I don’t mean to brag or anything, but I’m pretty well-known around here. I’m not sure if you’d consider me “popular” per se, but if the definition of that word includes being given a bunch of fun nicknames like “what’s-his-face who’s always whistling,” “that guy who won’t shut up,” or “ugh, just tell me when he’s gone,” then yeah, guilty as charged.
Let’s get something straight: I don’t whistle because I want to. I whistle because I have to. The nine-to-five life can be a grind, so if I’m not attempting to boost morale by blaring high-pitched ditties at every opportunity—like when Diane’s on the phone with the hospital about her grandpa’s deteriorating condition or when Todd’s sobbing in the employee lounge about being served divorce papers at lunch—then what use am I? God knows my work ethic isn’t what most people would consider “satisfactory,” so I really need to demonstrate that I’m a valuable member of this team in other ways.
If I didn’t whistle incessantly in this office, my constant foot tapping might just be considered straight-up annoying. That’s right, I’m also the guy who loudly taps his foot all day, but only in conjunction with my jovial lip sounds. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t judge people who only whistle or folks who prefer the singular delight of a foot tap, but to me, they go together like Pinot and Gruyère, Simon and Garfunkel, and meetings with the boss where they warn you about complaints from anonymous coworkers that your behavior is “maddening” and “the worst part of coming to work.”
I also take requests! I can whistle/foot tap a variety of popular musical genres, from yacht rock to pirate metal, and I'm always excited to play something special for a colleague, whether they want me to or not. Though, so far, the only songs I’ve been asked if I know are “The Sound of Silence” and “Hit the Road Jack.” Guess I work with a bunch of old souls.
Trying to be a positive distraction in the workplace is in my DNA. My father, a coal miner, was famous for trying to keep spirits high in those West Virginia pits by liking to yell “gas!” every so often. Sure, at first the other miners were a little miffed about the prank, but over time my pops became a valued member of the team, all the way until the day he tried to warn them about a real carbon monoxide leak to no avail. I’d like to think that those twenty-five souls who perished that fateful afternoon were at least comforted by his humor and the fact that he was able to make it out alive to continue spreading his good vibes.
Part of evolving as a human is trying to keep things fresh. That’s why in an effort to be more than a two-trick pony, I’ve been trying to expand my repertoire by playing extremely shrill jazz via my mouth trumpet, and most recently, I’ve also been mimicking the riff from that song in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. You know, the one that goes “Bow, bow, oh yeah, chick, chicka-chicka” over and over. I can literally sing that on loop for hours.
I haven’t received any formal feedback about these new initiatives yet, but I guess I’ll hear about them at my next mandatory sit-down with HR, which, in all honesty, will give me the perfect chance to bring up Todd and his endless weeping, which is really becoming a buzzkill around here.