The Angel and
the Skank
Written By Andrew Corsello
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A story of redemption.
A couple of months back, my wife gets on a plane to spend a week with her best friend from childhood. Back at home, me and the boys go a little wild, as we tend to do when Mom's not around to police things. We eat what and when we want, leaving the spoons and pans we use for cooking in the kitchen sink (without washing them, since we know we'll be using them again) and the spoons and pans we use for banging on the kitchen floor. Change our underwear and diapers when we feel like it, leave 'em where they fall; if Quincy, age 3, declares while noodling on the piano that "I wanna be naked butt!" and then sheds his drawers, that's where they stay, next to the pedals, along with the pair(s) he dropped there the day before, and the day before that — as a testament. We go to sleep when and where we feel like it. As a convenience, we leave every bed in the house unmade, because, you know, there's no telling when somebody might want to jump in, or on, this or that mattress.
I don't preside over complete anarchy. We are not animals. I get the boys nourished, dressed, bathed with enough regularity that their hygiene won't call attention to itself either way. Get Quincy off to preschool and his 1-year-old brother, Casper, ready for the nanny. And I take care to gauge what's going into the ears and eyes with as much care as I gauge what's going down the gullets. That's why I make sure the boys are soundly asleep — Quincy on my left and Casper on my right — before I flip on the tube to catch an old episode of Deadwood.
Damn, how I love that show, its baroque obscenities, its unabashed celebration of "f---ing" (the word) and f---ing (the act). Toward the end of this particular episode, I notice something in my peripheral. A subtle motion. An angling: Quincy's head, assuming the 45-degree left-to-right downward tilt that signifies rapture. And absorption. The boy isn't anything close to asleep. How long ... ? He's upright, alert, soft-eyed, still. His palms are pressed together in his lap, as if in prayer. His hair, as ever — since I've never allowed it to be cut, and never will — is a psychedelic white cloud of curls.
I will provide no cue, no indication, I think. Nothing to remember.
I mute the tube. Though the boy's head reassumes an even plane, the eyes remain affixed on the screen. I click the power button. The picture vanishes. We sit silently for a time in the weak light that comes in from the street. The eyes remain on the blackened screen.
"Hey, Q," I whisper. "What's up?"
Time passes. Has he heard me? At last a tiny, faraway voice.
"Daddy?"
"Yes, Q."
"I need to tell you something, Daddy." His eyes are still on the screen. "Daddy, your balloon is going to pop."
My balloon? Whatever.
"Don't worry, sweet prince," I assure him. "My balloon is safe."
The next afternoon, while Casper naps, Quincy and I read in the living room. I'm halfway through Frank Rich's column when Q claps his book shut, points a finger at my head, and grins.
"Hey, you f---in' man!"
No cue, no indication, nothing to imbue the word with power.
"What's that, Q?"
"F---in' man!"
His execution is gorgeous, full of music and joy, with a heavy landing on the "f"("fffffff---in'!") that constitutes its own syllable.
It's true, my son. It really is the funnest word in the world.
"What was that word you said, Quincy?"
"Ffffffff---in' man!"
"Hmmmm. I don't think that's a word." I return to my Times. Over the edge of the page I glimpse that tilt of the head, that knowing grin.
"Yes, it is a word, you fffffff---in' boy!"
When Casper wakes, we head off to Barnes & Noble to pick up Philip Roth's latest.
It's not as easy to find as it should be.
"I wanna see the birds," Quincy announces shortly after we arrive.
Next door, at Pet Smart.
"After Daddy gets his book."
"I wanna see the birds."
"Duly noted. Hold on a minute."
"The birds! The birds!"
"You know, Quincy, patience is a virtue."
It is then that Quincy decides to free the beast from its cage.
"FFFFFFF---in' boy!" he hollers. Three times in a row.
He not only understands the abstract music of the word, but how to employ it. My boy!
Those who stare (everyone) can't be blamed. Who's ever heard the F-bomb out of the mouth of a 3-year-old? All those eyes, all those pointed thoughts, the silent and screaming imperative to do something, register as an unpleasant pressure in my ears. Quincy, for his part, greets all those eyes with a rousing take on "The Muffin Man," replete with a little skip-step. His notes are pitch perfect, though the lyrics are a bit off ...
Here comes the FFFFFFF---in' Man!
The FFFFFFF---in' Man!
The FFFFFFF---in' Man! ...
DO SOMETHING.
Next page: What does he do? The surprising response
