He’ll Turn it Off

The Chinese are often slammed for a lack of auditory nuance.  Noise pollution is a jarring fact in nearly any version of China I’ve ever known.  I was on the other night about some fella playing a soap opera audibly on his smart phone, waiting there with the rest of us on the arrivals bench at the airport.  Our Japanese friends who have little “sshh” signs inside the elevators must find it all rather jarring. 

But American’s are a loud lot as well.  The beautiful Metro North ride from Poughkeepsie down to Manhattan is generally ruined by meatheads in the “quiet car” talking away on their phones.  Music, is especially personal.  I most assuredly don’t want to listen to your music.  You might enjoy mine but I don’t care.  I don’t want to share right now.  One time, thirty-five years ago I was riding the same Metro North train, that probably had the same Naugahyde seat covers, and my friend and I had a “box”, an all-important portable cassette player.  We were enjoying the rarified music of the moment for us, an “Intensified” ska collection until a scrawny African American kid with an overabundance of self-confidence lurched up, spun around and yelled rather close to our faces, “turn that shit off!”  Right.  Point-taken. 

The gym’s also kinda personal.  You go to the gym and you do your routine and you leave.  There are a few people who are always there and if you make eye contact you smile.  But otherwise I’ve my music on and I’m working on me.  Across the building, out to the dome, up the stairs and there’s a thundering of banal bar chords and earnest yelling.  It takes me about one-point-five-seconds to discern that these bar chords and earnest yelling have nothing to do with any bar chords or yelling within my mind’s musical palace.  As a result this is an antibody.  Someone, (there are only two people inside) has decided that it would be reasonable to crank their music, at this volume, so that they might enjoy a good work out. 

I go to the stair master and put my reasonably powerful earbuds up in my ear holes, find some bass-heavy music and turn them up to ten.  The crooked elephant stampede of this guy’s music, (it must be him, and he ain’t Chinese) thudding, thudding, groaning through the gym, bleeds in, like an arterial wound, pints of blood and annoyance moisten my mind.  He’ll turn it off, I think.  I stare.  He’ll turn it off.  I consider the lady as well.  Is that shit your music?  I don’t even know.  I have music that is significantly more confrontational than this, Jack.  Why don’t I put my fucking music on?  The demur Asian lady, who is here every morning has just arrived.  You can’t be enjoying this.  Right?  Let’s form a cabal darling, and shut this guy down. 

Eventually I notice the absence of thuds. Someone’s turned it off.

Thursday 5/03/18