Some people don’t just talk – they broadcast. It’s like they’re narrating a movie about themselves in surround sound, and you, unfortunately, got a front-row seat. They speak in that choppy, overconfident, I’m-an-expert-on-everything tone that carries across rooms, restaurants, and coffee shops alike. You’re not eavesdropping; they’re forcing participation.
It always starts the same way. You’re trying to eat, read, or simply exist, when a voice cuts through the background hum: “WELL, HERE’S THE THING.” And just like that, you’re trapped in someone else’s lecture on dock repairs, city taxes, or how no one understands the actual cost of lumber.
They don’t just talk – they perform. Their words come in bursts, chopped into dramatic little pieces to highlight just how important they are. “I HAVE to do this. I PUSHED and PUSHED until it happened. I REPAIRED my dock instead of REPLACING it.” Every syllable hits the air like a hammer on metal. You start wondering if they practice this cadence at home, maybe in front of a mirror labeled Audience of One.
And without fail, they always have food in their mouth. Half their sentences come out muffled through mashed potatoes, fries, or a chicken sandwich. Nothing like hearing a passionate rant about the cost of decking lumber while bits of coleslaw are making a break for freedom. They wave their fork around for emphasis, mid-sentence, bite, and keep talking without missing a beat as if breathing is a hobby, but speech is life.
These people exist everywhere. In cafés, turning a cozy background murmur into an unsolicited podcast. In libraries, where “quiet” apparently means “use your loud voice, but reverently.” And in restaurants, where they dominate entire sections, oblivious to the pained glances around them.
You can tell they think they’re fascinating. Their voice rises, they lean back, and they punctuate every thought with self-satisfaction. The confidence is bulletproof. They could be wrong about 90 percent of what they’re saying, but you wouldn’t know it from the delivery. They talk with the conviction of a scientist and the accuracy of a dart thrower in a windstorm.
What’s most impressive is their utter lack of awareness. You could stare directly at them, eyebrows raised, silently begging for mercy, and they wouldn’t notice. They’re too busy reenacting the heroic saga of their dock repairs. Meanwhile, their dining companion sits motionless, nodding just enough to appear engaged while slowly retreating into the safety of their soul.
Sometimes I think they fear silence. A pause may feel too much like insignificance. The quiet may expose the thought they were avoiding. So they keep going – louder, faster, mouth full, convinced the world would stop turning without their narration.
But for the rest of us, sitting nearby, it’s a slow descent into madness. You can’t focus on your food, your book, or even your thoughts. You start counting the beats between their words, hoping for the sweet mercy of an ending. You fantasize about leaning over and gently asking, “Do you ever shut up?” but you know that would only cue up another half-hour story about “this one time someone told me to shut up.”
So you take a deep breath, stir your drink, and accept your fate as an unwilling extra in their ongoing monologue. After all, they’re not just talking, they’re teaching. And in their mind, the world is lucky to listen.
So, for emphasis, I’ll repeat: Do you ever shut up?
johnberkovich.com 