The People I’m Next To Are Whisper Yelling Very Effectively

I’m next to these people. I can’t see them, but I can hear them. Well sort of. As per usual, I am bending all of my will towards eavesdropping, but today even my tried and true ear drums are failing me somewhat. There are these perfectly frustrating walls between us, thin enough to permit some muffled sound, but not clear words, and of course, you know, still walls so I can’t see through.
There are maybe 3 voices I can hear, and while I can’t hear words, I can understand their tone. I also understand that I they know they can be overheard through the walls; nonetheless they are angry volcano people, erupting in a gentle tirade. Not gentle in feeling, just in volume. They reverberate softly with wrath. Their whispered indignation flooding the space in muted unclear mumbles, expressing their aggression, but respectfully quiet enough to hide the specifics of words. There is this inverse relationship between how mad a subject makes them and how loud they permit themselves to be. At the calm times I can hear a gloriously clear phrase, ‘…this is enough…’,‘… the last time…’,‘WHY?!’ But when their voices drop to barely audible sibilant hisses I know their mood has peaked. There is such wonderful verbal venom pouring out of these people, but it is sadly indecipherable. They know these are the socially perilous times, they must be quiet, they must hide the true hate in their hearts. Its only polite. These valleys of low noise are often followed by the sounds of swift decisive movement. Perhaps an arm gestured dramatically, or a coffee mug abruptly slammed. Well, slammed lightly.
I feel a weird animal fear, a genetic impulse warning of danger. This must have been what it was like before words. It’s like hearing the warning growl of a dangerously pissed off group of hominids. What if I round the corner and find a bunch of furry ape people wielding lithic weapons, gesticulating wildly over the corpse of some half gutted giant elk. I can picture beady eyes hidden under heavy brows squinting, hairy knuckles tightening on sharpened jags of flint, the smells of the elk’s steaming offal mixing with the Maxwell House Dark Roast coffee scent coming from the previously slammed down mug. I have made my decision; I’m siding with the homo habilis. Not out of fear, but simply because I like their style; angry, disdainful, politely passive.
Well, a little out of fear, I don’t want to wind up like that elk.

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