August 16, 8:22 a.m.
Gilbert: Thanks, I bought it a couple of years ago when you first sent a note [See! I have been working at this for two YEARS now. The world simply doesn’t care about people who have this affliction.] While our house was under construction, we slept in a bedroom right next to Rocky, and I got to hear him. Anita charged the collar last night and hopefully put it back on him this morning. I’ll be home Wednesday to double check that it is set correctly. [Gee Gil, we are not performing heart surgery here.] Thanks for your cooperation.
September 6, 7:08 a.m.
Me: Unfortunately the dog collar doesn’t appear to be working at all this morning. [Nor are my efforts to control my twitching.]
September 6, 9:51 a.m.
Gilbert: Hey, just seeing this message. I have been downstairs all morning, and I haven’t heard him bark at all. [I can recommend a good ENT doctor for you.] Collar is charging now for good measure. [Do you think that might be why Rocky is barking?] Are you sure it is our dog that is barking? [Are you kidding me?] Sorry for the trouble.
September 6, 11:04 a.m.
Me: Everything is fine now. Thanks. The barking took place continuously between 6:00 a.m. and 7:30 a.m. I am quite sure it was your dog.
September 17, 7:38 a.m.
Me: Bad morning. I don’t send you a message like this until the continuous barking exceeds thirty minutes. [Twitch, twitch]
September 17, 8:05 a.m.
Gilbert: I am not in town. The power company is working on the pole in front of the house directly in Rocky’s line of sight. He is barking at the guys hanging out and “working.” [Gil, if you are out of town and you know all of this, then obviously someone is home. Are they semiconscious? Can’t they hear the incessant barking?]
September 17, 9:22 a.m.
Me: I guess the collar doesn’t work in these situations. [Especially if the people who are home don’t bother charging it and putting it on Rocky.]
September 17, 9:34 a.m.
Gilbert: The collar is a deterrent. It is not designed to prevent all barking. [No, that would require a minimum amount of consideration on the part of your wife and children.] Rocky is protecting his space and family. His barking deters people from coming onto the property. [While driving the neighborhood mad.] The house directly across the street from us is not inhabited and cars/trucks frequently congregate there. I will ask security to watch the space and keep it cleared. [Please don’t do that; then Rocky will bark at the security people.] Rocky can see and hear these people as well as the people who exercise and walk their dogs in the morning.
September 18, 7:45 a.m.
Me: I understand that and appreciate your concern and help. However, there are lots of dogs in the neighborhood, and there are lots of people working and exercising. With respect, your dog seems to be the only one that responds to this by barking continuously for sometimes as long as an hour and a half. Invariably this occurs between 6 and 8 a.m.
October 3, 7:24 a.m.
Gilbert: FYI, I just thought I would let you know that we are working on finding a new home for Rocky. [I immediately placed “Looking for Labrador” ads online and in all the local newspapers.]
October 8, 8:20 a.m.
Gilbert: FYI, we have found Rocky a new home. From Sunday onward, the neighborhood should be quiet. I am in Tennessee right now. [I hope Gilbert and Anita don’t recognize me when they deliver Rocky to his new home.]
It may have taken two years, but the neighborhood is now a hospitable place for misophoniacs.
• • •
TAKE A HIKE
Six of us who had worked together ten years before in London, reunited at the home of our hostess, Diane, for a week’s vacation on the beautiful island of Puerto Rico. A hike in El Yunque Rainforest was the activity for this day. After Diane served an ample tropical breakfast, the group bundled into a mini-van for a two-hour car ride to the rainforest. Upon reaching our destination, stomachs still slightly swollen from breakfast and restless from the long car ride, we bounded out of the vehicle with energy and enthusiasm to spare. Assembled at the base of the El Yunque trail, we prepared, with more activity than purpose, for a climb to the peak. But disappointment surfaced after opening the back of the car and discovering nearly everyone had left something at home: Ellen, her walking sticks, Diane, her rain jacket, and Peter, his sense of balance.
