The Tarbox Toyota waiting room is full. Apparently, no one uses headphones. Voices, both speaking and singing, at various volumes and tempos are being shared with all. It’s a disorientating, anxiety causing cacophony of discordant tones- like several cheap wind chimes hanging on one porch. Teaching myself a new crochet thing, I’ve had to start over twice, but I think I got it. I’m attempting to hone in on one song hoping the remaining swirl of noise will fade. I land on John Popper’s voice-“there is something amiss. I am being insincere. In fact, I don’t mean any of this. Still my confession draws you near…” hmmm… I laugh. We all get caught up. We get hooked and “the hook brings you back, on that you can rely.” Shania is coming through louder now. But so is the political news program, the cackling speaker phone talker, the bickering couple. I swear I can hear the eye roll of the angsty tween that got dragged on this errand with her parental figure. I am anxious and overstimulated. It takes a lot for me to crave sensory deprivation, but this place has done me in. Are float tanks open? Googling now.
