I didn’t say that. There’s words we call each other and words we don’t. I don’t mean swear words, necessarily, but I gotta admit that “motherfucker” can be imbued with a majesty that Wild Billy Shakespeare would die for. Put an accent on some words and they grow horns and hooves. A bite.

I consider myself boat trash. I’m a hick from the sticks who went west. Shit kicker. Now you see my type at the older marinas where the boats don’t move. Planters on the deck and blue tarp condominiums. I’ll get around to scraping off the barnacles as soon as I get the motor going.

You’ll never catch me calling myself “Captain,” though I might call that dude on B Dock, whose name I can never recall, “Cap.” He likes it, I’m sure, this captain of Sunday beer cans, wine jug fruit flies, and endless cigarettes on the back deck. Fireflies.

Bet he doesn’t call himself a wordsmith (like, ever), and neither should you. Fuck off.

There was a guy we worked with at the shipyard known just as Shit-For-Brains. He was a laughing, happy fool, the most dangerous kind, until he wrapped his F-150 around a light pole. We took up a collection for his wife – we didn’t even know he had a wife – and finally learned his name.

I forget it now.

But Mrs. Shit-For-Brains came by dressed in sweat pants with a walk like puppies wrestling. She looked mouthy and cried the whole time the yard superintendent gave her the jar of bills and coins, which was just a peanut butter jar with the top pried off and “Give” written on a sticky note. She had come a week too soon for the money and the final payroll check, so she had to stand and wait while Jeanine, the payroll bitch, cut her a check.

Bet Jeanine didn’t add a couple hours onto it, either.

What you gotta remember is that I worked for “Boss” and for “Bahss.” Once, I worked for somebody we called “Pig Fucker.” Yeah, we said that.

If the check didn’t bounce, it wasn’t because of him. Probably dead by now. Or should be.