How could this be?
There was no mistaking the growing redness, part anger and part embarrassment, on the neck of Ellen, a veteran of hundreds of hikes who sheepishly admitted that she wasn’t fully prepared. She paced, muttered, flailed, and the redness entered her facial area. She struggled for any explanation and then blamed her oversight, along with yesterday’s inclement weather, on the recent election of President Trump.
Ellen, who always moves with speed and purpose, even when going nowhere, left no room for ambiguity about her political views, and regularly went to bed each night wearing the pink pussy hat she received at the Women’s March on Washington.
Diane, a native Puerto Rican, had climbed El Yunque a dozen times before and was unlikely to have missed the none-too-subtle significance of the word rain in rainforest. More likely, she was overly preoccupied trying to figure out how to compress twenty-five hours of activity into a twenty-four-hour day for her guests for the remainder of the vacation. And if she managed to do that, she would get started working on squeezing in twenty-six.
Peter would explain his carelessness later. In contrast to Ellen—his wife of more than forty years—Peter is preternaturally calm, compelling his friends to check him periodically for a pulse, and while in the vicinity, a spine. The marriage has been a happy one, a salient feature being Peter’s use of the phrase “Yes, dear,” which he wields with uncommon dexterity and frequency. Just don’t underestimate him. At first glance, one notices his embonpoint, and watching him trudge up a steep gravelly trail trying, always unsuccessfully, to catch up to his wife, makes one conclude that he would be more at ease in a Barcalounger than on a footpath. But he eventually finishes, as he almost always does, except for today.
By now the sky was changing fast, as it often does in a rainforest. The day’s sunlight, which rarely reaches the forest floor, yielded to darkening clouds riding a wind that stayed above the tops of the densely packed trees, as close to each other as the planks of a picket fence. The moist air, which moments ago caressed our skin with warmth, now brought on goosebumps.
A light rain fell, much cooler than one would expect in the tropics, forcing us to don our rain jackets–except for Diane, of course, who having left hers at home, did jumping jacks to compensate.
After a quick stop at the restrooms, we began the hike, single-file along the narrow path. The trail was steep at the beginning, winding through vegetation so dense it acted like an opaque curtain denying us a scenic view of the lower elevation. Ten minutes had passed when we gathered to admire a small, but fast running, waterfall and stream. We needed this break to catch our breath and to drink some water. I handed out the water bottles from my backpack, and being nearest to Pippa, struck up a light conversation.
Pippa is an anomaly, being both warm and British, all at once. She is regal, but not haughty, and stands several inches taller than most people, which forces her to gracefully bend down to greet friends with a kiss, much the same way as the Queen gently tilts to greet her kneeling subjects.
No one has ever asked her to repeat herself. Her perfect enunciation makes that unnecessary. Somehow, our conversation turned to the political status of Puerto Rico. When I pointed out that the island was a Commonwealth of the United States, Pippa became animated, wanting to know more. As I explained further, she grew wistful, no doubt recalling past glories of the British Empire. But within minutes, she was hopping mad recalling how George III and his generals had squandered an overwhelming military advantage and lost the American colonies a few short centuries ago.
Rounding out the group was Robin, laid back and California cool, wh
o is a huge asset for a taciturn person to have when forced to attend a dinner party. But on this day, Robin’s loquaciousness and kick-back, West Coast manner had vanished, and she was spectral. It may have had something to do with receiving last rites from King Neptune, while clinging with one hand, one thousand yards from shore, to the last remaining rock in the area—all the other rocks, in fact, the entire coral system having being swept away by the current—and trying, with the other hand, to grasp Diane who had persuaded Robin to go snorkeling in the first place.
We resumed the hike, the path widening to allow walking two abreast. Diane and Ellen, deep in chatter about steps taken, calories burned, and pulse rates, set the pace for the group, unmindful of the rest of us and oblivious to the unique sights and sounds of this enchanting rainforest. Peter brought up the rear struggling to remain within binocular distance.
