Let me explain two things: one, I’m aware that you must know curse words in English. Even in Upper Dharamsala, a fourteen-year old boy knows the f-word. But you are still my son. I am still your mother. If I swear in front of you, it will be by accident. And I will select words from the milder end of the cussing spectrum, not from the hotly naughty end.
Two, I am now Beefcake’s speechwriter. As I suspected, he had none; and also as I suspected, he is highly susceptible to flattery. You see, Beefcake is a handsome man now. Yet he bears the signs of having been an unappealing teen. He’s not a tall man, and his shoulders slope downward like the cross bars on a peace sign. His skin shows some acne scarring, and it’s conceivable he was once plump and that he overcame that only as an adult, with yoga and whatnot. So the thrill of receiving a compliment hasn’t worn off for Beefcake.
He didn’t exactly warm up to me yesterday, but he did agree to let me try my hand at writing some speeches for upcoming events he has planned. And he let me walk out of his storeroom unbattered.
Jill Riddell is a writer in Chicago. She teaches at the School of the Art Institute and has a weakness for nature, magic, and pennies abandoned in sidewalk cracks.