Inner Piece

My officemate is selling a car. I know this because he has taken five calls about it already this morning.

He is not a particularly quiet phone user. On the contrary, he is a particularly loud phone user. Two further shining gifts in this area has the universe bestowed upon him: the first an accent so strong that his (otherwise perfect) English is essentially indecipherable, forcing him to repeat every sentence until the beleaguered party on the other end of the phone gives up and just pretends to have understood; the second a predilection for embracing his squeaky side when he gets excited, which happens whenever he has to repeat himself, the result is that anyone within earshot feels like they are being assaulted by a full orchestra of terrified mice simultaneously playing tiny chalkboards with their little mouse claws.

Working at the same time as one of these phone cataclysms is all but impossible.

There is a brief respite. I prise my hands from my face and mournfully attempt to regain some vestige of the concentration necessary to work.

"Whargarbbbllll Hu Hu Hurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr."

Further down the corridor from our office of uninhibited aural joy, there is a room in which a man sits, apparently dying of tuberculosis. Why he has chosen our work place to do this I do not know, only that he joins us on several days every week. I cannot confirm his ailment: I am scared to approach him lest it is transmittable or perhaps because I might be blown through a window (or wall) by one of his great effusions.

"Uhh Bwharrrr Burrrrrwhak Bwhak" and then a tiny, solemn, "Gack".

At one point in the past he kept his office door shut, but now he has taken to leaving it wide open. It must have been clear to him that no barrier wrought by mortal hands could possibly contain the force of his apocalyptic mucosal eruptions.

"Uhwarrr Uhwarrrrrr UH-WaH-HA-HA-HARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRUBBBBBRRRLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLURR."

How much more can we take? Why does no one else say anything? Is this not what the secretary is for? To tell terminally ill people that they no longer have to come to the office?

My officemate is on the helium again, knifing through the eardrums of another hopeful car owner. Incidentally, his love of high pitch extends beyond his voice. A case in point, he has two desks and two chairs and of these two chairs one was brutally, soul-crushingly, heartbreakingly squeaky. The slightest movement while sat in it would set off a chain of squeals, schreechings and metallic shrieks, the infernal gnashing of great robotic teeth. For several months he would sit in only this chair, despite having an almost silent - and in everything other respect indistinguishable - alternative. One weekend I went to the office specially and emptied half a can of WD-40 into the chair's mechanisms, striking deep within the bowels of the beast and finally slaying the demon. The next week my boss came in to talk to me after my officemate had gone home. He sat in the chair and immediately looked surprised, "Did you oil this?"
"Yes", I beamed.

"Hurrwah Hurrwarhl HURRwah HurRRRRWARRRRRRRRRGGGARRRWARRRQGAKKKKKK"

A seventh call. The person on the other end isn't a quiet phone user either. I can hear his barked questions from my side of the office. In fact he is so vociferous in his wish to confirm all the details, that it is some time before my illustrious officemate can start to tell him in fluent dolphin that the car's airbag sensor is broken.

"Hack Hack Hack uhHurrr uHurrr UHURRRRR uWWWWARRRRGGGGBBBBLLLAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGUUHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRAKAKAKAAKAKAKA URHwwwwwu wu", followed by a soft, almost inaudible, "oh god." He has taken to saying that more frequently of late. I fear for him.

And now another noise, a constant dull knocking adding its voice to the proceedings. What is the origin of this villainous newcomer? I come to realise that it is my own head, slowly knocking against my desk.