Wired Writer

How Could Nose Whistle Guy Not Know?

A Hey! Look At This! for EyesWideApart. I've always secretly wanted to be an illustrator even though I lack the patience it takes. While I doodle a decent Scooby Doo for my kids (I kick butt on horses and cartoon people, though), I visit this site to continually be amazed at how beautifully cool artwork is...and sometimes selfishly wish for the same talent.

With a nod to Mother Nature always providing the right tools for the job...
Fingers and nostrils. Ever hear someone complaining their fingers are too big to fit in their nostrils? Go on, think about it. I'll wait.

See? Told ya. Mother Nature knows what she's doing, even though by and large she's a sadistic wench who is all about the business.

A Little Boogey In The Elevator
Speaking of the Darwinian perfection of the finger/nostril size ratio, it reminds me of Nose Whistle Guy. Back when I was a cubicle drone and worked at the tippy top of a high rise, I dreaded the end of the day when everyone would jam themselves into the elevators with shoehorns. My paranoia meter would peg out just worrying about the elevator cables snapping, and why doesn't anyone else think of the crowding/elevator death thing, and why can't the fat guy with too much cologne just wait a FREAKIN' 45 SECONDS MORE OUT OF YOUR LIFE for another elevator.

One day a guy -- 30ish, nice suit, shiny shoes, dark hair (I prefer brunettes, thank you) and not too much corporate swagger -- got in next to me. Right next to me. Lucky me, I thought! The doors shut and we started our descent in silence, me surreptitiously observing Suit Guy. Then I heard this noise. Oh, someone softly whistling to themself, I thought. That's nice. Kind of breaks the unspoken "Please keep quiet and concentrate on your feet" elevator rule.

I listened a little more to the tune. Hmm. Seems to be pretty much, well, tuneless. And it has this steady, even rhythm. Not much of a musician, I thought. Could at least attempt "Dixie". The doors opened and yet another person who believes in the supernatural, never-break strength of elevator cables squeezed in, causing Cute Suit Guy to press into my shoulder. We exchanged "Sorry, but what can you do?" glances at each other and then returned to the somber study of our shoes.

The whistling resumed. RIGHT next to my ear. Could it be? Could Suit Guy with Everything Going For Him As Far As Looks has a booger? A booger big enough to produce an identifiable music note? (F Major, a little flat.) Startled, I looked. Sure enough, it was him. Breathing in and out, whistling, not seeming to notice his body's mucus production had turned him into some sort of gross Pinocchio piccolo. Every once in a while he would let a out big sigh, and the whistle would jump up the musical note scale all willy-nilly and then slide back down to end on a forlorn, minor note.

I shut my eyes, squeezed closer to the wall and prayed for quick descent. How could Nose Whistle Guy not know? Was he that lost in the mental regurgitation of another white collar day? Was he ignoring it, hoping everyone else would too? While I'm not a fan of rhinotillexomania, we all know we would have forgiven him for this dried snot faux pas if he acknowledged it by a quick blow or a sanitary dig. Afterwards, I always made it a point to carry a ready tissue on to the elevator, just in case.

Alas, it was all for nought. I never did see him again. Every time I step onto an elevator, I wonder where he and his nasal mucus are today.

Next time, Nose Whistle Guy, just breathe out of your mouth.

Today's Word Count On The Novel: The Big Nada. It's Friday, okay? I took the day off. So there!

Warm, whistle-free regards,
Wired Writer

posted by A.M.Adams @ 8/05/2005 01:23:00 PM