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September 19, 2010
sue's song
Miss Sue died at home this morning. Even though I knew it was imminent, I'm crushed. The world is substantially less good today. I won't even try to convey my grief.
Sue Tanaka was the creative writing secretary when I was in grad school. More importantly to me, Sue was the custodian of Sue's Newspaper, for which I waited impatiently every morning in her break room. Between the newspaper and her computer, which I bogarted, I fairly lived in that room for two years. It was because of me, I'm proud to say, that Sue hung a NO WHINING sign there.
But she especially cringed at my profanity. One day, my buddy Phil and I were in fine form. The department had screwed us repeatedly, and we were erupting in Sue's breakroom.
"I hate these cocksuckers," I snarled.
"And I can't wait for the cocksuckers to get the buttfucking they so richly deserve," Phil snapped.
"JOHN! PHIL! You're horrible! My God, watch your language!" Sue yelled from the public area.
A few days later, Phil and I went camping. Newly widowed Sue had implored us to go to her house and take her husband's firewood. "Take it all. It's birch wood," she said. "It burns great!"
And so Phil and I crammed so much birch wood into the trunk of my college car that it bottomed out on the slightest hill. Once we were on the dank, moist Oregon coast, we set about the business of lighting a campfire. I cannot emphasize enough how "great" Sue's birch wood did not burn. No amount of kindling aided in the ignition of this wood. Thus did we crawl around on the moist ground, blowing in vain at what I'm charitably going to call an ember. Alas. It was like throwing mason blocks on the embers. There would never be a campfire.
Soaked through, we ate cold hot dogs "cooked" on a wire coat hanger. We shivered through the chilly March nights, not sleeping. Finally, on day three, with me having contracted a hideous cough that would persist until July, we packed it in.
Delirious from lack of sleep, we drove back to Spokane, a seven hour trip. In his squeaky falsetto, Phil sang the song "Memories" from Cats while I drove. Over and over. Making up lyrics as he went along. I contemplated whether our speed was sufficient to kill us. No, wrecking the car would probably just maim us. Not good enough. Phil sang on.
Kit-ties.Then he got a gleam in his eye.
Down the stairs by the furnace.
They are peacefully sleeping.
Unlike you and me, John.
Sue Tanaka—Phil pointed to me, pantomiming Take it, John! I did, through clenched teeth.
—your cocksucking birch wood has buttfucked us allllll.For the next ten minutes, my car swerved all over the interstate, as Phil and I indulged in what remains the longest, hardest laugh of my life. I nearly pulled over, so afraid was I that I would pass out. For the remainder of the trip, we composed what would become known as Sue's Song.
MidnightThere were several more verses, but you get the gist. We were inordinately pleased with ourselves, and come May, we printed and framed our composition. "For Sue, on Mother's Day," it read. Revolted, she threw it in the trash.
And the fire's not burning.
It is lit yet not lighting.
It's just a-smoldering soot...
Sue Tanaka,
Your cocksucking birch wood has buttfucked us all!
Down in Newport,
Oregon.Hot dogs.
They are smoked but not cooking.
Just ice cubes on a hanger.
Botulism abounds.
Sue Tanaka,
Your cocksucking birch wood has buttfucked us all.
Down in Newport,
Oregon.Birch wood!
It's contemptible tree shit!
We'd torch a whole fucking forest,
If fe-ces could ignite.
Sue Tanaka,
Your cocksucking birch wood has buttfucked us all.
Down in Newport,
Oregon.
"Hey! We worked hard writing that!" I said.
"Why? It only had three words!"
I swore to Sue that I would publish it.
"You will not!" she said.
How about after you die?
"Fine."
Godspeed, Sue.
posted by john at 10:27 AM • permalink