The Teller Line

I stood in a teller line, two customers ahead of me. Just standing, waiting for my turn. There’s just the line, the tellers, the waiting, the usual. Then I closed my eyes to listen: Noises, that before, with my eyes open, had remained background, content perhaps to serve as canvas, now crowded in and demanded, one by one, a hearing.

            The fluorescent lights hummed and buzzed like bees, and for a moment it was all I could hear, falling on me from the ceiling, audible rain.

            Someone’s brought a dog. A quick bark and a hushing by owner. I hear its feet, four to our two, moving about, sorry to have barked.

            Conversations, several: each exchange to itself the only one but to me a member of a choir. Words spoken and heard and answered each in its own universe, each word spoken and understood in its own world, to me a din of voices.

            Then I hear music, a whispering through this susurrus, part of the canvas and content to remain there, I think. But music nonetheless from many softly hidden speakers, I don’t recognize the melody, but it is bland.

            A door opens then closes with the squeak of a hinge, with a snap of a lock, with the sigh of air. Someone entered, you can tell even with your eyes closed, that there is now an additional body in this space. There’s less room in here. Not much less, but less enough to tell.

            A foot moves. Then another. Feet shuffle. Stances shift. There’s a cough. And another, almost like an echo. They seem to come in flocks, coughs do.

            Another conversation flares out of the canvas, just behind me, the one has words like boulders, the other has words like swallows, boulders, swallows, boulders, swallows, a dance that goes rumble, swish, rumble, swish, rumble, swish, and I hear sounds but not meanings.

            The music is still there, then it is silent for a breath or so, soon to speak another song, and yes, here it comes, this melody I recognize and I wonder, a little shocked: when on Earth did Bob Dylan sell out to Muzak?

            Then a buzzer again, and again, telling me my teller is now available to see me. Someone prods my back, none too kindly, so I open my eyes and move to the open window.

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Copyright © 2007 by Wolfstuff

Thoughts? I'd like to hear them.
Ulf Wolf 

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