Swears

 Even before he came to the United States, Yuri wanted to be an American. That’s why,even though he had an invitation to stay in New York, where there was plenty of room, he chose to live in a crowded apartment in Chicago with his cousin’s family. He knows New York is not right for him. Too many foreigners, he thinks. On the other hand, Chicago is American. Definitely.
On these hot summer nights, Yuri prefers to sleep on the fire escape. When it gets colder, he will share an air mattress in the living room with his cousin’s youngest son, although he barely has enough time for sleep. Most of his hours are spent working at a bar and grill attached to the Riverside Lanes, where he does most of the cooking, washes the dishes, and even busses the tables.
Stan, the guy who runs the kitchen at the bowling alley, keeps Yuri on because the
amount of repeat customers has tripled since Yuri started making soups, salads, and special
treats.
Right now Yuri is watching Shirletha, an African-American woman in her mid-thirties
while she sits at the bar and watches Sportscenter on a large color TV. As she watches, she takes a few desultory sips from a rum-and-cola drink she calls a Cuba Libra. Just think, he says to himself, this African woman with her dark skin and rows of corn in her hair is descendant of slaves, her people treated worse than serfs in Russia. But now she is successful teacher, and her husband works with computers.
“Are you bowling today?” he asks.
Yuri has a gold tooth in the front of his mouth that shows whenever he smiles. He has light brown hair, and a taut, muscular body. Shirletha would probably find him attractive if he weren’t so nervous and eager to please. “Oh, yeah,” she says. “We got next. We’re up at six.”
“Good,” he says. “I got something.”
Quickly, he ducks into the kitchen and retrieves a basketful of doughy things from the fryer. He dumps these onto a tray and dusts them with onion powder. Then he fans them with the clean side of his apron. When he thinks they have sufficiently cooled, he picks up the tray and carries it out to her. “Here,” he says, smiling. “You try, please.”
She touches one, then pulls her hand back. “Hot,” she says. Carefully, she reaches again, balancing one between the tips of her thumb and forefinger. She blows on it for a while, then pops it into her mouth. “Wow!” she says. “What was that?”
“You like?”
“I love!” she answers. “Tastes doughy with a crunchy crust, but kind of potatoey, too. I think I taste some sausage in there, too, and some kind of vegetable.”
“Asparagus,” he says proudly.
“What is that cheese?”
He grins. “Three kinds.”
She picks up the mustard dispenser. “I could eat a whole tray of these with hot mustard.”
“I give you whole tray,” he says, “if you please teach me American words.”
“I can probably help you a little,” she says as she picks up another one, squeezes a dollop of hot, sweet mustard on it, and pops it into her mouth. “But you ought to take English classes in night school.”
“No time,” he says. “Besides, they don’t teach words I need.”
“Really?” she says. “What words are those?”
He leans into her and whispers conspiratorially. “Swears.” When he pronounces the w, he makes it sound like a v.
“Say what?”
“Svears,” he says louder.
She stares at the place where this word came from, mouthing the word to herself. “Oh,” she says. “You mean cuss words.”
“Yah! Svears!”
“What you want to learn that for?” she asks.
“When you svear, they treat you better.”
“Well, what kind you want?” She picks up another treat from the tray. “Mild ones or strong ones?”
“All kinds,” he says. “Like food.”
“Okay,” she says. “Here’s a mild one you can use when somebody (CENSORED) you off.”
He holds up his hands. “Wait! Excuse!” he says. “What is this ‘(CENSORED) you off’?”
“It’s an expression,” she says. “It means to make you mad.”
“Okay,” he says. “If you don’t want someone making you mad, what do you say?”
“Watch closely,” she says. “It’s not the words so much as what goes with it.” She leans away from him and says in a low voice, “Don’t (CENSORED) me off.”
“Ooo!” he says. “Goose bumps!” He rubs his bare arms.
“Now you try it.”
“Me? Really?”
“Yeah, you. It’s the only way to learn.”
“Okay,” he says. He leans away from her, glowers, and murmurs, “Don’t (CENSORED) me off.”
“You got it. Now, if somebody’s really getting on your nerves, just lean forward and say it loud.”
“I don’t like to shout.”
“You said you wanted to learn. Go on. Give it a try.”
Yuri leans toward her and yells, “Don’t (CENSORED) me off!” Nearby customers turn and stare. He smiles and asks Shirletha, “Was that good?”
“That was excellent,” she says.
