Ever sat through two people's telephone conversation,
listened (from the side) to just one end of the call, and tried to make meaning
of what’s going on, and wondered (as you listen) what the person on the other
end could be saying? Have you? Have you waited several weeks, hoping all the
while to catch a particular person do something as ordinary as laugh...then
felt terribly disappointed when they did not? Talk to me Attaboy. Is your idea
of a career still something you have to go to school to study towards? Do you
think that not having a phone today is ridiculous? Some sort of a post-modern
humor? Huh? Well, good for you. But look, if you haven't seen a suit-clad,
mafia-looking, solemn man who sweats on the nose and laughs for his bread, you
haven’t lived life. I’m sorry.
Mr. Brown lives down the street, a wiry man with a wily
expression and huge rimmed spectacles that sit on the bridge of his nose. His
wife is a big and thick-set woman. Born-again. Very likeable. If you chance to
pass by their house you’ll spot her tending to her small garden of vegetables,
singing along (or humming loudly) to some Christian worship song in that
spiritual, throaty way that born-again people do. She tends to her faith with
the meticulous care of a tight-rope walker.
One time a few weeks ago, she came by our house, this woman.
We had recently just moved in and didn’t know most of our new neighbors yet. We
were not home when she came, so she posted a note on the door...and left. Said
in the note that she was the neighbor down the street – Mrs. Brown. That she
was the neighborhood association chairperson. She had stopped by to welcome us
to their community. She said she’d be back, and signed off "Be
Blessed" , like a keen Christian.
That’s how we came to know her name, this woman who sings
from somewhere deep, like a bird. That’s how we came to know the Browns from
down the street.
Next day she was back. Back with the word, with a
message. A sweet woman. She described how elated they felt to have us join
their community. She read us verses from the Bible and talked of blessings, and
good fellowship. How people are turning away from the Lord. How she fears for
young people. We soaked all that in. She trilled on, stopping occasionally to
smile – sweetly – at us. That satisfied smile that seemed to say I am
pleased peeps, praise the Lord! Before she left she invited us to
their local church that coming Sunday. Now that one got to us on tip-toe and
half breath. It creeped on us, like a thief. It found us unprepared. We looked
at each other for a moment. A brief moment. My friend and I. It could have been
out of courtesy or guilt - I don't know - but we said yes in the end. Yeah,
Mrs. Brown does that to you.
Mr. Brown, on his part, doesn’t strike you as much of a
church-goer. He makes appearances here and there alright, like many of you
reading this. And whenever he does show up, he often sits at the back, just in
case he needs to nip out. And he nips out quite a bit. Most times you’ll
see a drop of perspiration on his nose. Amazing, because this contrasts
markedly with his overall poise and otherwise vintage outlook. You hardly ever
expect a man in neatly cut suits and godfather hats and spotlessly polished
black shoes to sweat on the nose, do you? Spoils the mafia look, donge? Look,
mafias are chilled out people, cool runnings kind of people. You could grow a
beard while you wait for them to get to the end of their sentence. Words pour
out of them as if in slow motion, these people. They stop and wait for that
minute hand to strike twelve. They forget and start over. It's a pain for the
rest of us peasants. Look at how they hold that glass, how they smoke that
cigar. Look at how they blow out that smoke - how lazy! They take their time.
Time is precious to them. It is to be worshiped. It is to be held with
plenty of care, like a magician’s ball. Like a pretty woman.
Now look closely and you’ll see similar watchfulness in the
way that Mr. Brown walks. See how he does it: straight-backed in a straight
line, placing one foot carefully before the other, as if balanced upon a
knife-edge. Like a man tiptoeing through a snake pit, taking every caution not
to awaken the beasts.
We are told he laughs for a living. That’s his trade. He
laughs on records, on tapes, am told. He laughs mournfully, infectiously,
hysterically…every kind of laugh. A school kid’s laugh, a preacher’s boisterous
laugh, a scared man’s laugh, which, come to think of it, must be really funny
knowing how quiet a person he is. I have walked past their house some evenings
when he is sitting on their verandah, hoping to catch him laughing, to see how
his face contorts with glee in that moment of mirth. I’ve not been lucky yet,
for he just sits there solemnly whenever I pass by, listening to voices in his
head.
