The Dropping of the Eaves

I’m sitting at dinner, eating what the dining hall has labeled “Sweet & Sour Chicken” and which I would use an entirely different S-word to describe. The hall is crowded; I’m alone and that can only mean one thing: eavesdropping.

Call it childish. Call it inconsiderate. Call it what you will. It’s entertaining. Eating alone can be incredibly pressuring. There may be people there you know but not well enough to invite yourself to eat with. So then you have to deal with those people you slightly know seeing you eat by yourself.

Suppose there are people there you could sit with but you don’t see them and sit alone. Then they think you chose not to sit with them on purpose. This gets blown way out of proportion, with boycotts and demonstrations, so that before you know it, you’ve lost a friend on thefacebook.

And for those of you out there who think eavesdropping is an invasion of privacy, you’re right, it is. It absolutely is. But if you’re going to talk openly – not to mention loudly – in public about your crush on turquoise warthogs, I deserve to have that extra information when you make a pass at me during a party in the distant future.

So I’m at dinner, facing the wall, enjoying the solitude, when someone else’s conversation starts to drift in.

“I’m so sick. I sound like a 13 year-old boy.”

Now, I apologize if this was you. I just overheard it. It’s not like I can put it back. There’s no undo on hearing. It’s like giving a bum your sandal, realizing that was a bad move, and then trying to take it back. It can’t be done.

I’m not going to turn around and stare right at this person after they said they sound like a 13 year-old boy. I play it cool and wait for the appropriate moment to sneak a glance at this gender-bending diner.

I’ve gotten rather good at this. You nonchalantly drop your napkin and take a peek. Or even better, pretend you’re looking for someone who’s supposed to join you. Once I even pretended to crack my back. There’s a million ways to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. My knowledge of at least forty doesn’t seem so bad in the great scheme of things now, does it?

The best part about eavesdropping is not picking up interesting gossip and information to blackmail people with. That actually gets old after about the 4^th person you blackmail and the authorities start getting involved, forcing you to spend a few months down in Nicaragua with the geckos while avoiding Interpol agents with Nerf guns.

No, the best part is that you can make up histories and faces from these characters and the snippets of their life you’ve picked up. I’ve given this girl jet black hair, glasses, and a music collection centered around the shoegaze movement of the late 80’s and early 90’s. She wears clothing that’s not too revealing, but flattering nonetheless. Her father is a stock broker and her mother runs the arts and crafts camp for the local park district back home in Maine. This cold came on suddenly, almost as if someone wanted her to lose her voice so that she couldn’t audition for the part of Belle in an up-and-coming production of Beauty and the Beast. Foul play is afoot. I’ll figure out who sabotaged your stage career, Audrey, if it’s the last thing I do.

But my chance never came with the sex-changing, age-defying cold sufferer. Before I knew it, that gravely voice had disappeared, and when I turned to look, the table was empty. My vocally challenged friend was gone. Never will I know whose face spoke with that voice of a 13 year-old boy named Gene. Such is life in the eavesdropping movement sweeping dining halls all over New England. Wait, what’s this I hear?

“Apple Cinnamon Cheerios should be put on a pedestal and worshipped.”

Really? That’s interesting, Sadie….

Mr. Talkedy Returns

I woke up with a cold today. Maybe this could have been avoided if I had been taking my daily multivitamin instead of whipping them at cars that drove past my window on Bay State Road. But we all get lonely sometimes.

Then I lost my voice.

Losing one’s voice is like being transformed into a tapir. You can no longer speak to people, they gape at you like you’re in a zoo, and for some reason your nose grows longer and you’re using it to eat. Seriously, you know it’s true.

I always took speech for granted. Not once did I realize how vital it was until I lost it and was completely cut off from the world. When I did try to speak, my voice sounded like a cross between a respirator and a Nickelback CD. Needless to say, it took some strong persuasion to start breathing again.

Since I was unable to do much else, I began to reflect back on other times I was without language. Of course as an infant I couldn’t talk. But, then again, I couldn’t control my bowels either so I wasn’t really winning ribbons anywhere.

The most memorable time I lost my voice was in the 4^th grade. It was the first day of our creative writing unit. I don’t really remember what I wrote, probably some stupid mystery/thriller about coral reefs. The Catholic Church was probably involved somehow, trying to cover up that Jesus went wakeboarding there with Mary Magdalene. Even at such a young age, American writers were trying to be Dan Brown.

My friend Bryan was much more aware of his surroundings. He used my voiceless condition to inspire his story. In it, there was a man named Mr. Bogedy who would steal people’s voice boxes in order to talk nonsense with their voices. The main character, Bobby, had a voice box named Mr. Talkedy that was stolen, fought back, defeated Mr. Bogedy, and freed all the abducted organs of speech.

I wanted to go out and see if anybody would write any stories about me this time. But first I needed to buy some Bic pens. After hitting up the bookstore, I headed down to the Commons to people listen.

“I love Dashboard Confessional!”
“…so I said to him, ‘You can’t suggest that I have some ice cream. That’s saying I’m fat, which is harassment.’ And he said…”
“Yo, dude, you want to make some S’mores? Shit, G, I could really go for one right now. Will the man let us build a fire right here?”
“I love you more than words can express. You are my one and only forever more. Will you go to Prom with me?”
“Yo quiero comer tus gatos.”
“Isn’t this skirt just perfect? I was going to donate the last $100 daddy gave me to Hurricane Katrina relief but then I saw this little baby for only 80 dollars and couldn’t let an opportunity like this pass. I mean, hurricanes happen every year…”

I couldn’t take it any longer. All these people were blessed with the power of speech, a blessing I had been temporarily deprived of, and they were wasting it, wasting the gift. Any one of them could have used the vernacular in a remarkable way, to say something truly insightful and laced with beauty, but all that came out was nonsense. Mr. Bogedy had returned and multiplied.

This overwhelmed me and I started running away as fast as I could. I wanted to be back in my room where I could hide my mute body under a blanket and shut out this ranting world of irrelevance.

But when I got back to my dorm I met with a new obstacle. Boston University with its ever evolving quest to make life difficult had upgraded its cock blocking dorm security once again. Now voice recognition was required for entry into its residences. I walked away without trying.

Spending a night outside was not going to damper my spirits any further. I walked over to the highway underpass to stake out my claim. It was still light out but I didn’t care. The sooner I fell asleep, the sooner this would all be put on pause. I drifted off in no time.

I awoke in the arms of my new friend Greasy Jeremiah and thought, “What time is it?” But I didn’t just think it; I spoke it. Mr. Talkedy had returned. With whoops of elation regarding my reintroduction to audible life, I galloped back to my dorm and triumphantly shouted my name into the security speaker.

I felt so unbelievably happy while I flew up the stairs to my room. Right then and there, I made myself a promise that along with Mr. Talkedy I would rid the world of Mr. Bogedys by always speaking and writing with passion and eloquence. Now if thou wouldst excuse me, I find myself in dire need of some multivitamins.

*published in The Daily Free Press on Friday, October 7th, 2005*