Picture if you will . . . It’s a lovely morning in the city. The sun is shining and the streets are abustle with people going about their daily business. A steady breeze runs across you and you know it should be a good day. You patiently await the next bus headed towards your destination. Soon it rolls up, you give the driver a curtly nod of hello and find an open seat to relax for the ride. You even have a good book or music player handy to pass the time. The first few stops are uneventful. A few commuters get on board and sit down, quiet and content. The same expression of disinterest is on their faces. Oh, you might encounter one or two on the phone or indulging in some entertainment much like your own. It doesn’t bother you. You feel comfortable, secure in the notion that there are others like you. So you slide the earphones down your head or turn to your bookmarked page and disappear into your own realm of fantasy.
Then they get on board. You know them when you see them. Some call them friendly. Others call them assholes. Only you know the terrible truth. Your perfect, noiseless little bus has caught the plague of . . . a Chatter. Chatters are not the type to surprise a person. Quite the contrary. You can pick them out from three blocks away. They’re all the same: that loose jaw going up and down ceaselessly, the rapid-fire hand gestures, and the inability to control the volume of their voice. As they step onto your bus they make casual conversation with the driver, delaying departure for a good two minutes, two minutes of your hard-earned time. Then they sit, always at the front. Their bag hits the floor with a resounding thud and they look around. This is not to assess the size of the bus. They’re looking for prey. Many don’t understand that the finest meals these creatures enjoy are the unsuspecting ears of any other poor dunce within reach. And guess what? You just happen to be in their direct line of sight.
Their first volley is a subtle one. “Cold out today . . . How ’bout those Cubbies? . . . Do I have something in my teeth?”
You want to tell them the truth. “No . . . I’m a Sox fan . . . You don’t have any teeth.”
But you just have to be polite and give them the answer they need to hear. In doing so you’ve initiated the death of your beloved ears. Soon you’re in conversations about politics, religion, or how crappy the vending machine in the store on the corner of Blah and Blah is. You try to get out of it by continuing your previous activity, but now their talking is swirling into your temples like poison. In a last desperate gambit, you reach up and grab the pull cord. Gathering all your things, you get off six blocks before your desired destination. You breathe a sigh of relief, only to discover you left your sunglasses on the seat next to you. Off you go running, hoping you can cut the bus off at the next street, another victim of the mindless Chatter.
Comments are closed.