuckin’ black, just FUCK... OFF!”
Phil was a poet. We met at an open mike night we both read at. I always thought his stuff was pretty good, pretty raw and emotional. One night this spring, though, he put some chapbooks together and he gave me one. He tried to give it to me for free, but I happened to have just gotten paid so I gave him the cover price.
Instead of a poem, it was a short story which, as you may or may not know, I prefer over poems. And like the weird bald guys reading their bibles on the el at two in the morning, I poured over that story three or four times as I made my way home that night. Phil’s story was full of clarity, compassion, intensity and humor, glibness, profundity and profanity. In short, it was a better story than I’ve ever written, and maybe one of the bett ber stories I’ve ever read.
And I always wanted to tell him that, but I never got the chance. We called Phil one night and his roommate said, “Dude, he’s gone,” and we said “Where?” and he said, “Uh, dude... I don’t know. He just packed up all his stuff today and... uh, I don’t know, said something about Seattle or something.”
I still have the story and I still read it and I think about whatever happened to Phil. He probably got killed -- I imagine Phil getting knifed in a diner in Nebraska by a biker who didn’t take kindly to the phrase, “So you’re a fuckin’ biker, huh? Fuck you!” It would be a fitting end for Phil. He would’ve liked it.
And whenever I hear a guy using the word “fuck” a lot, I stop and think of him and say a little prayer. Phil, wherever you are, I hope you’re doing well.
You fuckin’ dope.
