Well,” said the curmudgeon as he established himself on the radiator to the left of the General Store’s front door, “I’m here to tell you that I am sick of NOISE!”
“What,” shouted the Breadman as he began to stack the week-old pies in a separate pile from the new as though they were to be eschewed, “what did you say?”
With that Storekeep dropped five six-inch carriage bolts on the top of an empty oil drum, slipped on the seventh, and crashed with deliberate speed into a pile of stovepipe in the far corner. He just moaned.
“Noise,” repeated the Curmudgeon, “just plain noise . . . there’s far too much of it.”
As though on cue, three motorcyclists stopped at the four corners outside the store, chatted for a moment, then lined themselves up with the largest cycle in front, followed by the smaller, then proceeded to zoom away with the whine and the roar of three giant bazookas. But their loathsome putt-putts were nothing to the cacophony of a big black helicopter that passed low over the store apparently looking for James Bond or the nearest office of the Agenda 21 Agency.
“It’s as though,” said the Curmudgeon, “civilization measured its ability by the amount of pure racket it can produce. We are assaulted by noise morning, noon, and night—”
He was stopped in mid-voice by the raspberry of “Eeeerk . . . fazzzz . . . urk!” put forth by the CB monitor originally set to warn area residents of weather reports from the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) Weather but unfortunately often interrupted a nearby magneto of unknown design that nobody could find.
Storekeep turned down the volume but before he could complete the task, the old-fashioned radio (turned on back in 1967) blared out a soda commercial—the set was always on whether there was anyone listening or not—and because the station manager thought its listeners were lulled to sleep by the slipped-disco music it continued to play, he automatically upped the volume of all commercials except those devoted to public service.
Out of deference to all those in the store, Breadman stopped sorting Moon Pies, went over to the radio, and turned the volume down but it was a useless gesture because, again on cue, three very large semi’s rolled by and tooted their horns at once to let everybody know that they were there and not to forget them. With a blurp of diesel they drove west into the sunset only to be heard in the distance at the next four corners.
Over at the ball field across from the store, Cousin Victor began to mow the grass his mower whirring away at top decibel level.
“Oh, it’s not too bad,” yelled the Breadman, suddenly aware that he was shouting but for the first time in ten minutes the store was silent of noise.
Outside of collective breathing all that could be heard was the slight whistle of the wind through the screen door and the soft beating of a moth’s wing, the insect trapped between two lights of a half-open window.
“Reminds me of a city friend,” said the Curmudgeon, who came out from Asheville to my farm and thought something was wrong with his hearing ‘cause he heard the sounds of his own blood circulation for the first time in his life. Wanted to go to the doctor right away and it took three of us to calm him down and then—”
The Curmudgeon’s next few words were lost in the whine of a very low-flying jet that had strayed from its flight path and was looking for Atlanta.
“I’m beginning to see what you mean,” said the Breadman.
“It’s bothersome,” continued the Curmudgeon, “like an empty diet soda can that rolls down the aisle of a bus when driving up a steep hill, and rolls its way back up to the front when the bus goes down into the next valley; gratuitous noise left by a slob.”
“You could pick it up,” said Storekeep.
“Next time I might,” said the Curmudgeon.
