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The Quieters

Nancy Lee Bethea

    “Is this the meeting for the -” the large man asked as he approached a wooden table in the café.
    “Shhhh!” a rotund woman in her fifties said. “We are in retaliation mode now. No talking, please.”
    The man sat in an empty chair and noticed five women seated at two rectangular tables. Some stared into space. Others wrote in journals. He heard what sounded like bursts of compressed air coming from the café.
    “I came for help,” he whispered to the large woman. “It’s my wife. She only lets me talk to her for 30 minutes in the evenings. Last night, she set a timer!” he said.
    “Shhhh!” three of the women said in unison.
    “But your ad in the paper – it says come to the meetings if you need help with sound issues,” he said. “Well, I need help,” his voice rose.
    “Mr.?” the round lady said.
    “Mr. Johnson, Mr. Butch Johnson. Here’s my card.” He pulled his wallet from his back pocket retrieved a white business card.
    “We have already started our session today, Mr. Johnson. You are welcome to stay and observe, but please no more outbursts,” she whispered as the steamed milk machine burped air again. “We follow procedure here in The Quieters,” she said.
    “She won’t let me turn on the TV; she unplugs the kids’ Ipods. At the library, she glares at anyone gulping from a Thermos or water bottle,” he said. “She tells me she knows what I’m going to say before I say it,” he said.
    Two women in the group giggled.
    “Mr. Johnson, we are glad you have joined us today, but you’re going to have to be quiet. We don’t tolerate noise of any kind during retaliation mode,” she said.
    “Retaliation? That sounds good. I want retaliation, too.”
    “Mr. Johnson, our meetings offer a respite from the stresses of a noisy world,” the round woman said.
    The group members looked at Butch.
    “But, it’s so noisy in here,” Butch said looking around the café. “I like quiet just like the next guy. Really, I do. But, c’mon, I need to talk sometimes. We all need someone to listen to our hopes and dreams,” he said.
    The other group members glared at Butch. One woman giggled again.
    “You know, you could try journaling. Get your thoughts out without talking,” a faded woman wearing denim said.
    “If you’ll be patient, Mr. Johnson, you will see how our meetings progress. Now, we need to get through retaliation,” the round woman said checking her watch. “We can add your concern to open discussion time near the end of the meeting. You’ll have five minutes.”
    “What happens after retaliation?” Butch asked scratching his right ear.
    “You are welcome to stay and observe as long as you are quiet. It is your choice. We believe in equality, of course. In return, we ask you to respect our structure,” the large woman said.
    “My favorite part is next,” the woman in denim whispered pushing wire-rimmed glasses up on her nose. “It’s assignment time.”
    “Assignments? Like in school?” Butch asked.
    “Please, Mr. Johnson. I must ask you to be quiet. Please show our routine the respect it deserves. As I said, we are retaliation mode now,” the round woman said.
    “Against what?”
    “Against noise, unnecessary sound, mindless chatter, oral pollution. In other words, the static of life,” she said.
    One of the women giggled again.
    “Why are you giggling?” Butch asked.
    “Mr. Johnson, your wife alerted us you’d be at our meeting today. You see, she is a member of our group, but she chose not to come today,” the round woman said.
    Butch stood and inhaled deeply. He then fisted his hands, screamed and exited the café.



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