The Whistler

I believe it was Rooster Cogburn who said, “DAMN a man that whistles.”

I am already late for work and I am patiently waiting for the elevator in the building where I work. So are ten other people. Finally, out of the four elevators available, the door to one finally opens and all ten of us scramble to get on. Just before the doors close, this happy go-lucky gentleman gets on, whistling a peppy show tune. I think it’s “Luck Be a Lady” from Guys and Dolls.

I work on the 8th floor. People are getting off on every floor. This is going to be a long elevator ride and this guy is intent on serenading all of us with his whistling prowess.

As I get off, he’s still warbling and doing tremolos and showing off his two-and-a-half octave range. Yes, he is quite a whistler. As I exit on the 8th floor, he is still whistling a happy tune.

My fantasy is that as the doors close, some warning klaxon goes off and the whistler plummets eight stories to his death in a pile of heated, twisted metal.

Now, I know that sounds a tad harsh. But, if the whistler were to somehow survive his death plunge, he would have to answer me this: If whistling is so great and so wonderful, and if everybody loved it so much, why aren’t there any whistling concerts?

I rest my case — and rest in peace, oh great whistler.

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