Listen Up, Listen In
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It doesn’t count as eavesdropping if you're just sort of there. Presented without (an excessive amount of) comment: three short, unrelated, and overheard moments.
Karl Marx
I was working on my computer at a communal table in the lobby of a hotel in Washington, DC. It was by no means buzzing, this lobby, but it wasn’t library-like, either. There was music playing, and people were talking, but it was all sort of low-level and background, amounting to the sort of quiet hum that’s actually pretty conducive to knocking out a few emails.
I’d been there for a bit when a man walked past on the phone. I glanced up at him—early-to-mid-50s, unassuming rich guy vibes, salt and pepper hair and a short beard. In a slightly nasal New York accent, he gave a “Yes,” then a clipped “Mmm-hmm.” He was exasperated, but only a little. A pause, and then, with neither hesitation nor malice, “Yes, I agree. You're not the only one who should receive my frustration. I want to distribute it, like Karl Marx, to many people.”
He kept walking. I wrote it down. I think about it all the time.
Michelle
She was in an aisle seat, one row behind and opposite mine, with her mother next to her. She couldn't have been more than 25 or 26. I knew her name was Michelle because a pattern had been established shortly after takeoff: the mother would hiss something mostly unintelligible but very, very mean, to which Michelle would hiss back some sort of equivalent response. A “F*ck you, Michelle,” would follow, just vile, and then a long and stony silence before one or the other started up again. I could make out enough to know that they were arguing about exactly nothing; it was clear that this was just their everyday dynamic. I felt terrible for the college-aged kid squirming next to them in the window seat.
As a pair, they were palpably miserable and viciously angry, and it was obvious that they'd be locked in this back-and-forth forever—unless some powerful outside force intervened. I turned my head slightly in an attempt to further assess the situation and found two sets of identically furious eyes staring directly at me.
I came to understand, in that moment, that I was the powerful outside force. Not therapy, not estrangement, not death. Me. All I had to do was maintain eye contact and the two of them could finally put aside their differences. They would form an unbreakable alliance, forged in the triumph of having come together to beat the living sh*t out of me on this airplane, and that bond would bring peace, contentment, and light to the rest of their days.
Unwilling to sacrifice myself for the happiness of strangers, I smiled at them, then quickly turned back around. I didn’t look again.
Hells Bells
Google Maps said I was still an hour away, and my playlist had gone stale. I switched to FM and started scanning. The local college radio station hit early on the dial, between songs and mid-banter. The host was bubbly and excited and I was charmed immediately; she’d brought a friend with her to the station and they were taking turns choosing what to play. Every three or four songs they’d drop back in to chat.
“Okay, so it’s your turn again!” the host said. “Okay,” said the friend. “So this next song is really important to my family.” She went on to explain that she’d grown up in ski country, and there was some sort of every-winter-weekend outing that she, her brother, and her Mom and Dad would go on together. Getting ready for it involved waking up early, gathering gear and coats and gloves—an ordeal, and one that left the Dad waiting impatiently for the rest of the family to get their sh*t together. You know, classic Dad stuff. “And so, on Saturday mornings, when it was time to leave, he would turn this song on, so loud that it made the windows shake. When it started, that was the countdown, and if you weren’t in the car by the time it was over, you were in trouble.”
“Oh my god!” said the host. I could almost hear her eyes widen. “What would happen if you weren’t in the car?” “We never found out,” the friend replied solemnly. “We made it our business to be in the car.” “That’s good,” said the host, approvingly. I knew she was nodding, because I was, too. “Let’s play the song.”
AC/DC’s Hells Bells began to toll, and the countdown began. Dads rock, I thought, then turned it up so loud that my own windows rattled.
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