Laughing Matters: The One About Eavesdropping

By Ryan G. Van Cleave |  Illustrations by Darcy Kelly-Laviolette

I‘m an eavesdropper. At least when there’s something worth listening in on. Otherwise I’m totally ignoring people for all I’m worth because 90% of what anyone says is humdrum everyday material.

But the gloriousness of that 10% sometimes makes all the hard work worth it.

For example, the other day at the Cold Stone Creamery near the UTC mall, I watched a mom offer her kid an ice cream cone. “What’s the magic word?” she said. He responded with “Abracadabra!” The mom wasn’t pleased, but I thought the kid was a genius.

A week or so back, I was lounging on a bench near Lido Beach, enjoying the unexpected 70º March weather. A family of five emerged from the one of the wooden paths away from the sand. You know how these folks looked—windblown, sunblasted, and Sarasota-ed out. They rinsed at one of those public showers, but the youngest still had hair issues. So the dad tried to brush out some of the knots and general disaster atop her head.

The kid lurched away and howled, “JEEE-SUS!”

The dad shushed her, saying, “We only use Jesus’ name for prayers or if we’re saying nice things.”

And the kid said, “Well, I’m praying to Jesus that you stop hurting my head!”

Another genius!

Let’s be honest—nine times out of ten, the best things worth overhearing come from kids. Why? Three reasons.

1) They trust their gut.

2) They’re honest to a fault.

3) They eat Kool-Aid powder straight from the packet.

As you might imagine, Van Cleave lore suggests that I made a few of my own genius comments as a kid. For example, for the first couple of years when I could speak, any time my parents said, “I love you!” to me, I always answered, “I love me too!”

And there was a baby shower I got dragged too—I was maybe four or five—and all the moms were speculating on the baby’s gender. Since we were neighbors and theoretically could play together, one assumes, one neighbor asked, “Do you want it to be a boy or a girl?”

I announced, “I want it to be Spiderman!”

Now that you’re onboard with the importance and potential for mayhem in my life related to eavesdropping, we’re ready for this month’s story. Gather round, folks.

So I was with a pal the other day in Tampa at one of those big downtown hotels. I was recounting this over-the-top 3 a.m. escapade with a name-brand author at a Miami book conference that included a pair of missing dress socks, an honest-to-goodness manatee, and a rental SUV that reeked of garlic so bad that one assumed a vampire had been whacked inside the vehicle the night prior.

And then I realized the couple in the chairs behind us in the lobby were totally riveted by all we were saying. Being the eavesdropper appreciater that I am, I switched gears so they’d have a story of their own to tell.

I summoned my inner four-year-old child and whispered to my buddy, “Here’s really why I asked you to meet with me. Someone followed me again last night.”

Always one to roll with anything, my pal didn’t miss a beat, saying, “Oh, you’re just being paranoid.”

(Clearly, we’d both seen the same episode of Frasier way back when.)

Me: I swear to you. They’re onto me.

My pal: C’mon. Nobody could recognize you after all the plastic surgery.

Me: That’s what Marlena thought.

My pal: Marlena got sloppy. She never should’ve gone back to Zurich.

Me: I just don’t want any more bloodshed.

My pal: Relax. You’re home free.

Me: You don’t know the Woodchuck and his ways.

My pal: There’s no way they’d come to Tampa. Not after what they did here last time.

By this point, I noticed that the offending eavesdroppers had fled the scene, perhaps for the safer environment of a nearby dark alleyway or an Ybor pawn store.

So here’s the real takeaway here. While I rarely include a Call to Action in these humor pieces each month, I’m doing so this time.

Embrace your inner smart-ass. Celebrate communal humor. Aim for more guffaws in your life.

So the next time someone is listening in, take them for a good, wild ride. Bring in the Russian gangsters, the dancing unicorns, the kitchen sink. Make some memories that’ll be talked about—perhaps written about in this column—for years and years.

And for the love of all that’s funny, please bring your A game if it’s me listening in. (I look exactly like this. More or less.)

Got your own overheard comment that still makes you burst into giggles? Is there family lore about your own quotable kidspeak moment? Did you ever screw with some people who had the audacity to eavesdrop on you?

If so, then please zip me those howlers at ryanisn’tlistening@scenesarasota.com as soon as you can.

I guarantee a fast, appropriate response.**

**Not an actual guarantee