“Tell me strong one this time.”
Okay,” she says. “If somebody really really (CENSORED) you off—.”
“(CENSORED) you off!” he repeats.
“Yeah. And you don’t want to talk to them anymore, you say, “Talk to the hand.”
“What hand?”
“Like this,” she says, raising her hand and twirling it up in front of her face. In that same instant, she turns her face away.
“This is better than ‘don’t (CENSORED) me off’?”
“Oh yeah. Much better. But you’ve got to get your hand coordinated with it. Watch how I do it.” As she says ‘talk to the hand,’ she gestures in perfect rhythm to her words. “You try it.”
“Talk to the hand,” he says, then raises his hand up and turns away.
“No,” she says. “At the same time, like this.” She gestures without saying anything. “See the turn of the hand, the snap of the head? They go together. Don’t say anything. Just do the movement.”
Yuri looks at her for a second, takes a deep breath, then raises his hand and turns his head simultaneously. “Now I say ‘talk to the hand’?”
Shirletha shakes her head and curls her upper lip. “Let’s change it to something more forceful,” she says. “Let’s do, ‘get the (CENSORED) out my face’.”
“Ooo!” he says. “I hear that ‘(CENSORED)’ before. That is good one!”
“Okay,” she says. “But you got to do it like this: Get the (CENSORED)—!” On pronouncing ‘(CENSORED)’, she twirls her hand up in front of her face. “Out my face!” As she says ‘face’, she snaps
her head away.
“Ooo, good one!” He says. “Let me try. Get the (CENSORED)—!” He brings his hand up and snaps his head away at the same time. “Out my face!”
“That was good for ‘hand’, but this one is a two-parter. Hand up on ‘(CENSORED)’, head turn on ‘face’. Watch me.”
Yuri studies her as she utters her curse and gestures perfectly. “Oh, I get!” He says. “Get da (CENSORED)!—Out my face!”
“Almost perfect,” says Shirletha. “With a little more practice, you’ll get it.”
“I must go,” says Yuri. “Boss get mad if I stay away too long.
“Hmph,” says Shirletha. “The way you cook, you shouldn’t have to take no (CENSORED) off him.”
Yuri is scandalized. “I don’t take nothing from his buttocks!”
“Chill,” says Shirletha. “It’s an expression. It means you won’t let him mistreat you.”
“Oh.”
Shirletha gets up from bar stool and points to the almost empty tray. “You’ve got to give me the recipe for these.”
“Maybe,” Yuri teases, “if you teach me more swears.”
“I’ve got to bowl now,” says Shirletha. She walks to the entrance to the bowling alley, then turns and yells back at him. “I’ll be back next Saturday with some real good ones. And then you’ll give me the recipe, okay?”
At that precise moment, Stan—Yuri’s boss—sticks head from the kitchen into the
bowling alley.
“Yuri!” he shouts. “You dumb-ass Roosky! Get your stupid red ass back in here!”
“Talk to hand,” Yuri says as he twirls his hand up in front of his face.
This angers Stan. Not only is he upset that the customers saw this, he feels he’s losing his grip on Yuri. Evidently, someone’s been filling his head with ideas.
“I’m serious, you (CENSORED) Bolshevik!” Stan says. “You don’t want me calling
immigration on you, do you?”
Yuri says nothing, but red anger is rising in his face.
“Get the hell back in there where you belong.”
Yuri’s emotions overflow as he stands in the middle of the restaurant and shouts, “Get da (CENSORED)!—Out my face!”
Stan is flummoxed. The customers are laughing. Some are even applauding.
Buoyed by his own vocabulary, Yuri charges. “Don’t (CENSORED) me off!” Poking his finger into the fat man’s chest, he shouts, “I don’t take no (CENSORED) from you!”
Stan puts both hands on his hips and gazes in slack-jawed amazement at Yuri. Has Yuri figured things out? Has somebody from another restaurant been talking to him? What’s he going to do if Yuri quits? “Hey, hey, take it easy,” Stan says. “You don’t have to come back right away. But soon, okay?”
Yuri smiles, turns away, and folds his arms across his chest. “Don’t piss me off,” he says quietly. There! he thinks. Now that’s American!


[FINAL NOTE: This site would not let me publish this story until I censored the swear words, but it allowed me to publish other stories in which the word "nigger" was used. I'm flummoxed! The 'n' word is all right, but three common obscenities are too dangerous to be published?????]