We’ve never talked (him and I)…That is why when he tapped my
shoulder a fortnight ago after church, and asked if he could use my phone to
call a friend, I felt a deep sense of relief, satisfaction even. He had quietly
been my hero, I think because what I had heard said about him and what I saw were
quite at odds. His wily expression sat on a calm frame. I had never seen him
laugh myself but people said he laughed for a living. Good laughs. And he
hadn’t spoken a word to confirm or deny them. He just walked through life in a
neat suit and hat, and a sweaty nose. A walking paradox. A Rubik’s cube. That
draws you in. He doesn't need to validate himself.
I held out the phone to him but without looking at it,
without touching it, he read out his friend’s phone number and told me to dial.
I did…and brought the phone to my ear.
Ngrrrrrring, ngrrrrring, ngrrrrrrrrring – ngrrrrrring,
ngrrrring, ngrrrrrrring! Then a horrible “gritting” of teeth, and
finally a piping female voice: “Y-E-S? [Rising inflection] Hello?”
Without answering I handed the phone to him, and stepped
aside. They started to talk. I just stood there. It had never occurred to me
that listening to only one end of a telephone conversation was such a queer
exercise. You hear questions asked; you don’t hear the answer. You hear
invitations given; you hear no thanks in return. You have listening pauses of
dead silence, followed by apparently irrelevant and unjustifiable exclamations
of glad surprise, or sorrow, or dismay. You can’t make head or tail of the talk
because you never hear what the caller on the other end says. You keep
guessing. Well, here’s what I heard from Mr. Brown’s end of the line:
Yes? How did that happen?
Pause
What was it about?
Pause
Hahaha! I don’t think they’d say that.
Pause
I meant…(a little pause) no,no. You let it boil first
then – then you reduce the heat. That should allow it to simmer well.
Pause
WHAT?
Pause
That was way back! Before Sarah went to stay with her.
Remember the doctor who couldn’t take a joke?
Pause
Hahahahaha…yeah!!!
Pause
Yes, I like it that way, too; I think it’s better to let it
just sit for a while. It gives it such an air,- and attracts so much notice.
Pause
No! It’s the Book of Ecclesiastes. Ecclesiastes twelve – ten
to nineteen. They ought to be read together.
Pause
I just use a comb. A regular comb.
Pause
She’s not here yet. She’s still inside talking with the choir
master.
Pause
Oh! C sharp! Dear me, I thought you said it was
the cat!
Pause
Since when?
Pause
Why, I never heard of it.
Pause
Are you serious!!?? What did the head teacher do?
Pause
I know, that must have offended him so much.
Pause
I haven’t the notes by me; but I think it goes something like
this: by-the-ri-vers – of – ba-by-lon, whe-re – we – sat – d-own! And then
repeat, you know?
Pause
Yes, I think it is very sweet, - and very solemn and
impressive, if you get the tremolo and the pianissimo right.
Pause
Oh yes. He’s standing right here.
Pause
Visitors?
Pause
We never use butter on them, regular oil.
Pause
Yes, I think so. Please do pass my regards, okay?
Pause
Right…Four o’clock – I’ll be ready.
Pause
Yeah…bye.
[Hangs up the phone] He pauses then says, “Oh, holding this
thing does tire the arm so! Thank you so much. Are you the new neighbors down
the street?”
“Yes we are!”
“Oh great! Am Mr. Brown," he says, stretching his hand
to greet mine, "I stay by the corner, right there,” he continues, pointing
the direction of his house with his sweaty nose the way people do when their
hands are busy (or tied behind them). “Please come by sometime for a cup of
tea, okay?” I felt like asking him if he would laugh for me if I came.
“Sure I will,” That's me responding; not him hahaha. It's
my response to his invitation for tea. He nodded and walked away. Rather, he
tiptoed away.
