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When I was young, I used to sit around construction sites just to see this one guy. Every day around noon, he stopped doing whatever he was doing with his hacksaw, took off his hardhat, wiped the sweat from his broad brow, and walked about three blocks to this little park. I used to follow him to the park, ducking behind cars and dogs and stuff if he turned around. I loved the way he walked — this beautiful swagger with just a trace of a limp because he had this condition where his left leg ended at the knee. He always stopped by this one little tree, reached into his bag and took out a paintbrush and the most brilliant crimson paint you've ever seen. For three or four minutes, he just stood there, looking. Finally, he dipped the tip of the brush in the paint can. He was gentle about it. Then he looked at his watch, swore loudly, and went back to the construction site. This is how I learned to curse.
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