Looking Out

My old friend, Sinclair Lattimer, related this interesting story to me the other day. Here’s what he told me:

My wife Sally and I were visiting our neighbor lady, Florence. She went in the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. We could hear her clattering around in there, but all of a sudden it got really quiet.

Florence came tip-toeing out of the kitchen, her head cocked to one side, “do you hear music?” she said.

We didn’t hear anything. Florence started walking around the living room, trying to pin down the location of the music she was hearing.

“I hate that kind of music,” she said.

We both stood up and joined her. Now we could hear the music too, playing very softly. It was some kind of formless New Age stuff with no beginning and no end, sounding like elevator music on tranquilizers.

Together, we wandered around the house. The music was playing so softly that we couldn’t even tell what direction it was coming from.

“Let me check outside,” I said. “Maybe it’s out there.”

I stepped outside the front door and heard nothing.

“It’s not out there,” I declared.

“Maybe it’s coming from one of the guest rooms,” said Sally. Together, we walked down the hall and into each of the two rooms. The music got no louder. It got no softer.

“It must be coming from the basement,” said Florence, so down the stairs we went.

“There!” said Florence, pointing to an old radio cabinet pushed up in one corner. We walked over there.

“That thing hasn’t worked in years,” said Florence.

I bent over to put my ear up to the speaker anyway, thinking that perhaps the old thing had repaired itself. Sure enough, the music grew louder, but not by much.

I twirled the plastic volume knob. Nothing. I spun the tuning knob, but the music didn’t change.

I stood up and the music became muted once again. I bent over. Louder. Stood up. Quieter. I put my hand over the speaker. No change.

That’s when I realized that every time I bent over to put my ear to the speaker, I was also getting closer to Florence’s blue jeans pocket.

“It’s your phone, Florence,” I said.

“What?”

“Your phone. In your pocket.”

Sure enough. She pulled the phone out of her pocket to discover that the music was indeed coming from the phone.

Just then, the music stopped, and we could hear a voice saying, “Thank you for your patience. Your call will be answered by the next available representative.” And the shapeless drone of the music began again.

“My bank!” exclaimed Florence. “I called them 40 minutes ago and they put me on hold!”

“Time for a new bank,” said my wife. “One with faster robots.”

Florence killed the call and stuck the phone back in her pocket.

“Now, about that coffee,” she said, heading back upstairs.

Minutes later, as she came out of the kitchen with a tray bearing the coffee cups and fixings, she said, “Do you hear that buzzing noise?”

“It’s your phone, ringing in your pocket,” I said.

“Oh! Of course!” said Florence. “I wonder who it is?”

“Well, it’s probably not your bank,” said Sally.

— Jim Whitehouse lives in Albion.

This article originally appeared on The Daily Telegram: Looking Out