Learning to Whistle

from A Tale of Jobs Not Well Done

Whee-hooo. Wheeeee-hoooooo…

SSREEEEEETTTTTTT!!!!

Those were the whistle sounds my grandfather made when it was time for me to get my tiny Speedo covered ass out of the pool.

The first two whistles he made simply by pursing his lips. The normal way.

The third whistle was the last call, and always necessary- because I’m 9 and always ignored the first two. Fun over responsibility, I said.

That third whistle was different.

It required a mysterious configuration of index finger and thumb placed juuust the right way in his mouth, then over his lips to rest on a circuitously bent tongue, so I’ve been told.

But much like the Loch Ness monster, the mechanics of Gaga’s last-call whistle was a childhood mystery briefly acknowledged with a humph, then tucked away in the back corners of my prepubescent brain. I chose to focus on more practical endeavors with faster payoffs- like learning how to refract light with a magnifying glass on a sunny day to incinerate ants.

Priorities.

~~

Forty some years later, I’m proud to no longer wear a Speedo, and I’d like to say it’s a style decision, but we all know it’s a please don’t do that to other people’s eyes one.

I do still think about that whistle, and I ponder other events big and small across my life.

I don’t know if its middle-aged contemplation or FOMO from being drunk for so long. Should I have learned that whistle? Why did my curiosity stop at ant massacres?

Self-doubt has been a recurring theme in my life after getting sober. I feel the need to go back and rectify the chances and opportunities I feel that I have squandered - no matter how inconsequential.

Like running and eventually devoting years to training and finally running farther than a marathon, I thought learning to whistle might fix my feelings of inadequacy, of missing out, of being broken.

If I can just check off enough of these incompletes on my life resume, like learning a new language, fixing up an old car, building a cabin, whistling, surely, I’ll find what I’m looking for.

Maybe I’ll need to do a bunch of them before that feeling shows up, and so I make another decision on my self-improvement plan, est 2019.

I was going to learn that fucking whistle.

~~

My first lesson started hours later than intended.

The top 3 search results for ‘How to Whistle with Fingers’ on YouTube had over 15 million views. The first thumbnail showed a guy named ‘Brett’, with what I interpreted as a Magnum P.I. moustache that happened to have over 7 million views. It was part of a series called The Art of Manliness.

Overzealous title be damned, I clicked.

The intro immediately leads me to believe Brett was going for more of a Zac Efron moustache and now I’m really annoyed. I wanted something more Marlboro Man, less ‘Neighbors’ with Seth Rogan.

I can’t dwell in my pissiness for long. I have to delay my lesson because suddenly the idea of sticking my fingers in my mouth and blowing like a narwhal would cause concern in a coffee shop.

In my defense, I thought there would be prep-work; documents to peruse, a reading assignment, some background history- I just figured if I was this old and hadn’t somehow picked up the skill of whistling by bumping my way through life, it would be hard.

It’s just whistling, Chris.

The next day I’m sitting in the parking lot of the coffee shop. I’m going to practice this whistle thing for the first time.

The lesson lasts about three minutes. Yes, I timed it but mostly because I was just staring at my car’s clock with my fingers in my mouth.

I was hoping to knock this out and gleefully run into the coffee shop to finish this essay, triumphant, content, fixed.

Maybe even hail a cab home, just because I could.

Not only did I not learn the whistle, but I almost passed out seated in my car from blowing whoosh sounds out my mouth. Definitely not a piercing SHREEEEETTT. I also drooled a little down my sweatshirt.

Ok, Brett- I see you, I get it. There’s an Art to it.

I will continue to practice daily.

The funny thing about learning silly skills is how quickly the idea leaves your train of thought when practice is over. You either do it, or you don’t do it, no ruminating the finer points of the craft are needed, or so I thought.

Day two of training started at my kids’ high school while waiting to pick up the one disgruntled child not old enough to drive herself home. I have decided the video instructional has served its purpose and I am ready for forge ahead on my own.

For the record, I have switched from the one-handed thumb/ index finger technique Gaga deployed to Brett’s two fingers from each hand style. I have no idea what I’m doing so this is neither bad nor good.

I’m still getting a whooshing sound but I’m not in fear of hyperventilating because I’m a bit more casual with the repetitions. I’m also parked next to a goddamned high school and need to keep things sane for my kid’s reputations.

Look around, whoosh. Stop. Pause- whoosh. This continues for a few minutes until my fingers taste a bit like my morning oatmeal. I am gross.

That evening, I attempt another practice session but this time I’m in front of the bathroom mirror after a shower. I’ve had to wipe a patch of the fog from the mirror and learn that seeing myself looks ridiculous but it’s also beneficial.

I realize adjusting the angle in which I thrust my fingers into my mouth change the whooshing sound a tiny bit. Still no SHREEEET but there are echoes of a cooing sound. I think I’m on to something and for the first time feel a sense of progress.

I’m also questioning my heritage and entire family tree. These lips of mine- are nonexistent. Does that help or hinder? I have no lips AND I cannot whistle- a correlation? I will ponder this way too much considering I can’t do anything about it.

The next day I find myself thinking about the whistle when I’m not practicing the whistle. This is a new wrinkle. Logistics prevent me from practicing whenever I think about it, so I now start to plan. The car seems like the best option, I will practice there any time I’m alone, damn the stares.

I also begin viewing my environment for potential whistle moments. Even though I don’t yet have the ability, I’m warming my mind up to identify the countless times a good SHREEET will come in handy.

There are absolutely none so far. I am not a crossing guard, or a lifeguard. I carry on looking for opportunities, regardless.

Four days later I have now tried to whistle in the shower. Probably a terrible Idea but not having to wet my lips or worry about drool has me practicing here daily.

The car is still home turf to this madness, and I’ve even incorporated the rear-view mirror to watch myself for technique.

I even quickly whoosh a few times when going out to the garage, and also when I walk Greta at night.

I’m no longer thinking ‘it might work’. It’s emphatically not working, but I am still here and still sober, trying.

And I realize it was never about the whistle.

It was about making up for lost time, squandered in a bar. A feeling of incompleteness I keep trying to fill. The whistle was just this month’s answer to a question I don’t know how to ask.

Yet.

As of publication date, I still do not know how to whistle ‘with fingers’. I will return with an update if the stars, and my lizard lips align to sing the SHREEET.