What is "Eavesdropper" about?

As an aspiring writer of fiction I make up life, but often I encounter conversation, overhear witty remarks, or read something in the margins of a library book or on the bathroom stall that is funnier, more moving, or simply more clever than anything I could make up. In truth, most of writing is absorbing the world around you and constructing it in a meaningful way so it befits the writer in even the most ordinary circumstances (like airports) to take notes. An important skill for a writer to have is eavesdropping or a habit of collecting scraps of overheard conversation, phrases, or written words from everyday life.

Fortunately the fine art of eavesdropping has become remarkably easy with the invention of the cell phone and the blurred line between public and private. This blog is dedicated to my collection of loose threads or little bits of conversation and life that for now have no home in a story or as a line of dialogue but are too good to keep to myself. Maybe someday a character of mine will have occasion to write, “This time I really do love him” on page 37 of Bee Season, but for now it’s here for you and perhaps you will be inspired to also start listening and looking, collecting words like pennies and saving for a rainy day.

Constuction-ese

Where I was: In the airport on the way from Denver, Colorado to St. Louis, Missouri. As a student who goes to school out of state and doesn’t have a car, I spend a lot of time of airports considering I’m not a jetsetter by anyone’s standards and I don’t “travel for my work.” Still, many of my favorite overheard bits of conversation are heard in airports so at least something is gained from waiting in a line for 45 minutes just to hear your plane never arrived and won’t until tomorrow. Perhaps people are more open in airports because there is the fact that you will never see these people again. Worse case scenario, the person who heard you admit on the phone to your sister that you “only slept with him twice” (really did hear that) will be your seat neighbor on the 14 hour flight to Frankfurt, but most likely by the next day that person who overheard your not so secretly conveyed secret will be off in some bar drinking beer and eating pretzels other and not even remember your name. So this time I was waiting at the gate with my $7 coffee and egg salad sandwich when this round little man caught my attention. I say round because overweight wouldn’t be fair or correct. Little because when I stood up he looked about 5’2 (I’m about 5’9). He wore a bright blue plaid button up that was literally buttoned up all the way and wore the thickest, thick framed glasses. Now I don’t say this to be disrespectful, but the man came off a bit nerdy- perhaps it was the comb over or the nasal voice, but he was the sort of person that a people watcher waits all day for. A readymade character who just begs for some weird story involving Russian supermodels and a shady exchange of briefcases to be written about him, so I couldn’t help but eavesdrop just a little.

What I heard:
Man: (looking very serious) “Really Joe, I can do it. I can go talk to them tomorrow.”
Other person: (because they were on the phone and I’m assuming calling from a secret location somewhere in Asia, I cannot tell you what they said)
Man: “Joe, trust me. I’ll go over to the site tomorrow.”
Other person: (This would be where “Joe” would give comb over man 48 hours to get him the money)
Man: “Really, I can talk to the construction workers. I speak construction-ese.”

Asiago Cheese

Where I was: On a plane flying from Detroit to Rhode Island. The woman in front of me filled most of your standard East Coast stereotypes. She was animated, loud, unintentionally brash, and dropping her “r” like they weren’t even part of the English language. Now let me clarify that my mother is originally from Massachusetts and I was on the way to visit my aunt who is also very New England, so I have a special place in my heart for those dropped r’s and voice that fills a large plane with comments that may or may not be politically correct. Honestly, if I had the accent, I would likely be considered the stereotypical East Coaster except that I grew up in Colorado so my “neutral” speech is slower to attract the attention of conversation collectors like myself. Anyway, the woman, like much of the East Coast including my mother, was at least part Italian and by default passionate about cheese. It is both a blessing and a curse to have an Italian palette. While you, the Italian American who was force fed tripe when you were a child and thought 2 gallons of olive oil “just incase” was natural for every family, you still inherited a passion for food. While this is a good thing if you have your own cooking show or surround yourself with people who are equally appalled that olive oil wasn’t virgin, it can also be a bit overwhelming to the world around you, including strangers on a plane who do not share your passion.

What I heard:
Woman: “Would you like to try it?”
Man: “Well, what is it. I’m picky about cheese.”
Woman: “Don’t worry then. It’s Asiago.”
Man: “Hmm?”
Woman: (getting very loud) “You haven’t eaten Asiago cheese?”
Man: “No. Is it any good?”
Woman: “Any good? It’s amazing!”
Man: “What does it taste like?”
Woman: “Well, you know parmesan… wait. You don’t like parmesan?” (nearly announcing it to the plane/ to herself out of disbelief) “He doesn’t like parmesan!” (to the man again) “You obviously aren’t Italian.”
Man: (gives a small laugh- probably afraid to be in such close proximity to this woman with no viable escape).
Woman: “But I still can’t believe you don’t like parmesan. You must be Irish.”