Far From the Whispering Crowd

I don’t think it’s considered rude to whisper in public; I don’t even think whisperers are on most people’s radars. It may—in some circumstances—be considered rude to whisper if you’re in an intimate group setting. Consider, for example, that you’re in a triangular threesome of conversation. If there’s any whispering going on, it better be a group whisper because if you’re cut out of the whispering process, then you’re the primary subject of the affronting whisper, and whispers are never good: nobody ever whispers “I’m so happy for Henry!” or “Scott’s blog is really good.” No, whispers are more like “I can see her panties through those shorts,” or “can you believe this guy? He just doesn’t know when to quit.” They’re intentionally inaudible because either A) they are exceptionally personal tidbits of information, or B) they are critical remarks directed at the surrounding public. I wish I could get an Emily Post ruling on this. I know they’ve got some sort of etiquette society—possibly the Crusaders for a Proper Understanding of Etiquette (or C-PUE)—an organization equipped with some process of demarcating the appropriateness of a whisper in any given situation. They’ve probably got pie charts on this sort of thing, but I wouldn’t know where to find them. If C-PUE exists, they went underground a long time ago. We’d be hard pressed to recognize their ranks, much less gain access to their secret archives. So, with that said, I’ll differentiate between two types of public whispering:

The type A whisperer is a whisperer of intimate remarks, a conceder of personal dysfunctions, an introvert who confides in a single, personal party.

The type B whisperer is an underhanded critic, a covert heckler who slinks through the street arm in brazen arm with her whispering cohort, pointing out the social imperfections of others.

The type B whisperer originated the infamous Giggle-whisper, the Whisper-grin, and the most encroaching whisper of all, the Whisper-stare. The B whisperer is a guerilla soldier, offending from the shadows, unwilling to confront the object of her ridicule, only implying from a distance, cackling away like a witch at a cauldron, brewing a potion of paranoia. The type B whisperer is the object of my anxiety, a landmine waiting to set off the branching rivulets of my neuroses. On any given day, I might be walking to work, minding my own business, casually enjoying the splatter-board pattern of pigeon droppings on the sidewalk, when I come upon a loitering group of giggle-whisperers. These rowdy B-types are recognizable by their innate gravitational pull to each other. Two B-types walk together like a couple of conjoined twins, leaning in until their shoulders are millimeters apart. A large group of B-types will inevitably form a circle, huddling like a football team between plays, sucked together by some inconceivable force of nature. Their eyes scan their surroundings, looking for their next victim. Their facial expressions are expectant as they survey the world before them. They are trained giggle-whispering machines, and as I stroll past oblivious to their intent, they take aim. First, one opens up with a little whisper. Then, they laugh in unison. Together, they take a sideways glance over the shoulder (to soak it all in), then whisper in concurrence, nodding. Thus commences the giggle-frenzy. The giggle-frenzy is a tag team sort of approach where one giggler will set off the next giggler so that there is a staccato machine-gun fire effect. It’s all very well timed and very intentional. It's a group activity, signifying to the pedestrian public that someone in the vicinity is humorous is some unintentional way. Of course, who’s to say the gigglers are laughing at me? Who knows what they’re really on about? Most likely, the giggle-whisperers are giggle-whispering about some inane subject that really has nothing to do with anybody on the sidewalk before them. Most likely, they’re whispering about recent sexual encounters or the phallic shape of some public art. But, of course, in my mind of a million insecurities, there must be something terrible wrong with my appearance. I must have done something incredibly embarrassing and overlooked it (like walk out of a bathroom with toilet paper stuck to my shoe). I check my fly, check for stains on my clothes, check to make sure I don’t have pigeon droppings in my hair. I always have the dread-inducing thought that there may be something terribly inappropriate about my appearance that I’m not even aware is a problem. What if there’s something I’m overlooking? What if there’s a giant hole in the seat of my pants? What if I’m just ridiculously awkward in appearance? Is it because my clothes don’t match? I smooth my hair. I make sure my shoes are tied. I check everything, and always (like every time before) there is nothing. I seem fine. I’m okay. They must not be whispering about me. I walk past them, and as I gain distance, I’m feeling better. I tell myself I’m crazy. I tell myself that I must be so insanely attractive that girls giggle involuntarily at the mere sight of me. I tell myself whatever I need to tell myself to get through the day with as little paranoia as possible, but, even so, it’s always in the back of my mind, and I find myself standing in front of a restroom mirror, wondering, “what was it?”