UF: Eavesdropped
Maybe the time we spend perceiving each other makes us just a little more than strangers
By: Steffi Sarmiento Mena
My whole life, I’ve been a listener.
My specialty has always been listening in on conversations outside my own, settling in like a squatter.
Growing up, I would sit in the car with my dad. At each red light, he would create voices and conversations for the people outside. I think a lot of us do that.
Now, my friends and I have a tendency to eavesdrop when we’re out. We’ll hear someone say something outlandish and immediately start trying to get at what they could be talking about. Being on a college campus makes things especially fun. Proximity makes us all relatable.
I took it upon myself to invent a few more stories as I sat at prominent places on campus, listening in on some conversations.
“It was four or five pounds of blueberries.”
Tuesday afternoon, Brandon woke up in his living room. What appeared to be a carcass under a fuzzy blanket with a backward cap sticking out of the top and flip-flops sticking out of the bottom was actually a 22-year-old college student. He looked around, vision blurry, with mysterious cans all around and a large bowl next to him.
“Empty,” he thought. “Yes.”
Head pounding, he stood up and wobbled to the kitchen counter.
His roommate, Dave, was making lunch. Twelve eggs and five pieces of bacon. He couldn’t help but gag at the sight of food.
“Lowkey thought we lost you for a sec,” said Dave.
“Don’t talk to me. Where’s the Gatorade?”
“Bruh, we drank it all last night.”
“There’s no way.”
“Brandon, don’t you have a 3 p.m.?”
Brandon checked his phone. It was 2:40 p.m.
He grabbed his backpack, laptop still inside from Monday’s classes, and set off on the treacherous journey to class: Intro to Public Speaking.
Ring… ring… ring…
“Hey, bro. What up?”
“How you doing, man?”
“The usual, running to class.”
“Thought you would be a little worse off after last night.”
“What, why?”
“Your postgame snack was kinda insane, that’s all.”
“Stop playing, what was it?”
“If I had to guess, I would say it was four or five pounds of blueberries.”
“I don’t have anxiety. I’m just psychic, so I know things.”
Angel sat criss-cross applesauce on the grass, trying to figure out what to do with her friend, who was a puddle of emotions and was sprawled out at the Reitz Lake. At the hands of her most recent party obsession-turned-situationship, she was rendered immobile. It had been four hours since the last response.
A chronic over thinker, Haley was buried by her emotions. Had she said something wrong? Was she too off-putting?
Angel knew this Haley all too well. This was the Haley who went out last weekend, got confident and chatty as the drinks flowed and managed to secure what would be her prized possession for the week: a phone number.
“It’s all my fault! She’s never gonna answer me now.”
She took the incredibly daring risk of saying she likes dogs better than cats.
“Oh yeah. ‘Cause that’s gonna be a dealbreaker, for sure,” said Angel.
“Stop it. You know I know when these things are crashing and burning.”
“You’re full of it. We need to get you some Lexapro.”
“I don’t have anxiety. I’m just psychic, so I know things.”
“Everyone gets plugged in before bed.”
Mother walked over to Child.
Dinner was served. Battery acid and copper wire. She had worked hard to prepare that meal. Scalped the ingredients off a trader who passed by from time to time. All she wanted was to provide the best for Child. She was programmed to do that.
With the food placed into Child’s stomach plate, Child was satisfied.
The next day, Mother chatted with the hive. Known as the master of motherly advice in the computer community, she made sure to remind everyone that the secret to success was remembering that everyone gets plugged in before bed.
It was the best way for Child to be ready for the day.
Sometimes my stories get silly. That’s okay. Do you take yourself seriously when you’re riffing with your friends? I don’t think so.
At the end of the day, creativity fuels our lives. Doesn’t it?
Just as the groundhog emerges from his burrow to incorrectly predict the weather, Steffi emerges from her own to incorrectly invent stories about other people’s lives #punxsutawneyphil. To reach her, email steffismena@gmail.com, DM her on Instagram @raspberrymilkchocolate or go out to Plaza and look for the purple-haired people-watcher.
Comments