Boss Chocko Dialogs

Chapter 30, The Emerging Artist



- Dad?
- Tweetie
- Where do artists come from
- They come from Lakes with soft silty bottoms
- Soft silty bottomed Lakes?
- Thats right, one day a muck covered figure is found stumbling along the shore
- Is that the emerging Artist?
- Yes, Honey. If the Artist is Lucky someone will direct him back to the water
- To wash the Muck off?
- Yes, to wash the muck off. But usually, people think the muck covered figure stumbling along the shore is Reprehensible, Icky and Yucky and they shun the emerging Artist
- Oh that's sad, Dad!
- Oh the worst of it is when all the muck dries on the emerging Artist.
- What happens then?
- It will never come off
- and the Artist never Emerges?
- That's right
- To be an Emerged Artist
- Usually then the Emerged will go without saying
- So did you crawl out of Lake Buena Vista, Dad?
- I was different
- The Friant Canal?
- No honey. Once in a while an Artist will emerge from Another Walk of Life
- You were Running the Wrapper, right?
- I was running the Wrapper
- It was on the Graveyard Shift
- In the Tobacco and Confectionary Workers Union
- And you just Emerged?
- The Foreman used some very bad language
- That you just could not countenance
- Something like that

WHY MUST THE MEN say fucking soon as they arrive at the jobsite?

Is it embedded in the hierarchy of concerns that must be identified first to do

this work, where sequence is all, dependent on the sharp remorseless spinning

things, from the forces applied to pounding: boards splinter, boards twist, knot,

resist - there is a lot of fucking resistance to overcome, to master, to contend and

now I doubt I ever heard Jason say get me that fucking palm nailer, because as a



rule, we revere the palm nailer for nooks and corners where a hammer has no

hope and the fucking Bostich needs a foot to face the work. Nor was it ever said

its time for fucking lunch. Lunch I don't think fucking is said much.

We're kind of human again.

If I had to choose between the groan I emit when lifting an 80 lb bag of mortar

or a fuckin to ordain my resolve, I think of these 53 years halved, that kid was

a hot knife through butter. Mine to wonder how a dogged groan has become me.

I conclude it is good I can still do this work, though I would the men were better

spoke.