Phlegm: A word like no other. Six letters strung together so awkwardly that
they look like a mistake. Yet this word
does exist in the dictionary. Even if
you aren’t aware of its meaning, when you attempt to pronounce the word the
throat reacts with a mini-gag-reflex, kind of a tongue twister for the back of
the palette. And if you are aware of its
meaning, the thought of what it defines brings a mini-gag-reflex as well. The perfect word is one that every aspect of
it, even the spelling, represents its essence.
Phlegm.
The first time I heard the word
spoken I assumed it was spelled like it sounds when said carelessly – f-l-e-m,
and it didn’t leave much of an impression on me. Sure, the idea was gross. Just like ‘snot’ or ‘turd’. But once I saw the word on a page and said it
out loud the way it was meant to be said, it just seemed like genius to me.
Growing up, my brother Mike said that
phlegm was the key ingredient to hocking a good loogie. I tried and tried to spit like him, but it
always came out in an embarrassing spray that moistened (another awful and
melodic word) my shirt and face. Then I’d have to use my sleeve to wipe off the
evidence. Not like his. When Mike would spit there was practically a
drum roll while he prepared a perfect glob of goo that he aimed and fired with
near perfect accuracy at any target. A
lifetime of practice, and I am still unable to spit like that.
Mike used his phlegmy talents to
control and terrorize us younger siblings while Mom and Dad were gone working
long days. If we got in his way or
threatened to tattle, we often were subjected to the Spit Treatment. With his size advantage, it took him merely
seconds to pin me to the floor and sit on my chest. Sometimes I would fight and squirm until I
was panting like a german shepherd and covered in sweat, but it was no use. With my arms pinned to the carpet, I would turn
my head to the side as he snorted and honked, gathering a mouthful of phlegm….yes
phlegm. I’d turn my head to the side as
he hovered over my face, open his lips just enough to allow a drop of goo to
stretch out of his mouth. As it got
longer and closer to me I would make a squirming effort to get free, but he would
suck up the spit just before the slimy ribbon broke free to land on my face. Depending on how mad I was or how long I
could stand it before giving in, the torture usually ended after a few scares
like this – I would give in and scream “Okay!
Okay! I won’t tell!”
At this he would temporarily suck the
goo back into his mouth and swallow.
“Tell them WHAT?” he would growl in a dangerous voice and then start
honking and snorting again.
“That you flushed my sock down the toilet (or
whatever he did this time). I
promise!” If I was in a particularly
stubborn mood and didn’t give in soon enough he would keep at it until finally
one glob of throat snot would drop and splatter on my face. He then would explode in a wicked cackle as I
wiggled free and ran screaming to the bathroom to sterilize myself. Phlegm may be an interesting word to read and
say, but I didn’t want it dripping between my eyes. Particularly if it didn’t belong to me in
the first place.
Hmmmm. I started with a single word and wound up
taking a long trip, way down memory lane.
That’s the greatest thing about words.
They can take you places that are no longer available in the real world.
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