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Mandatory Isolation
by Daniel Edwards Learning to keep my mouth shut has been a lifelong endeavor. Probably as a small boy I was told to “keep quiet” as much as any other kid; however, the serious admonitions began when I started to get hair on my legs. My father highly valued the concept of will power and the ability to use it to my best advantage. As an adult, I deduced that he meant to use it so I wouldn’t be considered a blabbermouth and/or a fool. I steadfastly believe he could see me headed that way. So when the dark hair started sprouting on my legs, I was given a pithy list of solid rules: -Do not embarrass or shame your family by inappropriate declarations; -Do not start controversial conversations; -Keep your mouth shut ninety-nine percent of the time; -Do not get anyone pregnant. Number four, I found out later, was specifically connected in some way to the emergence of hair on my legs. What it had to do with being mouthy was a mystery back then. Due to the inherent shyness epidemic among teenage boys, my unaffectedly simple, savoir-faire quotient prevented me from noticing that girls’ clothes fit differently from boys. At eighteen, when I finally got around to kissing, the dam broke and the first lesson of the subsequent, high school sex education class scared the wits out of me. On top of that, some smartass senior kid had recently convinced me that kissing and fornication were equal sins. My dad’s curt caveat connecting mouthiness and pregnancy steamrolled down the constricted halls of my sparse concentration. Consequently, I blamed my perceived sins and my impending fatherhood on my big mouth. What had I said? What unintended no-no had I blurted out to my kissing partner? Why hadn’t I made a more concentrated effort to adhere to my father’s rules? Thanks to my depthless stupity, I hadn’t learned a thing in eighteen long years of existence. After two weeks of subterranean guilt, I decided that I’d better propose; however, when I approached my betrothed, she beat me to the punch and informed me that she was now going steady with so-and-so and she couldn’t go out with me anymore. Wait a minute! WAIT A MINUTE! Was this my out? Was this the loophole, the secret passage, the hidden staircase to the garden below? Finally, I got it. This is what my dad was talking about. A closed mouth is social security. Soon my position on the learning curve dipped. The social security lasted just long enough for the cutest girl in school to smile back. By that time, though, the sex education class had taught me that kissing had nothing to do with procreation, well directly it didn’t. That revelation brought a new autonomy into my life; I could kiss all I wanted, but thanks to my dad’s teachings, I just couldn’t talk about it. A new confidence lifted me from the solitude of noncommunication into the multitude of pithy conversation. My social score rose like John Wayne’s height. Way up there. The last thing I remembered before getting married was running my mouth and yelling from the rooftops, “I love you!” Sometimes when a young person makes an exclamatory statement, it’s due to a temporary sensation that fades as the clouds roll by. And as most young marrieds should know, some things done should not be undone without a solemn effort to keep it together. My new job as a radio announcer provided enough income for a mouthy young man to support a wife and her cats. Plural. When I said “I do,” I had no idea that sifting through cat boxes for excremental deposits was included in the deal. Being in my twenties and about as mature I was ever going to get, my proclivity for pontification served me well as a Top Forty DJ. My radio handle became “Weird Whiskers” and described my shabby visage suitably enough for the high school crowd to dig my show every afternoon after school. I became a Dallas radio celebrity and the coolest thing since the Cowboys came to town in 1960. If there were any prominent recording stars in town for concerts, I invited them to join me on the air previous to their performances. Back then the Rock and Roll idols were much better-behaved than the Rock stars of a few years later. An interview with a very young, million-selling recording artist shattered my placid routine and diverted my mind back to my ever-present nemesis: learning when and where to keep my mouth shut. One of the great things about radio, as opposed to television, is that it is an audio-only medium. No one sees you except the engineer, maybe a program director, and a secretary. As the interview progressed, I glanced down at the board and happened to notice that the adolescent star had neglected to raise the zipper on his polished cotton slacks. His lavender-striped shorts were clearly visible. Printed up and down on the stripes were the words, “GO FOR IT.” Well, the kid must not be the prude that he appeared to be; I was impressed. Forgetting all my years of effort at learning to stifle my untoward remarks, I came out with, “Hey man, that’s some cool underwear you got on.” Over the air. At five o’clock in the evening. The youth regarded me in unbelieving shock, levitated himself and shot out the studio door at warp speed. The next morning his agent telephoned the station and threatened court action. It only took fifteen minutes for me to lose my dream job and get escorted out. My wife followed suit and escorted me out the following day. Before I retired I worked many years as a lighthouse keeper at Port Bolivar, Texas. The shifts were quite long, but satisfied my evident need for mandatory isolation. To the end, my dad remained convinced that he had failed to teach his only son to shut up. |
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