Battling the Tyranny of the Babbler

I fought off a Babbler this morning at the shrink's office. A "Babbler" is what I call a non-stop talker who takes advantage of any stationary person--a receptionist, an airplane passenger, anyone in a waiting room---and proceeds to talk non-stop about themselves and often, the state of their health. The listener is the "Victim". The Babbler never, ever picks up on his victim's silent pain. At first, the victim will respond "uh, huh" and nod, but that impulse is quashed after five minutes or so. Beware the Babbler.

This particular Babbler was a sixty-ish male whose receptionist victim was a Gen-Xer who happened to be black. This was a stroke of luck for the Babbler because he had decided to lecture her on the history of civil rights in New York City, starting when he was a child. (Sixty can sometimes seem like a long, long time....and no, Mountain Mensch, I am not implying anything here.)

The Babbler had quickly gotten on a roll. "I tell you, we never used that 'bad word' -- the 'N-word' when I was growing up and no one else did either. You know why? Because of television, that's why. See, I figured it out and it's because it was at the time of civil rights and we saw those fire hoses on television and we knew..." And on and on. His reasoning was somewhat interesting but I knew enough not to engage him.

Then, I saw a chance to save his victim and I took it. I interrupted his blather to ask for directions to the bathroom and this stopped him, as I'd thought it might. He suddenly remembered that he needed to use "the facilities" as well and chimed in. Like the Flash,  I popped into the tiny bathroom, flushed the toilet, pretended to wash my hands and popped out again. "All yours!" I said, hoping he'd get the hint. He reluctantly stopped talking  and got up out of the office chair he'd been sitting in and went to relieve himself. And us.

 I stole his chair and I told  the receptionist sotto voce "I'm here to save you". She smiled. She knew what I meant. The Babbler came back, saw that his victim had escaped and retreated, but not without a further skirmish. Looking at me he said "Don't mind me, I talk a lot, It's just that I have a mission to tell...." I saw that I needed to strike fast. "I have a mission too, it's to read this issue of Foreign Affairs Journal, because I don't get it at home..." He didn't get it but I added a stony look and he finally slunk back to the waiting room.

Babblers never notice either the squirminess, the desperation or the lack of interest in whomever they've latched onto. Never. They will never ask you about yourself and the minute one victim manages to escape, they target the next one. The only solution I've hit upon is mild rudeness. You have to somehow create a pause, otherwise you're doomed. I'll do anything short of yelling "Fire!" to get away from a Babbler because being forced to listen to one makes me want to stick a fork in my eye. Really. Or say "Will you please shut the *** up". For the record, I've never done the latter.

I nearly ran out into traffic a few weeks ago when I was forced to sit near a Babbler in a tiny waiting area at the hair salon. For the record, the very worst kind of Babbler is one with a visible medical challenge. This one had a cane.

I knew we were doomed the minute the lovely woman seated next to me took the Babbler's bait with the question "How did you hurt your foot?" The trap was sprung...and the Babbler had her opening:  "Oh, this cane? Well, let me tell you, it has been quite an adventure with my foot. I fell, and I thought it was broken but the doctor said it was "fine" but it was sticking out funny and people kept saying to me, what is wrong with your foot? And I'd tell them, the doctor says it's fine. Then my poodle Mr. Bumbles tripped me. I was just starting to sit in my recliner (there is almost always a Barcalounger involved in any Babbler's tale and no, I don't know why.) and I didn't see Mr. Bumbles but he was already in the chair.  I saw him just in time and l fell and broke my foot in four pieces....."

I will end my own babbling here and state that I did not grab the Babbler's cane and beat myself over the head with it hoping to induce a head injury. The Babbler was finally called up for her hair cut and hobbled away. And then her hair stylist became the next victim. And at the end of the haircut, I bet the Babbler left a tiny tip.