Sometimes, one just overhears although one doesn't mean to. This is, partly, because people nearby speak with abandon, gifting words to the wind that scatters it to all four corners. Also, in part, because it would look distinctly odd, attention-getting, to be seated on a bench nearby, hands clamped over the ears in a 'hear no evil posture', in a vigorous attempt to shut out intrusive dialogue.
Ears will hear. And people will converse. The listener has options, of course. He can ask the pair of 'loudspeakers' to pipe down, which is least recommended in an age when 'freedom of speech' is about the second most bandied about phrase after 'Sue you, mister'. Also, the numbers just don't add up - two to one. Historically, one has always come away worse for wear when taking on two.
The easier option, the path of least resistance, would be to walk away completely out of earshot. Easier said than done, especially if one has the faintest whiff of journalism dribbling in one's blood. 'Stay safely out of earshot' is not to be found in any codebook or rulebook on journalistic principles. 'There's a story in every word spoken,' said somebody, probably a reporter. And a reporter's skill is to sift through the words to find the story. So one sits but feigns indifference - at least temporarily.
Project
The body can be trained to project an attitude of disinterest. Lean away from the speakers. Look anywhere else but at them. Bury one's nose in a novel. Or, like a private eye in those Len Deighton novels, crack the newspaper open but keep the ears cocked. Stay put. Listen. Even if, in this instance, the two men are seemingly speaking in a code of their own.
There's not one sentence, as far as one can tell, that isn't strewn liberally with the F word. Is this some ingenious smokescreen, one wonders, as the journalistic thought of a scoop stirs. Listen. Buried under that mountainous rubble of F-usage lies an everyday tale of domestic strife. Usually, stereotypically, it's the fairer sex that's bewailing the broken heart. This time, it's a man done in by - judging by his side of the story - his scheming woman.
The man's friend - the other one in this conversation - who bears the full brunt of the F tornado, blows back in equal measure although again one has to resort to filtration to arrive at the advice he is giving which is, in two words: Leave her. Goldfinger, he labels the absent woman, erroneously. Gold digger, says the aggrieved man, correcting him. Then he breaks down and weeps copiously and unashamedly. But what, one wonders, after the two men have boarded a bus and gone away, one of them sobbing - what compels an individual to play out a private occurrence in public?
An underlying need to be dramatic? Melodramatic? Or just plain blinding grief? Journalists don't judge - aren't supposed to. Their business is all about presenting the case as is. In this instance, this is only half a case. The supposedly unfaithful woman hasn't had her say, even if it was only to scream, 'No comment' with an expletive cemented between. Until then, however, this too will wind up a 'cold case'.
A reporter's life, they say, is full of such semi-finished scenarios. Because the news is everywhere and everything has the potential to make news, some stories never get told fully. But here's another 'overheard' one that somehow rounded itself off nicely.
A teenager and his father are sitting on a bench. Something that the boy says angers his dad who begins shouting. Quick as a wink, the boy raises his voice too. Suddenly, dad says, 'Listen, in an argument two people cannot shout.' 'I'm not the one started it,' says the son. 'I know,' says dad, 'I got in first. So you're going to have to be quiet. One shouter, we're doing okay. Two shouters, not on!'
Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.
