ATTACK OF THE NOISE MACHINES

It wasn't that Dwight had extremely sensitive hearing; far from it. He had actually sustained most of his hearing loss at an early age, as a teen-ager, due, primarily, to loud rock music. "You're gonna be deaf!" his beloved Granny would screech at him, over the thumping and snarling stereo, and bless her heart, she was almost right.

Years working with landscaping equipment hadn't helped. Dwight always insisted on using ear protection around the roaring lawn mowers, shrieking hedge trimmers, screaming weed eaters and bellowing backpack blowers, explaining that he was desperate to retain what little hearing that he had left.

Moving to St. Augustine, Florida, "a quaint little drinking town, with a fishing problem," as an aspiring street musician, at first seemed ideal. Despite being trampled by tourists, or, likewise, having to dodge and weave around them, became commonplace. However, to suddenly hear someone yelling behind him, as if trying to get his attention, but only to discover, with grating irritation, that they were merely blaring into a cell phone, always set his nerves on edge.

The ridiculously loud cars and trucks always annoyed him, but what he found excruciatingly unforgivable was the obnoxiously loud motorcycles. They were intended to be loud and audibly intrusive, intended to be disruptive and disturbing--during any conversation Dwight happened to be having, he would be forced to stop when one of the "noise machines" passed, its rider smugly disdainful in cacophonous interruption, --rather than try to yell to be heard over the unnecessary din.

Some noises in St. Augustine Dwight quickly learned to accept: the amplified voices of the "train" and "trolley" drivers as they guided tourists on their routes, the whistle of the north-and south-bound CSX freight trains, the siren of the temporary Bridge of Lions as it rose and lowered for sailboats, but the ungodly, unnecessarily shrill, rumbling of the intentionally loud motorcycles was beyond his human comprehension!

"There must be a lot of extremely psychologically damaged people out there," Dwight mused, "people with severely diminished egos and self-esteem, who feel that they have to validate and confirm their existence at the expense of torturing others."

*                        *                      *

Once a year, during an auditory phenomenon known as "Bike Week," St. Augustine businesses put out numerous, temporary signs reading "Bikers Welcome!” as Daytona Beach, about sixty miles further south, would host motorcycle races, or something. Therefore, twice a year, once before the races and once after, hundreds of "I'm a loud, hard-core biker"-types would rumble through, swagger around in their hard-core, crusty biker-type uniforms, and spend money. Some even would tip humble Dwight, the struggling street musician.

Every year, dozens of the noise machine operators would triumphantly circle the Plaza, bastion of the normal tourists, parading their obnoxiousness to the entire city of St. Augustine, usually with free parking. And the city of St. Augustine would applaud and approve. Much like the yearly re-enactment of the English pirates sacking the city, Dwight thought, except now, in present times, the "pirate" wannabes brought money, and were "sacked" instead.

Once, outside a local pub, Dwight had the misfortune to almost over-hear part of a conversation between two of the modern-day pirates, where one had to yell across a table in order to be heard by the other, who had to yell back to respond, their noise machines having diminished their hearing, just as loud rock music had diminished his, except, apparently, more so.

Having quit playing for tips for the day, Dwight unwittingly retreated to the Plaza. It was, regrettably, still during Bike Week, and dozens of the two-wheeled noise machines were circling the small park like Indians around a wagon train. He leaned his bicycle against a planter and sat on a coquina bench. The auditory barrage of gratuitous noise and exhaust fumes pummeled him as the noise machine operators circled the Plaza, the raucous explosion of noise machines being started spiked the locale with even louder bursts of noise, as well as the contemptuous blips of their throttles as they were forced to idle at red lights.

A gentle drizzle began to fall, and Dwight found solace in the soothing drops of rain, while all around him, noise machine operators sought desperately to be heard, appreciated, and revered.

As the rain gradually became a deluge, Dwight never moved, never sought shelter. He had gratefully retreated into a blissful world, safe and serene, where noise machines would never bother him again . . . ever.

THE END