{"id":9009,"date":"2015-02-27T09:00:16","date_gmt":"2015-02-27T14:00:16","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.gadflyonline.com\/home\/?p=9009"},"modified":"2015-03-10T12:41:08","modified_gmt":"2015-03-10T16:41:08","slug":"the-language-barrier","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/the-language-barrier\/","title":{"rendered":"The Language Barrier"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"london_phone_booth_Fotor\"<\/a><\/p>\n

On his way back from the office, Donald Davenport called his wife Martha at home from the phone booth that stood outside The Small Theatre off Franklyn Street. Next Tuesday, there would be a performance of The Clock in the Sky<\/em>, a new play that had recently been written up in a reliable newspaper. After speaking to Martha, Donald hung up and entered though the old revolving doors of the theatre. The familiar rustic interior, the smoke stained walls displaying posters of up-and-coming shows, the gleaming marble floor, and the usual staff whom Donald knew well were inside. Shaking off the dampness from the late evening drizzle, Donald made his way over to the ticket office. Jane the ticket attendant smiled from over her typewriter as Donald approached.<\/p>\n

\u201cGood evening Mr. Davenport,\u201dJane said as she finished tapping away.<\/p>\n

\u201cGood evening Jane, dreadful weather we\u2019re having tonight,\u201dDonald said while wiping his forehead with a kerchief.<\/p>\n

Jane cocked her head to the left as if she had misheard him. \u201cExcuse me, sir?\u201d \u201cI said good evening Jane, awful weather. I’m sopping wet.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jane looked at Donald like he\u2019d just walked in from another planet.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry Mr. Davenport. I have no idea what you’re saying to me.\u201d<\/p>\n

He paused for a moment thinking maybe small talk was not the order of the day.<\/p>\n

\u201cOk, two tickets for next Tuesday’s performance of Clock in the Sky<\/em> please.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jane again looked baffled.<\/p>\n

\u201cJust talk real slow and I might be able to understand you.\u201d Donald had no idea what the hell was going on. He was speaking as plain as he possibly could speak.<\/p>\n

\u201cOk, two tickets please, thank you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jane shook her head.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m really sorry; I\u2019ll get the manager. Just wait here.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jane jumped up from her seat and went into the back. Donald stood at the desk confused and ever so slightly annoyed. He had not one hour ago delivered a fascinating proposal to his team at work and knew from their stunned faces that he was an accomplished communicator.<\/p>\n

The theatre’s manger, Mr. Reed came out from the back and smiled.<\/p>\n

\u201cMr. Davenport, right?,\u201d Mr. Reed said while extending his hand. Donald had met Mr. Reed numerous times at exclusive after show parties. Donald met his hand halfway and shook it.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s right.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mr. Reed’s smile dropped off his face; he looked confused.<\/p>\n

\u201cMr. Davenport, why are you talking like that? We can\u2019t understand you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTalking like what?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCome on stop kidding around; if you\u2019re learning a new language that\u2019s excellent, but please don\u2019t tease us.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLearning a new language! I\u2019m not learning a new anything. I just want two tickets.\u201d Mr. Reed turned to Jane.<\/p>\n

\u201cOk something\u2019s not right; get his mailing file up here.\u201d Jane rummaged in the top drawer of the ticket desk and pulled out Donald’s mailing and membership form.<\/p>\n

\u201cOk Mr. Davenport, game\u2019s up. You’re from Delaware. They speak perfect English in Delaware\u2014nice try.\u201d Mr. Reed laughed.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m speaking perfect English right now!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCome on Mr. Davenport, we don\u2019t really have time for this game of cards anymore. Our next show is in half an hour. We have to get cleaned up and everything.\u201d<\/p>\n

Donald demanded. \u201cListen to me carefully. I want two tickets for Clock in the Sky<\/em> for next Tuesday.\u201d Mr. Reed sighed and shook his head.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know what to do.\u201d<\/p>\n

Donald snatched a pen from Jane and scrawled his request on a fresh membership form. He handed it over to Mr. Reed.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know what this means.\u201d He showed it to Jane, \u201cAny ideas?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt’s not English.\u201d<\/p>\n

Davenport snatched the note back from Jane and read it aloud.<\/p>\n

\u201cTwo tickets for Clock in the Sky.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m getting bored of this,\u201d Mr. Reed said.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat makes two of us,\u201d Jane replied.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah I\u2019m pretty fucking bored too,\u201d Donald shouted as he slammed his fist down on the desk.<\/p>\n

\u201cOk, go get Nelson; he speaks five languages, maybe we\u2019ll get lucky,\u201d Mr. Reed said.<\/p>\n

Jane got up and again went out the back. Neither Davenport nor Mr. Reed spoke whilst Jane was out back looking for Nelson; they just eyed each other. Jane returned with Nelson a few moments later.<\/p>\n

\u201cHi Mr. Davenport.\u201d Donald had met and spoke with Nelson many times after a good show. Nelson was the head bartender and a very well travelled young man.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo learning a new language then? Ok try me.\u201d<\/p>\n

Donald sighed and spoke again.<\/p>\n

\u201cNelson, I want two tickets for next Tuesday\u2019s showing of Clock in the Sky<\/em>. God help me that is all I want.”<\/p>\n

