The following post is about Tourrete Syndrome and contains vile language. Even worse than usual. You have been warned.
We were fresh out of college, and our new boss wore a grave look as she sat us down. "I should tell you..." she began, searching for the right words. She didn't find them. We all shifted uncomfortably.
"Do either of you know what Tourette Syndrome is?"
We did, kinda. Neither Michelle nor I had actually experienced it in its actual, non-punchline form. Our boss proceeded to tell us that the staff of forty included Rupert, whose Tourette's was getting nicely under control but who had, in the past, offended the occasional co-worker. Thusly prepared, we could just pretend it didn't happen, like the rest of the staff did.
"Just so you know," she said. We were game.
Later that day, when the umpteenth introduction to a new co-worker was made, my cubicle-mate Betsy finally uttered the words "John, this is Rupert." He was a slight young guy, alert and well dressed. He seemed normal enough.
"Nice to meet you," I said, offering my hand.
"FUCKIN' LIAR! welcome aboard!" Rupert replied cheerfully as he shook my hand. "We're glad to have you here." He turned back to Betsy.
"FUCKIN' FATASS DYKE! so when are you handing off the files, STUPID FATASS WHORE! Betsy?"ÂÂ
Holy crap. What was it like before he got it nicely under control? When he left, Betsy and I commiserated. "They say it's utterly random, that the words that spill out have nothing to do with the actual listener or subject matter," she said.
Um. He just called a heavy-set lesbian a fatass dyke. That's random?
"Yeah, I know. He's got a real knack for that."
Rupert had knacks for two kinds of outbursts. The first was active, like the dyke thing. He'd be talking to you when up from his subconscious would bubble the most vile, hateful words—which were in no way, shape, or form random. When people told him they'd call him to let him know where the staff dinner was, they were "fuckinÂ' liars." Which was probably true enough. Meanwhile, any woman who disagreed with him was, at best, the c-word. Michelle, a Jew, was called "Bagel tits" and all sorts of hideous variations on kike and hebe. And so on.
The passive outburst, on the other hand, was utterly random. When he worked at his desk, a constant stream of nonsensical vulgarity spewed out. This, for my money, is where working with Rupert became nigh on impossible. We worked for the state government, you see, and the state government wasn't about to give Rupert one of the senior workers' private offices just because of his disability. No, he was in a cubicle with the rest of us. All these years later, I can still hear his rhythms as he serenaded the room. There was about a 10-20 second delay between screamed outbursts.
"HEY!"
"HEY!"
"HEY! Fucker."
"HEY!"
"HEY! Lick my melon."
"HEY! Fucker."
"HEY!"
"HEY! Fuckin' fatass."
"HEY! Cocksucker."
"HEY! Cunt whore twat."
"HEY!"
"HEY!"
"HEY! Fucker."
The latter was his favorite. I still dream about it occasionally. I had thousands of hey fuckers screamed in my ear, and I've even come to reflect on them fondly. At the time, not so much. Work was impossible. You would cringe in anticipation, waiting for the next outburst to be screamed. "It's the Chinese Rupert torture," I told Betsy.
One day, we gathered after work to play softball. This league had umpires, and when we saw ours, we collectively stopped and gasped. She was black. Rupert was right behind us. We paused to imagine the impending horrors. I shuddered. We couldn't expect people from the real world to buy into that "getting it nicely under control" nonsense. And more to the point, I very badly didn't want to hear what came next. We took a quick poll. It was unanimous.
"We forfeit," I told her. "We don't have enough players." Or maybe just one player too many, I thought.
"Fucker!" a voiced rang down from the nearby hillside. "Fuckin' liar!"
I lowered my voice to the umpire. "Tourette Syndrome. Pay it no mind. That's totally random. "