Sounding Boards

The squeak in our floor became most vicious when we called it names.  This surprised us as we believed its anger peaked when we stepped on it directly.  Indeed, our surprise peaked when the squeak began to speak, flinging vitriol, invective, a whole litany of rotten phrases.  Words that the O.E.D. blushed at and refused to include for fear of visiting in-laws.  

The neighbors below heard the stream of foul language and, believing the filthy banter to be a party of neuvo-swingers engaging in pre-coital dirty talk, began jabbing the ceiling with broom handles.  The thumping from below meshed with the foul mess spewing at us to form a veritable club mix of offensive talk.  Neighbors to the right added clanging pots and pans and the salacious symphony had its cymbals.  

"Why have you brought this uncouth debacle upon us?!" she implored.

"I only wanted to call the squeak as I saw fit," I explained.  "If you do not call it a squeak early enough, it will grow into something much worse.  Like potatoes or child actors."

"Go step on it," she demanded, "and cover its damned mouth!"

I obliged stepping directly where I imagined that squeaks damned mouth to be.  And it squeaked.  The hurling words ceased.  The neighbors' noises faded.  I stepped again and another squeak came.  

I turned to her.  "Not so bad," I said, "and on its way to all better."

She shrugged.  I stepped a third time and a squeak sounded, kept sounding, sounded for far too long.  And then it stopped.  "Curious," I remarked.  "Let's to bed and let the squeak sleep.  It has certainly been the busiest of nights for it."

We traipsed off to bed to sleep and dream of squeakless worlds where words are scrubbed clean with ammonia and exfoliants.  Near that witching hour just between the third R.E.M. cycle and three twenty-two A.M., the squeak began screaming, this time unintelligibly.  The neighbors began their bangs and clangs of protestations almost immediately.  

"What the ticking tock?!" she screamed at me.  

"I could have sworn," I pled, "my stepping on its squeaking face would have cured what ailed it."  I pondered briefly, then proclaimed, "By Brian, I've got it!"

I slipped out of bed and tottered my tired way into the kitchen.  From the refrigerator I produced a jug of milk and returned to the site of the squeak.  As I uncapped the jug, she came from the bedroom and exclaimed, "What and the why would you why?!"

"You see, my love," I explained, "these are not just the cries of a lonely squeak in our floor.  No, no.  What we have here is a baby squeak."  With that I turned the jug over, spilling milk all over that cacophonous squeak, drowning its clamor in cream.  As the jug emptied, the squeak began to gurgle and, curiously enough, choke.  Soon the screaming ceased and a final gurgle expelled from the floor.  The neighbors' addition to the noise dwindled shortly thereafter.

"All better," I said.  I returned the remaining milk to its place in the refrigerator and returned myself to bed.  The next day I rose with pride in my step and a self-satisfied gleam in my smile.  I had solved all of our problems and with great aplomb.  As I made my morning trek across the living room, I stepped on our squeak.  No sound came.

"Odd," I said to the surrounding floor.  I stepped again, but still no squeak.  She walked in just then.

"What ever could be the matter?" she inquired.

It was then that I realized.  "Oh my," I said.  "I believe I killed the floor."

It was true, Good Gumby, I had killed it.  And wasted all of that milk to boot.