Nelson listened carefully, chewing the words silently in his mouth, but after a few moments, he shook his head.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve no idea what he said.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFucking hell!!!\u201d Davenport exploded in rage.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat about this?\u201d Mr. Reed showed Nelson the form with the scrawled note.<\/p>\n

\u201cNot a clue, it looks like Russian or Chinese; I think it is gibberish whatever it is.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve had enough,\u201d Mr. Reed announced abruptly. \u201cMr. Davenport, you are wasting our time; either you speak in plain English, or we\u2019ll have to ask you to leave the premises.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not leaving without my fucking tickets!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhatever he\u2019s saying, he\u2019s pretty mad about it,\u201d Nelson said.<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course I\u2019m mad; I\u2019m talking to complete morons, absolute fuckwits, no better than apes!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOk it’s time to leave, Mr. Davenport,\u201d Mr. Reed demanded. He moved from behind the desk and grabbed Donald’s arm. Nelson moved around to help. They both grabbed an arm and dragged him towards the old revolving doors.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis is an outrage. I\u2019m gonna write to the paper about this. You\u2019ll be hearing from me. I\u2018ll ruin you, you hear me? I’ll sue.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhatever you\u2019re saying Mr. Davenport, I frankly don\u2019t care. I\u2019d prefer you keep away from this theatre for at least a month, or I’ll call the police next time.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mr. Reed and Nelson tossed Donald through the doors back out into the rain, which had changed from a light drizzle to a wild downpour.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou bastards! I\u2019ll be writing to the paper about this. See if I don\u2019t!\u201d<\/p>\n

Nelson threw Donald’s briefcase out onto the sidewalk and dusted his hands off.<\/p>\n

\u201cFuckers! You\u2019d have to pay me to come back in there.\u201d<\/p>\n

Donald picked up the briefcase and rattled around in his coat pockets for some loose change. He found a couple of quarters and took shelter in the nearby phone booth. He potted the coins in the slot and dialed his home number again. The line rang a few times before his wife Martha answered.<\/p>\n

\u201cHello the Davenport residence, Martha Davenport speaking.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDarling you won\u2019t believe what happened to me. I went to get us those tickets for Clock in the Sky.<\/em> The bastards pretended I was speaking another language. They fucking had the God-given nerve to stand there and pretend to not understand me\u2026”<\/p>\n

\u201cExcuse me,\u201d came the voice on the other end cutting Donald off. \u201cI\u2019m sorry, but I think you\u2019ve got the wrong number.\u201d<\/p>\n

Donald wiped his wet face with his sleeve and rubbed his temple; he closed his eyes tightly, tighter than ever. He let out a huge exhaustive breath.<\/p>\n

\u201cMartha, it’s me honey; it\u2019s Donald, Donald Davenport, your husband.\u201d There was only a moment’s pause on the other end.<\/p>\n

\u201cHello, yes I\u2019m sorry, but you\u2019ve dialed America; you\u2018ve come through to the United States of America; you\u2019ve got the wrong number I’m afraid. I don’t speak your language.\u201d<\/p>\n

Donald Davenport rubbed his eyes, which were now filling with tears and took a deep breath. With his throat choked up and taut, he tried to push his meek voice out.<\/p>\n

\u201cMartha, it’s me; it\u2019s Donald…it’s…\u201d He began to sob, no longer able to speak.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry, but I can\u2019t understand you; I don\u2019t speak your language. I\u2019m very sorry. I’m putting the phone down now. Goodbye.\u201d<\/p>\n

The phone clicked off leaving Donald Davenport alone in the phone booth. He slowly crumbled to the ground. He curled up in a fetal position, the only way to lie down inside the tight confines of a phone booth. He felt his body convulse as he broke down into uncontrollable tears. What did it all mean? Why was he no longer understood? What would become of his life? He let out a whimpering whisper, barely able to break out of his dry and tight throat.<\/p>\n

“\u0447\u043e\u043c\u0443, \u0447\u043e\u043c\u0443\u043c\u0435\u043d\u0435.”<\/p>\n

His tears mixed with the rain.<\/p>\n

\n

Stephen Lee Naish’s writing has appeared in\u00a0<\/span>The Quietus, Everyday Analysis, Empty Mirror, Gadfly, Scholardarity<\/i>, and many other publications. His first book,\u00a0<\/span>U.ESS.AY: Politics and Humanity in American Film<\/i>\u00a0was published by Zer0 books. He lives in Kingston, Ontario, Canada.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

On his way back from the office, Donald Davenport called his wife Martha at home from the phone booth that stood outside The Small Theatre off Franklyn Street. Next Tuesday, there would be a performance of The Clock in the Sky, a new play that had recently been written up in a reliable newspaper. After speaking to Martha, Donald hung up and entered though the old revolving doors of the theatre. The familiar rustic interior, the smoke stained walls displaying posters of up-and-coming shows, the gleaming marble floor, and the usual staff whom Donald knew well were inside. Shaking off the dampness from the late evening drizzle, Donald made his way over to the ticket office. Jane the ticket attendant smiled from over her typewriter as Donald approached.<\/p>\n

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