Other People’s Noise (A Short Story)

I read that the tangerine tyrant will visit Saudi Arabia, and “misogynists unite” popped into my head. My mind conjured a distant, disturbing memory. I decided it’s about time a dragon took care of it. So I wrote the following.

I don’t have a photo of an orange dragon, so here’s Durga, slayer of demons.

On a hot summer afternoon, my mother sat in the driver’s seat, and I occupied the front passenger seat of her blue Pontiac. We lived in rural Indiana and had errands to do in town. Our windows were rolled down.

The car stopped at a traffic light. The vehicle beside my mother was a tall, gauche pickup truck from which blared loud country music. We both disliked most country music.

I glanced at the truck and noticed its occupants were two teenage boys. I didn’t think people my age — rather than my parents’ age — listened to country music. I mostly enjoyed classical, folk music, and show tunes, but listening to classmates, I had the impression that rock music was overwhelmingly the most popular genre at my school. Boys who were my classmates listened to The Police, Guns n’ Roses, and Led Zeppelin, not the awful trash coming from that pickup.

My mother rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Do I really have to listen to other people’s noise?”

Although she was serious, the comment struck me as funny. I cackled. No people-pleasing from her.