Sotto Voce
Hello, my name is Rachel, and I’m new to this. I’m here because Dr. Samuels, and the powers that be, said it was mandatory that I attend, but I really don’t understand how I fit in with an anger management gr…
Okay, I knew this would happen. I’m afraid it won’t do any good for everyone to tell me to speak up. I’m speaking as loud as I can. This is my natural tone of voice, so you’ll have to…
I beg your pardon?
Well, that wasn’t a nice thing to say. You’re very rude, whatever your name is. Joe? All right, Joe.
Yes, I can hear you; you don’t have to shout. My hearing is fine, thank you. With an attitude like yours, I can see why you’re in this group.
What?
Oh, I’m so sorry, Dr. Samuels. Of course. You’re absolutely right; I was being aggressive. So, I apologize to you, er, Joe.
There. And doesn’t that show that I can recognize anger and deal with it? That’s why I don’t think I belong in this…
All right, I’ll go on.
Since everyone is concerned with my soft voice, I’ll tell you about it. This is the way I’ve been speaking for my whole life. According to the doctors, there’s no structural abnormality. My breathing capacity is fine, my vocal cords are normal, and my mouth isn’t particularly small. It’s just how I’ve been since I first learned to talk.
Now, psychologists like Dr. Samuels would claim that I have low self-esteem, that I don’t think people would be interested in what I have to say, but that’s not true. I happen to be very proud of my achievements, academic and otherwise, and I believe I have a lot to contribute to the general conversation. It’s people who don’t listen; they’re the problem.
I’m sorry?
I said, “It’s people who don’t listen; they’re the problem.”
Clamoring for attention is not my style. You must accept me for who I am; it’s that simple.
Fortunately, in my work as a freelance proofreader, I’m not required to…
No, that’s not what I said. I said, “proofreader.” A “roof feeder” isn’t even a thing. How in Heaven’s name could you possibly imagine that I was saying “roof…”
I’m sorry, Dr. Samuels. I’m trying to be polite, but they keep interrupting me. Yes, I know comments are encouraged, but…
Okay, fine, I’ll continue.
I was saying that, in my work as a freelance proofreader, I’m not required to be the life of the party. I enjoy the quiet, solitary nature of the job, and that’s why I’m good at it.
In general, people know not to disturb me. But occasionally, I’ll encounter a jerk who doesn’t care how exacting my job is, and that’s what started all this.
One of the places where I work is a direct-marketing agency. You’re familiar with those pharmaceutical ads that have a whole page of tiny print, with legal disclaimers, warnings, and prescribing information? Well, it’s my job to read all that copy several times over to make sure it’s absolutely correct, down to the last comma.
These ads are brought to me at my cubicle by a traffic manager who returns to collect them when I’m done marking them up.
Now, one of the traffic managers at this place is a guy named—I guess I should change his name, so I’ll call him Phil, if that’s all right. Is anyone here named Phil?
Okay, okay, you don’t have to bite my head off; I’ll repeat myself. Is anyone here named Phil?
I said, “Is anyone here named…”
No? All right then, I’ll call him Phil.
Phil is one of those body-builder types, muscles popping out of his muscles. The first time he came to my cubicle and heard my speaking voice, he cracked up laughing. “What’s the matter, are you shy?” he asked me.
I explained to him exactly what I told you about my voice, and that made him laugh even more.
“I guess we have a problem,” he said, “because I can’t hear very well.”
He cupped one hand behind his ear to illustrate the point and gave me this creepy grin. “I’ll just have to move in closer or I’ll miss what you’re saying.”
With that, he grabbed the other chair in my cubicle, wheeled it over, and sat down next to me.
I immediately felt claustrophobic, and I said so.
“Can’t help it,” he told me. “I won’t hear a word you’re saying unless we do it this way.”
From then on, I had to endure his proximity every time he brought me work. He always seemed to have some kind of special instructions for me that made him lean in and point to different parts of the ad. The smell of his aftershave lotion nearly made me gag, and I had to be conscious of his leg next to mine. But I never complained because I didn’t want to make waves.
One evening, I was backed up with work and had to stay overtime. I was the only one left on my floor; everyone else had gone for the day. So you can imagine how nervous I felt when he unexpectedly showed up at my cubicle with another ad.
“Glad you’re still here. This one’s for Viagra,” he announced, wheeling the chair over and imposing himself, as usual, beside me. “It’s one product I never have to use, I guarantee you,” he said and gave me a disgusting chuckle.
He then went on to speculate on how a lot of men’s erectile problems aren’t physical or psychological. They’re caused by unresponsive women.
“A guy needs a woman who can scream in ecstasy,” he told me with a sideways glance that made my flesh crawl. “But I bet you can’t do that with your itty-bitty voice, can you?”
I didn’t think. I just shoved him away from me as hard as I could. His chair went skidding across the cubicle.
It was a rickety old chair and one of the wheels must have snapped off, maybe from his weight. In any case, it collapsed, and he fell over backward into the aisle, with his head evidently striking a file cabinet.
I swear to you, I didn’t see it happen. I didn’t even know he was hurt. When he just lay there, I thought he was playing a joke, so I ignored him and kept on working.
One thing about proofreading, you can really get lost in it. I don’t know how much time went by, maybe a half hour, maybe more, before I looked up again and noticed he was still lying there. That’s when I realized something was wrong and called Security.
I don’t believe the delay made any difference. No matter how quickly I’d acted, he’d still be in that same coma. But since I’m unfailingly honest, I told them everything, which is why they’re forcing me to come here.
This is all a misunderstanding. I do not have an anger problem. In fact, I never get angry. Even when he said that disgusting thing to me, I wasn’t angry. I just wanted to physically move him away from me, and that’s what I did. There was zero anger involved. Zero. And there’s no need for me to be in this group. Can’t you understand that?
And before you say anything, Dr. Samuels, I’ll say it for you. Passive aggression. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that phrase I’d be a billionaire. Well, personally, I don’t believe it exists. It’s just an excuse for people to find fault where there is none.
I’m sorry, Joe, what?
I’m the angriest person in this room? Really? Look around at yourselves. Most of you are potential murderers. I wouldn’t want to run into any of you in a dark alley, or even an alley with crowds of people and fluorescent lights. You’re the angry ones.
Excuse me?
Well, that’s an interesting question, but the answer is no. It so happens I don’t feel at all angry about being forced to attend this group. What I feel is—sad.
Stop laughing. Make them stop laughing, Dr. Samuels. My God, why are you laughing too?
Because that’s what they all say? No, they don’t, and even if they do, so what? When I say it, I mean it. It’s the truth. You just don’t understand.
Stop laughing. Stop it. Stop laughing at me.
SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU MISERABLE CREEPS!
Oh, my goodness.
I’m sorry. I don’t know why that happened. I…
Why are you applauding?
Dr. Samuels, I don’t understand. Why are they…?
Okay, thank you, I guess. Thank you very much. Gee, no one’s ever applauded me before; this is a unique experience. I don’t know how to…
Well, I’m totally embarrassed, but I suppose—I just suppose—that you’ve given me something to think about. Yes, you definitely have.
In fact, I’m actually beginning to like this group.
Beg pardon?
I said, “IN FACT, YOU GODDAMN ASSHOLES, I’M ACTUALLY BEGINNING TO LIKE THIS GROUP!”
Okay, Dr. Samuels, I guess that’s it.