The soothing sound of a babbling brook and waterfall up ahead beckoned; the bridge over it would be our second rest and water stop. I handed out water bottles to everyone and took a long gulp from mine. Before I could finish, I heard a shriek from Pippa, and then a series of thuds and a splash. Pippa had dropped her plastic water bottle, which settled snugly between two rocks, twenty yards downstream from the bridge we were standing on.
In seconds, Peter snatched a rope from his backpack, tied one end to the bridge railing, the other around his waist, and rappelled down the stream, bounding off each moss-laden rock with such a light touch that he never slipped or lost his balance. He scooped up the water bottle, and with equal nimbleness, skipped his way upstream, hurdled the bridge railing, and landed to a hero’s welcome, wayward bottle in hand. That, of course, didn’t happen; just a bit of daydreaming on my part brought on by the high humidity and a spell of dizziness.
No, there the plastic bottle sat, unmoving, out of reach, the only bit of refuse in the entire rainforest, glistening in the sunlight to remind us of our dereliction. And it would be there later that afternoon for viewing upon our descent, and perhaps another 4,352 years after that until it biodegrades.
We had a lot more climbing to do. Ellen and Diane again led, jabbering away as before, this time with Ellen practicing her language skills, grappling with the difference between the Spanish words for cramp and pumpkin (calambre vs. calabaza). Ellen was proud of the progress she was making and the level she had reached–after all, Diane had complimented her on it. I wasn’t about to tell Ellen that Diane praises nearly every visitor she receives from the United States to make them feel at home in Puerto Rico.
We were nearing the summit, where a spectacular panorama awaited us if we could get there before some threatening clouds rolled in. Unable to keep up with Ellen and Diane’s relentless pace, Peter now trailed the rest of the group by a full zip code. Just a few hundred yards from the peak, we found some flat rocks, sat down on them, and waited for Peter.
While waiting, we pondered that time-worn riddle: If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there, does it make a sound? Unbeknownst to us, Peter was testing this mystery at that very moment, tripping over an unseen rock, using his face to break the fall, and with a mouthful of dirt and leaves, calling out feebly, “Help.” Because none of us heard it, we concluded that no sound had been made.
Peter limped his way up toward the summit. Fortunately, though bloodied and bruised, his condition was not serious, and at the summit, we discovered a small shed with an employee from the local electric company inside, and a car outside. I offered to pay the fellow to drive Peter down. When Ellen heard that I had paid him $40 for the service, she blurted out “I would never have paid him $40 for that!” which did little to speed up Peter’s recovery from his physical injuries.
Eventually, but reluctantly, Ellen reimbursed me for the $40.
• • •
SPEECHLESS AND UNBOWED
How could I say no to such a simple request by my niece for her wedding day?
The prospect of doing anything before an audience or in front of a group of people any greater than two unnerves me. Extemporaneous speeches are out of the question. The last time I was asked to do one, my pulse and blood pressure spiked in response to the terror engendered by the request. All my saliva vanished, leaving my tongue fastened to the roof of my mouth. With great effort and an audible clicking sound, I dislodged it, but only temporarily, as my tongue quickly returned to this unnatural resting place. If I had any chance at uttering a word, I would first have to coerce my tongue back to where it belonged. I tried again and again. Same result, same audible click. Instead of giving a heartfelt speech, I was standing before the crowd clucking like a chicken. I couldn’t excuse myself because I couldn’t say anything. So, I turned and walked out of the room, speechless, but still clucking.
More recently, a financial trade association pleaded with me to give a prepared speech. I insisted on at least one-month notice so I would have plenty of time to keep my mouth moistened. They agreed. Thirty days of near-sleepless nights preceded the big day. Already nervous, I consumed four cups of double espresso to remain awake and turned a mild tremble into spasmodic convulsions. My trousers had trouble remaining on my hips, falling nearly to my ankles before I noticed.
