How I Learned to Cuss

I was eleven and my sister nine when Mother brought Phyllis and George home from Wheeler's Tavern. They were going to pay rent as soon as they got jobs.

Phyllis had mean little eyes. She smoked, cigarette after cigarette, and mashed the ends marked with lipstick into ashtrays I had to clean. George wandered around, pretty much doing whatever Phyllis wanted. Mother worked over at Boeing Aircraft during the day, so with Phyllis and George staying in the spare bedroom, the house wasn't empty when Cathy and I got home from school.

One afternoon, Phyllis was in an uproar. "We're out of booze." She slumped against the table and then straightened up. "Let's take the girls shopping."

George made some ineffectual noises, and then we were off in their beat-up Hudson that sounded like it was coughing to death. We drove over the bridge to Ballard and parked by a row of liquor stores.

"Here's the plan, girls," said Phyllis. "One of you will go with George. A little later, one of you will come with me. We'll go into that store, and we'll pretend we don't know each other." She smiled. "It's a kind of game."

Cathy and I looked at each other. We were having an adventure.

"And don't be stupid, George," said Phyllis.

I went with George. I had never been inside a liquor store before. We cruised up and down the aisles. When the moment seemed right, George slid a pint of whisky into his pocket. He filled his other pocket and then tucked another bottle under his arm. I was shocked. I heard Phyllis laughing with the clerk a few aisles over.

We hit three stores before one of the bottles under his arm slid onto the floor and broke, the smell of whiskey rising from shattered glass. The clerk ran up and yelled, "You guys get out of here, or I'm calling the cops." We scampered out of the store as fast as we could. George laughed as he hustled over to the car. We threw four more bottles in the trunk and prepared to make our getaway.

But the darn car wouldn't start. Half in and half out of the car, we started pushing. George leaped into the driver's seat and slammed the front door right on Cathy's hand. Cathy screamed. Phyllis hollered, "Stop the car." But George kept pumping the gas, like he couldn't hear us shouting at him!

I leaped inside the back seat and pounded on his head. "Open the door, you stupid son of a bitch."

George opened his door, and Cathy's hand slithered loose. She fell onto the back seat of the car, and all we could hear was her crying.

George looked at me and said, "You shouldn't talk to adults that way."

That's when I learned to cuss. Phyllis and George didn't stay much longer at our house after the weekend Phyllis had the DTs, and we kids had to play outside in the cold.

Author's Note: The cover art, "The Joy of Swinging," came from Brittany Randolph on Flickr at https://flic.kr/p/CQqis