Hunting Bigfoot
Riding on the coattails of Amaris’ recent post, I took the eavesdropping process to stalkerish levels last night, and wound up getting six pages, which, with a little research, can probably be weaved into an essay.
I was at the Globe Bar and Grill after class, having a gin and tonic and catching up on pleasure reading, when I heard three men, yelling vulgarities in the emphatic way of one who wants to attract the attention of an outside party – in their case, a blond girl playing Photo Hunt by herself on one of those touch screen video game machines often found in bars like the Globe. I couldn’t make out what they were talking about, as they were on the other side of a bar, so I walked by to get a better listen, deciding instead to step outside and “check my voicemail” to
look inconspicuous. A large, sun-burnt man standing outside, who I would later find out was part of the noisy entourage, asked me how I was doing, and began telling me about the demolition derby car he and his buds had been working on all evening. His buds then staggered out, lanky and cackling like cartoon jaguars, going over their plans to seduce the young woman playing Photo Hunt. It was a thoroughly disgusting scheme the three had under development, the details of which I won’t get into here, but once the chortles and jostling subsided, they all began telling me about their “demo” car, showing me pictures on their cellphones, explaining their plans to glue teeth to the grill and a fin to the roof and call it “Sharkcar.” As they indulged me with their plans to win the audience participation contest of the upcoming demolition derby, in which some machine gauges audience fanfare, I began to wonder why these men were spending so much time adorning an old car in flair, when it’s clearly destined for the jaws of Truckasaurus Rex, or beneath the tires of whatever the contemporary “Bigfoot” monster truck goes by. Then again, why do we dress pinatas, only to whack them and eat their sweet entrails? Or embalm the dead before stuffing them in 10k coffins? I knew I had an essay.
As I wrote back at the bar, I kept my eyes on the group on the other end of the bar, following them outside, pretending to talk on the phone, listening in for details. At that point, their conversation didn’t lend itself to what I’d already written on the page, and they started shooting me weird looks, so I knew it was time to go; one can only stalkdrop for so long.
So I suppose I was lucky – eavesdropping got me into the fray, as it were, and I wound up with some ideas and ingredients with which to work. But when is it okay, when eavesdropping, to step in and say, “Excuse me, I couldn’t help but over hear your conversation, and…?” How about you? What are some works of prose or poetry you’ve birthed from eavesdropping and, if you’re lucky, immersion in the conversation?
The cell phone is the perfect prop for eavesdropping, it sounds like.
About the idea of acknowledging that you’re eavesdropping–that is just so postmodern, perhaps too much so for my traditional taste.
I only eavesdrop for entertainment. I do it instead of watching TV.
Enjoy Spokane while you are there. It is so endearingly strange. I saw bounty hunters arrest a guy by the Elk and I saw a car chase up by the Garland.
I can’t wait to see your essay.