I had read that deep breathing helped calm the nerves before public speaking. I figured that if some deep breathing is good, more would be better. While waiting for the audience to settle and find their seats, I stood at the podium breathing deeply, slowly at first, then more briskly. But I seemed to be getting more nervous rather than less.
So, I sped up my rate of breathing until I noticed that a hummingbird flapping its wings outside a nearby window was having trouble keeping pace. I was taking enormous amounts of oxygen out of the room. The breathing did nothing to help my anxiety, but I did notice several people in the front row pass out from carbon dioxide poisoning. And the plants in the back of the room, which were waist-high when I arrived, were now scratching the ceiling, unable to control their photosynthesis process in the CO2-rich auditorium.
Still shaking, I now had one hand on my trousers so they wouldn’t fall. The other hand was on the podium so I wouldn’t fall. I looked over the handwritten speech lying on the podium shelf and found parts of the document were illegible from smudge marks caused by a persistent drip of abnormally large drops of liquid. Strange, this was a brand-new auditorium. I glanced upward searching for a possible leak in the ceiling but found none. But I did find the source of the leak, my forehead.
I didn’t want people to see me sweating or to know I was nervous. I wanted to wipe my brow as inconspicuously as possible. For this, I needed a free hand. So, I lifted my left leg until my knee was about belt high, and placed it firmly against the podium. This kept my pants up, freed my left hand, and gave me a chance to wipe my brow quickly and furtively. It seemed to work. No one noticed, although they couldn’t help seeing the twin, eight-inch-wide arcs of sweat under each arm of the light-blue suit jacket I was wearing.
The crowd eventually settled. It was time to begin my speech. I finished my last bit of deep breathing, noticed some folks in the second and third rows lose consciousness, and wished I had brought a beach towel to the podium to wipe my brow. I noted the opening words of my speech—Good Morning—but was unable to say them because my tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth.
Which brings me to my dear niece. Her marriage was to take place as part of a traditional Catholic Mass. All I have to do is to carry, at the appointed time, a saucer full of Communion hosts from the back of the Church to the priest who will be waiting at the altar in the front. I don’t have to say anything. My tongue can happily remain affixed to the roof of my mouth without consequence. Yet, I was terrified. My niece assured me that it was nothing. Just remember to bow after I hand the saucer to the priest.
But what kind of bow? Should it be the Eshaku, the polite bow, or the Dogeza, the begging for your life bow, or one of the four bows between? What If I do the Eshaku, and the priest does the Dogeza? With 250 people in the pews watching? The embarrassm
ent might demand that one of us perform Seppuku. And I hadn’t yet paid the latest installment on my life insurance policy.
The wedding was forty days away, so I had plenty of time to practice the six standard bows. I did several thousand each night at home, and during the day, found myself bowing to the butcher and the barista behind the Starbuck’s counter. With just two weeks to go, I did an all-nighter (of practice) at home. I pulled something in my back and after that, walked everywhere at a 45-degree angle.
I rented a tuxedo for the occasion and tried everything on but the shoes. Big mistake. Oh, they fit just fine, but I couldn’t take a step without stopping short each time, nearly greeting the floor with my teeth. The soles stuck to everything. They seemed to be made of an advanced composite material from NASA’s laboratories designed to prevent future astronauts from slipping on the Martian ice.
Wedding day arrived. I sat in a church pew, my eyebrows twitching and my knees bouncing. No one noticed the eye twitch but everyone in my row, growing queasy from the vibrating bench, sat forward and glared across at me, demanding with their eyes that I put my knees to rest. I didn’t notice. But because I had my kneeler down and my quivering feet on it, everyone in the row in front of me was becoming dyspeptic. They looked backward, scowling. These people I noticed.
A few minutes before I was to carry the hosts, I rose and walked to the back of the church, much to relief of those sitting near me. There, I met the irritable middle-aged woman who was to give me instructions. She thrust the saucer into my hands, presumably miffed that I had not attended rehearsal. She said nothing. So reassuring, I thought.
Adding a Little Levity Page 8