John Butlerthinks the best conversations are the ones overheard
It is a Friday night in Dublin, not so long ago. A man in his 30s is behaving overexuberantly in a nightclub, jumping up on a stage in the small hours to embellish his narrative break-dancing style. Despite repeated warnings from the bouncer, he won't, and quite possibly can't, stop the boogie. Of course alcohol features prominently in his decision making, but there is no malice or danger in what he is doing. The bouncers don't like it, but to casual observers (and there are many) it is hilarious.
After repeated warnings, the bouncers finally snap (who knew they had no sense of humour?). Two of them carry the man through the sympathetic crowd towards the back door. He is drunk, he has done nothing wrong and he is being thrown out of the club in which he was having the best time ever.
His party could be over, and a lesser man might react to this news with anger. Considering all this, the dancer reaches deep into his subconscious mind and manages to pull forth the following whispered comeback by way of protest. "What is this, Footloose?"
I love overhearing. Eavesdropping, spying, listening in on people. Call it what you like - I call it what it is - it's the only way to pass the time. I don't mind admitting to it, because I know everyone else does it, too, whether they realise they do or not. In truth, I'd take some quality eavesdropping over a one-on-one conversation every day of the week. In a way, it's much more honest.
When you overhear someone else's conversation you never agree with what is being said. So what is the difference between overhearing and taking part in your own conversation? When you overhear, you don't have to concern yourself with nodding at things you disagree with to keep someone else happy, and you don't have to decide when to make and break eye contact. You just listen in and judge. And who doesn't like judging?
Of course, certain eavesdropping scenarios are not considered socially acceptable, and I respect the rules society has imposed on the eavesdropper in this regard. I would put a glass up against a hotel room wall only if it were dispensing free wine, but I do enjoy listening to people talking on the bus. Salvation for the likes of me comes in the form of Overheardinnewyork.com, which provides precisely the service the title suggests. On it, New Yorkers submit the insane, often eye-wateringly personal ramblings of their fellow city-dwellers every day. Take this, overheard on a train near Canal Street.
Chick: "Okay, here is my job application. Under Goals I have: 'Get my people skills to a comfortable level.' For Steps to Achieve These Goals I have: 'Right now I am passive-aggressive, but I am working to become more aggressive.' "
Dude: "Um, I think you should take out the first 'aggressive'. Anyway, you aren't passive-aggressive, you are bipolar."
Chick: "I am not! I just hate everyone."
Dude: "Then why do you take the crazy pills?"
There is an Overheardindublin.com - Daughter: "Dad, have you ever seen an owl?" Dad: "Aul' what?" - but it can't compare. A particular strain of self-consciousness still pervades most of Ireland, an affliction that prevents the best stuff from being overheard. Classic lines are still being smothered by cupped hands, by text messaging, by discreetly asking people into offices to talk and by listening to iPods instead of talking with your fellow man.
This strain of self-consciousness has been eradicated from most of the US, and in the New York metro area everything is now shouted. New York, unlike Dublin (and unlike most other American cities, for that matter), is a walking, train-riding kind of town, and so much the better, because the more people there are walking the streets and using public transport, the richer the overhearing pickings. We never get to hear gems like this in Dublin:
Older woman: "Excuse me, miss."
Younger woman: "Yeah?"
Older woman: "Your veil, your burka, is very beautiful. I didn't know your people were allowed to wear it in bright colours."
Younger woman: "It's not a burka, it's a poncho. I'm Jewish. It's for the rain. I got it at TK Maxx."
The big problem with overhearing is that you don't always get to choose what you hear. Back in my school days, one guy in my class couldn't whisper. We were 14, and at that point he lacked the vocal dexterity. Voices break to different degrees, and his had shattered with such force that any variation on talking loudly was out of the question. When I consider my compulsive eavesdropping, I think of him and of weekly confession in the school chapel.
I never really enjoyed sitting near that empty top pew, where each confession was heard. Upon hearing his name called, the unfortunate young man with the traumatised voice box would get up there and belt out his sins to the priest, and the first six rows would get to hear each venial misdemeanour he had dreamed up to avoid confessing to the real crimes.
Thankfully he wasn't honest, or it would have been an even more toe-curling exchange, if that is possible. After he shambled past us and kneeled in the back row, I would always offer a consoling smile. He had been quite mean to his sister and mother the previous week, but I still had sympathy for him. At the back of the church, I was sure he had ditched the Hail Marys and was now praying furiously for a normal voice box like the rest of us. The guys at the back of the church could fill us all in later.
• John Butler blogs at http://lozenge.wordpress.com