Richud!
This week I was looking through some old books and papers from a couple of years ago when I came across something that I thought I could perhaps pass off as an update.
Back when I worked at the airplane factory each day I had a gruelling one-hour transit ride to work in the morning and another one home at night. During that time I saw and smelled a great deal, enough to put me off public transit for a lifetime. To add to the general unpleasantness of being pressed up against strangers, the bus travelled up the bleakest, most depressing route ever to blot the landscape of this fair city.
As it wound its way up to my destination I heard many a private conversation, saw many a teen come close to losing her virginity, and endured many a urine-soaked vagrant sleeping beside me. Oh the stories I could tell. Say, here's one now!
One bright morning as we got closer and closer to the end of the line the bus naturally emptied out. There were only two or three other passengers and myself who were treated to one side of a delightful cellphone conversation that simply fascinated me. At first I was struck by the man's slight New York-ish accent. I immediately recorded it in my head to try and imitate it later when I was among my peers (it's a thing I do). My task was made more easy because he repeated the same words over and over which is always helpful when trying to imitate someone.
I unabashedly listened to his conversation as he was in no way trying to keep his voice down. In fact, it seemed as though he wanted everyone to hear. As the conversation progressed it became more and more absurd and I quickly began to commit it to memory so that I could relate it to my pub friends later that night. As soon as I got off the bus I wrote it down so that I wouldn't forget any little absurdity.
My performance of the conversation was a big hit with the pub friends. It may have been because hearing the accent as I heard it greatly added to the story, or it may have been the fact that they were ingesting alcohol as they listened. I will do what I can to best convey the accent in text form, and if you'd be so kind as to get as drunk as possible before you read it we should be all set (that's good advice for all my entries, actually).
To get this slightly rumpled 40-something man's accent think Mike Meyer's Cawfee Tawlk only take it down about 30 notches. It sounds as if this person has been away from New York for quite a while and only a few accented words slip out. He says the name Richard about 80 times but it is pronounced Richud. (It might help for you to say that out loud a few times just to get the feel for it. Pretend that you are agitated about something and the word Richud embodies all of that agitation. Good.)
Our friend speaks first quickly and then slows down to punctuate words like socks (sawks). He speaks as one who is in inconsequential authority, but he is constantly defending that authority. His speech pattern is reminiscent of an overly self-important fast food employee who, temporarily put in charge of the fry station, petulantly explains why the last two batches of curly fries were undercooked (not his fault, obviously).
Hmm... I believe that has set the stage accurately. And so, without further delay, I give you... Richud.
[bus sounds throughout]
Richud, listen to me Richud... Richud. No! NO DEAL! Oh, you know what you can do with your... Richud!
No. Listen Richud. Richud, this is what I want you to do: I want you to pick up your sawks and clean up your room. That would make me feel better Richud.
Richud. Listen to me Richud. No! He wasn't behind me Richud. No. Look Richud, this is what I did. He was behind me in the pahrking garage, but he doesn't know it as well as I do Richud. What happened was I took the lawng way around and he took the short way and he got stuck behind other cawrs Richud.
HE WAS FLASHING HIS LIGHTS AT ME! No. No Richud. Look, they won't find out, they're in Sweden. They'll never know Richud. No. There's no way they can trace me Richud. I wasn't driving my cawr.
Oh Richud, it's just like running a red light, it's not like it's illegal--RICHUD! Richud, this is what I want you to do Richud: I want you to pick up your sawks and clean your room Richud.
I want you to go to school for 11:00 Richud. I'm on my way to my school but I have to leave early to go see Dr. Bradisi. Yes Richud it IS genetic! Yes. Yes Richud. Alcoholism is genetic Richud!
Richud, I'm going now, the bus is at the station. Fine, go offline, if that's what you want Richud. Go offline Richud. Go offline. FINE, GO OFFLINE!
[Richud goes offline.]
And that brings us to the end of our cellular adventures with Richard. It's two years later and I can still hear the conversation like it was yesterday, so dramatic, so stupid. In the matter of a few minutes it went from a simple ineffectual parent/willful child confrontation, to a taut mystery, to one man's heartbreaking struggle with addiction.
One cannot help but wonder what has happened to them. Did Richard indeed pick up his socks? Did our friend ever get a handle on his drinking problem? And what of the Swedes? So many questions, so few answers. Alas, such is the nature of overheard cellphone conversations.
I'm glad to have been part of it, though, and to have had the privilege of bringing it to others. In fact, the story so intrigues me I am in the process of setting it to music and putting it in my one-woman play simply entitled Richud!. Here is a short sample:
[a lone chair sits on a black stage, a bus window hangs behind the chair, the spotlight is on Our Friend as music begins]
"Richud, oh Richud won't you please pick up your sawks!
[points at cellphone, pulls out hair]
"Richud, oh Richud I've asked you for 3 blawks!"
[appeals to the audience directly: (spoken) "Why won't he listen to me?"]
"Richud, oh Richud don't you dare call me pathetic!"
[stands up defiantly, puts hand over heart]
"Richud, oh Richud... I must drink! It's genetic!"
[puts arms down at sides, hangs head down as if beaten]
(whispers) Oh... Richud!
[spotlight off, end of Act I]
Wow. Powerful stuff. Now, if I can just get a grant from the Canadian Arts Council I know it'll be a big, big hit.
