Accismus (ak-iz’-mus): A feigned refusal of that which is earnestly desired.
I don’t want this. I don’t need this. I’d tell you to keep it, but I know you don’t want it either. But, for you and all the people gathered here tonight, I’ll take the piece crap so I can give my speech and get the hell home—to my empty home—my home with no wife, no children. Empty. Quiet. No smell of cooking or ceramic tile cleaner, or dish detergent. All the things that make you know you’re a person at home— not just an address on a street, but home.
I’ve worked here at “Dorian’s Tarnish” for 20 years, making new things look old in the back corner of a warehouse. Mostly, as you know, we put a patina on things that make them look and smell like antiques. Our patina-maker is a liquid I’ve been putting on a rag, and rubbing on things and breathing fumes for the past twenty years.
My hands have a rash. My eyes drip tears down my face. I walk with a cane. I have hemorrhoids the size of golf balls that swing around in my pants. But I don’t blame “Dorian’s Tarnish.” I blame myself for being afraid to leave this chicken shit job. You know: “this is America, you’ve got to have a job.” I took that admonition seriously. I could have easily been a homeless man, but I listened to my wife and stayed. Even though she encouraged me to stay, she changed her mind. She left me after 10 years, with our two kids. She ran off with a cruise liner’s events coordinator. He specializes in shuffle board, and my daughter is a world champion. My other daughter deals blackjack in the ship’s casino. I don’t want to know what my wife does. Her husband is a jerk. He takes Adderall to stay “peppy” and “jovial” for the ship’s guests. But me—here I am sucking fumes in what may be the worst job anywhere in the world. I have a persistent cough. If I cough near a flame my mucus catches on fire. I keep a Dixie cup on the sink in my work station to put out the fire with cup of water fresh from the tap.
So, the plaque says “In recognition of 20 years service.” It is hard to believe. All those years I soaked in, and breathed toxic fumes. According to my doctor, I’ve got six months to enjoy my retirement. I’m going to spend that time in a hospital bed looking out the window and looking forward to dying.
Thank-you.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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