Silence Isn’t Golden, It’s Downright Awkward
The Tremeloes – the musical group, not a 1970s-era soda that left you wondering what the heck the recipe concocteurs over at Pepsi-Co had been up to – released the world-renowned ‘Silence Is Golden’ in 1967. I can almost hear its melodious reverberations pulsing through my jukebox brain right now. But alas, dear readers, I have some bad news.
Silence is truly not golden unless your significant other is challenged in the brevity vs. verbosity arena. To the rest of us, silence is awkward. Don’t tell the surviving members of the Tremeloes, though. We don’t want to risk vocal herniation by sending them back into the studio for a do over.
But back to silence being awkward. Anyone who has ridden an elevator with strangers knows that I’m writing the gospel truth here. There isn’t a quieter place on planet Earth than the 35 square-feet of elevator space otherwise known as hell on earth.
You Go First
Elevator silence is particularly awkward because of the close quarters. Everyone forced into the tiny, crowded, vertically-driven closet by the need to get somewhere is so close in proximity to the others that an exchange of breath is quite possible under the right conditions. But even if it’s just two people in the box, it’s one person too many.
I often feel like I need to say something just to let the other person or persons know I’m not some sort of lunatic who thinks the closet on ropes is taking us to the mothership. The problem for me is that I don’t want to go first. If someone else will just break the ice, I can open the verbal faucet and let it start to flow.
My fears of going first are not unwarranted, by the way. I’ve been scarred for life by a middle aged lady whose acquaintance I once made on an elevator, a very slow elevator I might add, traveling 30 floors into the hazy atmosphere of lovely downtown Rochester, NY (motto: Home to the world’s most delightful chemically induced grayness).
At any rate, I made the mistake of saying, “good morning” as I boarded the roof bound closet on ropes. No sooner had the doors shut behind us, making us prisoners in a tiny shoebox-sized car with just enough fresh air to be overpowered by my new roomie’s perfume, said roomie launched into a stream – no, it was more like a flood – of verbal fluidity that would have made any filibustering Senator green with envy.
I Just Want to Survive
On a normal day, getting from ground level to the 30th floor would have been about a five minute experience, give or take three hours depending on how many stops we made along the way. But on this day, it was just the two of us heading to 30. If I didn’t know better, I would swear the journey took us the better part of Tuesday.
My new friend started in and there was no stopping her. She told me about her job, her kids, the lady in the cubicle next to her, the fungus on her Aunt Ethel’s left big toe, and on and on. As I struggled to breathe deeply and maintain some semblance of polite decorum, I uttered a prayer I don’t think ever came out of my mouth prior to this moment in time.
“Dear Lord,” I began, “have mercy on me. I just want to survive; I just want to make it home to my own wife and kids.”
The fear was real, my friends. Worst of all, I didn’t even work in that building. I was only going to 30 to drop off a box of coffee and a couple of bottles of water. I remember thinking to myself that I should never have said anything. After all, I wasn’t looking for a relationship or the opportunity to be a pop-up psychotherapist.
Awkward Silence Is Everywhere
To make a long story short, I survived – just barely. I also learned a valuable lesson: awkward silence is everywhere. It’s in the waiting room at the doctor’s office. You’ll find it in the grocery store checkout line, the oil change place, the barber/beauty salon, and your local blood collection lab.
The one place you won’t find that golden silence is in the neighboring stall at the public restroom in Magic Kingdom; a stall occupied by a shameless individual having a phone conversation with an ostensibly beloved friend or acquaintance who has no idea he, she, or it is talking to a person sitting on the can.
But even hearing that is awkward. Right?
