Three Doodles for a Whistle
A story of a possible maybe
I
The bartender places a glass of cold beer in front of me, and I pay, as always, with a doodle.
You see, I’m a professional doodler.
Hey, hold on, hold on: I can see that raised eyebrow, that look of condescending disbelief in your face. You think — that’s ridiculous, there’s no such thing as a professional doodler. So let me tell you: I have the mastery, expertise, command, passion, and years of practice to boot. I have precision and control and even the confidence to go out of line when I want to.
What is it you’re saying? Oh, I hear you: maybe I should take an art class. Thank you, this is just lovely advice. Unfortunately, I’m no good in the more reputable forms of art, though not for lack of trying: can’t draw, can’t paint.
II
What do I doodle, you’re asking? Oh, pretty much anything: from a tennis racquet to Mickey Mouse, I can do it, as long as I don’t think about it. Doodling is the most mindless of all mindful activities.
My doodles have become a sort of currency for me: one doodle for a newspaper, three doodles for a cappuccino, four for a tip at the local diner, nine for a loaf of bread. A doodle got me a date more than once and forgiveness more than I’d like to count. In the doodlehood economy, my creations trigger curiosity, elicit smiles, soothe anger, and yes — make for pocket change. This is how, right now, I’m paying for my beer.
In the doodlehood economy, my creations trigger curiosity, elicit smiles, soothe anger, and yes — make for pocket change. This is how, right now, I’m paying for my beer.
III
The bartender offers a refill, and my mind wanders as my pen sketches away.
What if, I think, what if a woman walked into the bar right now. She would be pretty but not gorgeous; she would be friendly but not eager; she would be chic but not glamorous.
“Scotch, on the rocks,” she would say with cool charm to the bartender.
“That would be one whistle,” he would say, “but make it a good one!”
She would whistle a melodic tune with impressive command and affecting range, grabbing my attention.
IV
“Hey, what was that all about?” I would ask her.
“Oh, I’m a professional whistler,” she would say, nonchalantly.
“That’s ridiculous,” I would scoff. “There’s not such a thing as a professional whistler.”
“Indeed,” she would respond, “but I’m not a thing. I’m a master in the underrated art of whistlery.”
I could sense that whistlery means the world to her, even though it’s not in the dictionary.
“I have the mastery, expertise, command, passion, and years of practice to boot. I have precision, control, and the confidence to sing out of tune, if I want to, for a reason known only to me. So yes, I’m a pro whistler.”
“You know, whistling will get you nowhere,” I would press. “Maybe you should use your talent in more profitable avenues: how about singing? Or the flute?”
“Thank you, this is just lovely advice,” she would roll her eyes. “I’ve tried it all: can’t sing, can’t play. The only way I understand music — the only way I understand myself — is through whistling. This is the only thing I’m really good at.
But,” she would add, “I’m incredibly, unbelievably, uniquely, skillfully good at whistling. And don’t look at me that way — I’m just a whistler, but I’m very competitive.”
V
“Whistle something for me,” I would say. “Something that you really like.”
“Oh, I’m a pro, mister. Artists of my caliber don’t do this for free, you know?”
I do know. How much would that be, then?”
“Two doodles for you,” she would say.
“Make it three. Three doodles for a whistle.”
Her smile would glitter with the sheen of a possible maybe, and she would whistle her tune while I would complete my doodles.
What would you doodle for her, you’re asking? You’re getting snoopy here, people, but here, have a look: a furry cat, a tangoing couple, a waterfall effortlessly flowing with purpose, just like her voice.
Once done whistling her sweet melody, the whistler would look at my doodles with scrutiny. “You’re a master!” She would exclaim, and I would burst with pride. “You really should go into the arts, you know. Turn your talent into something real! Have you tried a drawing class?”
VI
“Is that all for you tonight?” the bartender asks, waking me up from my reverie.
I look up, always surprised to see him, and pull out three doodles for the tip: ice cubes sweating in a glass, a single music note, and a hyper-realist rendition of a $20 bill.
“Keep the change,” I say, rising to leave.
A whistle wafts in, followed by a woman: she’s pretty but not gorgeous, friendly but not eager, chic but not glamorous.
She orders a scotch on the rocks.
