Deep in the heart of every writer lurks a voyeur. We are masters of schizophrenic listening.
A good writer can participate in a lunch-time conversation while tuning into diners at the next table. He (or she) is an observer of human nature, body language and, most importantly, subtle inflections, the nuances of speech. There is an invisible recorder in the brain, storing away accents and tones.
As a very young child, I was fascinated by the conversations of adults. In those days, my mother, like most, did not work outside of the home. Instead, she spent copious hours drinking coffee and gossiping with ladies in the neighborhood.
My ploy for eavesdropping was to pretend to nap on the sofa, facing the back cushions, but listening to every conversation. I heard the things that adults thought I should not know. This is where I learned of horrible cruelties that were done to my parents’ friends who had escaped the German concentration camps. I heard the story of a beautiful student of my father’s who had been murdered, and was later discovered to be pregnant. I knew which priest was having an affair, even though it was considered a sin to speak of such things.
But, more than anything else, I developed a sort of radar about reading voices, not by what was said, but in the way a phrase was shaded, no matter how delicately. This ability served me well many years later when I made my living as a psychic in New Orleans, and more recently, as a Southern writer.
This week, I am re-living that feeling from childhood of listening to conversations not meant for me. This time those conversations are the disembodied voices coming from a borrowed radio scanner. I am tuned into the calls dispatched from 911 operators.
At first, they were not easy to understand. The static and coded messages made listening a bit of a challenge. But, like anything else, the broadcasts eventually get more decipherable. I am even beginning to recognize the voices of different dispatchers. All are strictly business. No sign of panic, even in a tense situation. I particularly like one very young-sounding girl who has a charming, soothing voice. Everything sounds nicer when said with a sweet Southern accent.
It is amazing, and certainly comforting, to hear first responders reporting a patient’s blood pressure, pulse, and other vital information before they even arrive at the hospital. The fire department goes to the scene of every fire alarm that goes off. Police are summoned for things such as someone with chest pain, or a sick cat, or weird smells coming from a vacant house. One local business routinely calls for a police escort to the bank. Would that happen in another city? Probably not. I expect that in most places the service of a private guard is something merchants pay for.
Thankfully, most of the time, these result in nothing more than false alarms. Within a minute or two the officer calls the operator to say he is back in service.
I hear an attitude of camaraderie between the men. Sometimes a dispatcher sends a certain car (identified by their number) to investigate a situation. Often, another will answer, saying they are near and will take the call.
Listening to this radio has given me real confidence in our police, firemen and ambulance personnel. I feel sure that if needed they would come to my aid quickly and professionally. That is a good thing to know.
Keep up the good work, men and women; I’m listening.
Adele Elliott, a New Orleans native, moved to Columbus after Hurricane Katrina. Email reaches her at [email protected].
Adele Elliott, a New Orleans native, moved to Columbus after Hurricane Katrina.
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