White sat in one of the
chairs and laced his fingers together in his lap. Peters remained
standing, looking out of each window in turn as if the view from one
might change if he moved a foot to the left. The security guard
stared at him, glancing occasionally toward White.
Peters moved below one
of the speakers and addressed the guard. “How can you stand to
listen to this all day? The speakers are too small to give any life
to music. I call it music in the broadest sense, mind, in that it's a
series of notes played in a non-random order that seems reminiscent
of something I once heard on the radio. Music is supposed to sooth
the savage beast. Playing it off-key with a Stylophone through tinny
speakers is making it more likely that I turn to some form of
violence to act out the frustration I'm feeling.”
The guard reached to
remove an ear bud from his iPod. “What?”
“You weren't even
listening to me. I was complaining about this tinny music.”
The guard cocked his
head to one side to listen. “This is near the end of the track.”
“Oh, that's a relief.
At least it'll be something different.”
“Oh, no. There's only
one track, played over and over.” The guard replaced his ear bud
and returned to watching the monitor screens behind his desk.
Peters clenched his
teeth and sat next to White. He fidgeted for several seconds. “This
is the most uncomfortable seat I've ever sat in. The seat doesn't
match any bottom I've ever seen and the back digs in at the wrong
spots.”
White nodded. “Both
music and seats are designed for maximum discomfort. I think it's to
encourage visitors to leave before seeing anyone. Clever, really.”
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