Thursday, Chris came over to my cubicle tell me about the dessert she had at lunch. She knows that I am a fan of desserts and enjoy hearing of their splendor. I also feel that my imagination deserves a little gluttony now and then, even if the rest of me stays nutritionally sound.
She began describing the torte of sorts, and when she got to the layer of chocolate mousse, I interrupted her to ask if she knew what sound a moose made. This caught her off guard and she stopped mid-word in her weaving narrative of the Heath candy crumbles. I do that to people, distracting them from the task at hand with a question that holds little value and whose answer I care about only marginally.
But there is a power in this...because while Chris was dying to tell me about the angels that sang while she devoured her bit of delectability, she also wanted to answer my question...because everybody should know what sound a moose makes. It's just an American-thing to know. Chris is nothing if not patriotic.
And, I had asked so inquisitively, so innocently, and so sweetly—I can be, quite frankly, irresistible with very little effort. I know this to be especially true when I am on the phone with a provider set on ripping me a new one and I end the conversation with them complimenting my kind voice and wishing me a very pleasant afternoon...and note that "very"...it's important.
Chris began to answer me in earnest, her face set in determined lines and her eyes intent. The delicate curls about her face trembled as she summoned her reply. "Well, they make this sound: Moo—se." She laughed at what came from her mouth. She turned to Dawn, next cubicle down, and asked the same question.
"WHAT!?" cascaded over the impermanent walls, and Chris came back to my view, shrugging exaggeratedly about the response to such an answer-worthy question. She was so completely curious about what sound a moose makes, forgetting completely about dessert. I thrive on widespread illogical...breeds humor, I say. It's as though causing such discord is the meaning of my life, and I define it plenty.
I popped an individual bag of popcorn—a subject that Nick finds silly...because who can't finish a bag of REGULAR sized popcorn on their own? Yes, yes, Nicholas...but who SHOULD?—and Sally passed by, smiling in greeting while making her way to the copy machine. "Hey, Sally?" I called. "What sound does a moose make?" Her smile dropped and her feet stumbled haphazardly toward me.
"HUH!?" I repeated the question, and she began laughing uncertainly, waiting for the punchline. She was one of my mother's oldest friends, and tries to be generous with my poor attempts at joke telling. My timing typically sucks, so I stick with the puns. Anyway, moose calls: Sally pondered the situation, and when it was obvious that my question was delivered in all seriousness, she became curious in her own right, replying, "I have no idea!"
"Great!" I groaned. "Here I am, stuck at work, and I have no idea how to attract a moose." I stalked off like a cat trying to train her human. I heard Sally laugh in my wake, a little confused, but generous as I said. Suzanne was next, then Trixie, and Sheila the next morning. Sheila's my boss, my mentor, and as per last Thursday, my lunchtime shrink. If Sheila doesn't know, nobody knows. I ask her everything. Nobody knows.
It is quickly becoming the big topic at the office, all 8 hours it's had the chance to brew..."Did you figure out what sound a moose makes?" they ask. Few remember how it started, for few knew. It is quickly passing into the pages of inside-jokedom and, dare I say, lore. Chris never got around to describing her dessert.
