I used to have this friend
whose older brother had
Tourette’s Disorder and
every Sunday evening
before the sun lowered
would climb with great vigor
to the tippy-top of poplars
in the back of his backyard
in the suburbs and holler
what we considered to be
some pretty hysterical and wild
lewd descriptive curse words
which went something like–
“You motherfucker! Go to hell!
Suck my…” In retrospect I think
we’d even feel a genuine sense
of remorse and pity maybe even
a bit of envy at the bold and brazen
heroic-like traits of his personality
that he had the balls to demonstratively
attempt to pull these things not really
understanding the severe nature to his
pathology. A matter of fact it turned out
to become something of a rather sobering
ritual and routine as eventually there was
no longer even a question every Sunday
evening when the firemen would arrive non-
chalantly with their long ladders and cherry
pickers to try and retrieve and plead while
he would scream at the top of his lungs–
“Go fuck…” Interestingly I believe there
was even that deep-seated anticipatory
feeling of anxiety somewhere around
late noon or early evening thinking
and knowing what soon might be
materializing and ultimately we’d
collectively feel a cathartic sense of relief
peculiarly and maybe even psychotically
developing and superimposing his own
trauma and grief empathetically onto our
own fragile beings acquiring the selfsame
maladaptive ways of dysfunctionally coping.

No one seemed to make very much of a stink
anyway as I think eventually we simply got
used to accepting it as something of an every-
day routine like the rooster crowing or dog
barking before the ominous evening would settle
the day before the week. I fondly recall the family
would even sometimes make this wonderful home-
made crumb cake or bundt with a cup of tea or
coffee that you deliciously smelled streaming from
the kitchen as though preparing for a future scene
knowing soon the night would be falling as you’d
see silhouettes of the firemen bringing him down
mechanically like a strange choir of fallen angels
descending from the trees when they’d all simply
be gathering in the family room conversing. I guess
ultimately this was the best way that he was able to
express his existential angst and pain and now that I think
about it just a little more I mean a lot I really do miss those days.

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