This week I was looking through some old books and papers from a couple of years ago when I came across something that I thought I could perhaps pass off as an update.
Back when I worked at the airplane factory each day I had a gruelling one-hour transit ride to work in the morning and another one home at night. During that time I saw and smelled a great deal, enough to put me off public transit for a lifetime. To add to the general unpleasantness of being pressed up against strangers, the bus travelled up the bleakest, most depressing route ever to blot the landscape of this fair city.
As it wound its way up to my destination I heard many a private conversation, saw many a teen come close to losing her virginity, and endured many a urine-soaked vagrant sleeping beside me. Oh the stories I could tell. Say, here's one now!
One bright morning as we got closer and closer to the end of the line the bus naturally emptied out. There were only two or three other passengers and myself who were treated to one side of a delightful cellphone conversation that simply fascinated me. At first I was struck by the man's slight New York-ish accent. I immediately recorded it in my head to try and imitate it later when I was among my peers (it's a thing I do). My task was made more easy because he repeated the same words over and over which is always helpful when trying to imitate someone.
I unabashedly listened to his conversation as he was in no way trying to keep his voice down. In fact, it seemed as though he wanted everyone to hear. As the conversation progressed it became more and more absurd and I quickly began to commit it to memory so that I could relate it to my pub friends later that night. As soon as I got off the bus I wrote it down so that I wouldn't forget any little absurdity.
My performance of the conversation was a big hit with the pub friends. It may have been because hearing the accent as I heard it greatly added to the story, or it may have been the fact that they were ingesting alcohol as they listened. I will do what I can to best convey the accent in text form, and if you'd be so kind as to get as drunk as possible before you read it we should be all set (that's good advice for all my entries, actually).
To get this slightly rumpled 40-something man's accent think Mike Meyer's Cawfee Tawlk only take it down about 30 notches. It sounds as if this person has been away from New York for quite a while and only a few accented words slip out. He says the name Richard about 80 times but it is pronounced Richud. (It might help for you to say that out loud a few times just to get the feel for it. Pretend that you are agitated about something and the word Richud embodies all of that agitation. Good.)
Our friend speaks first quickly and then slows down to punctuate words like socks (sawks). He speaks as one who is in inconsequential authority, but he is constantly defending that authority. His speech pattern is reminiscent of an overly self-important fast food employee who, temporarily put in charge of the fry station, petulantly explains why the last two batches of curly fries were undercooked (not his fault, obviously).
Hmm... I believe that has set the stage accurately. And so, without further delay, I give you... Richud.
[bus sounds throughout]
Richud, listen to me Richud... Richud. No! NO DEAL! Oh, you know what you can do with your... Richud!
No. Listen Richud. Richud, this is what I want you to do: I want you to pick up your sawks and clean up your room. That would make me feel better Richud.
Richud. Listen to me Richud. No! He wasn't behind me Richud. No. Look Richud, this is what I did. He was behind me in the pahrking garage, but he doesn't know it as well as I do Richud. What happened was I took the lawng way around and he took the short way and he got stuck behind other cawrs Richud.
HE WAS FLASHING HIS LIGHTS AT ME! No. No Richud. Look, they won't find out, they're in Sweden. They'll never know Richud. No. There's no way they can trace me Richud. I wasn't driving my cawr.
Oh Richud, it's just like running a red light, it's not like it's illegal--RICHUD! Richud, this is what I want you to do Richud: I want you to pick up your sawks and clean your room Richud.
I want you to go to school for 11:00 Richud. I'm on my way to my school but I have to leave early to go see Dr. Bradisi. Yes Richud it IS genetic! Yes. Yes Richud. Alcoholism is genetic Richud!
Richud, I'm going now, the bus is at the station. Fine, go offline, if that's what you want Richud. Go offline Richud. Go offline. FINE, GO OFFLINE!
[Richud goes offline.]
And that brings us to the end of our cellular adventures with Richard. It's two years later and I can still hear the conversation like it was yesterday, so dramatic, so stupid. In the matter of a few minutes it went from a simple ineffectual parent/willful child confrontation, to a taut mystery, to one man's heartbreaking struggle with addiction.
One cannot help but wonder what has happened to them. Did Richard indeed pick up his socks? Did our friend ever get a handle on his drinking problem? And what of the Swedes? So many questions, so few answers. Alas, such is the nature of overheard cellphone conversations.
I'm glad to have been part of it, though, and to have had the privilege of bringing it to others. In fact, the story so intrigues me I am in the process of setting it to music and putting it in my one-woman play simply entitled Richud!. Here is a short sample:
[a lone chair sits on a black stage, a bus window hangs behind the chair, the spotlight is on Our Friend as music begins]
"Richud, oh Richud won't you please pick up your sawks!
[points at cellphone, pulls out hair]
"Richud, oh Richud I've asked you for 3 blawks!"
[appeals to the audience directly: (spoken) "Why won't he listen to me?"]
"Richud, oh Richud don't you dare call me pathetic!"
[stands up defiantly, puts hand over heart]
"Richud, oh Richud... I must drink! It's genetic!"
[puts arms down at sides, hangs head down as if beaten]
(whispers) Oh... Richud!
[spotlight off, end of Act I]
Wow. Powerful stuff. Now, if I can just get a grant from the Canadian Arts Council I know it'll be a big, big hit.
posted by Alanis at
12:49 PM
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