All of us at some point in time have sat down in Hirst Lounge and enjoyed the music floating down from the heavens. Few of us, however, ever think to wonder who carries the sacred duty of playing that music, or who pulls the secret levers of control to decide the setlist.
In an exclusive interview with the CT on Sunday, I sat down with Dirm Pittleford, the chieftain of the little guys in the Wilco speakers, to find out more.
Our interview began with an attempt at a handshake, which had the unfortunate result of flinging the chieftain across the room and into the wall, where he was promptly taken away by a group of gnome EMTs.
Sorry, scratch that. I have just been informed that the little guys in the speakers object to being described as “gnomes” and would prefer I stick with “little guys.” Actually, I would like to request that the editors scratch the entire last two paragraphs. Thanks in advance. [Editor’s note: Here at CT, we are committed to an atmosphere of honesty and clarity, and therefore decline the writer’s request.]
Okay, anyway.
On Sunday, I sat down with Plim Ninnyfiddle, deputy chieftain of the little guys in the Wilco speakers, to find out more.
Sorry, scratch that. It appears I have sat ON the deputy chieftain, who has just been taken away by a group of little-guy EMTs. Editors, please correct this.
On Sunday, I sat down with Trim Whiskerson — actually, scratch that; I have just been informed that Whiskerson is refusing to meet with me out of fear for his life, and has retreated into the speakers and the comfort of his tiny saxophone. Which does, now that I think of it, explain the sudden onset of “Careless Whisper.”
At last, I sat down with Mim Glitterhand, Little Guy Ambassador to Starbucks, to learn more.
CT: Tell me about life inside the speakers.
Glitterhand: Well, we’re currently facing a national crisis following the untimely deaths of our two top officials. Our constitution offers no specification for who should succeed the chieftain in the event of the deputy chieftain’s simultaneous demise, and I hear we could be on the brink of civil war.
CT: I’m sorry to hear that. But let’s not dwell on politics. Now, tell me, Mim. The people want to know — just how long has there been a civilization of little guys inside the speakers here in Wilson Commons?
MG: We have made our homes here since this building was first constructed. Isn’t it amazing how a civilization can survive in peace for decades, then be annihilated in the span of one day by the actions of a single idiotic individual?
CT: Well, Mim, we all know that nothing happens in a vacuum. Surely there must have been extenuating historical circumstances.
MG: No, I’m pretty sure it was your fault.
[Author’s note: At this point in the interview, the ethereal sound of Whiskerson’s saxophone was suddenly cut short and replaced by the faint sound of a thousand tiny swords being drawn.]
MG: I actually think I can hear my home being pillaged. Please excuse me.
Glitterhand then scampered down the table, up the wall, and into the speaker, drawing his sword from a tiny scabbard along the way. The CT was unable to reach him for further comment.
At this point, I decided it was time to take initiative and climbed onto a table to look at the speaker, whereupon it became apparent that the little guys had engineered a small flap for egress and entry. I lifted up the flap and peered inside.
The world within was clouded in a haze of blood and smoke. Swords clashed, tiny neighborhoods burned, and arrows rained down over battlements. For about 15 seconds, no one seemed to notice me.
Then, cutting through the noise of battle, a single note rose above. The little guys stopped in their angry, bloodthirsty little tracks. A white-haired little guy — could it be Whiskerson in the flesh? — lowered his saxophone. “Great Nation of the Little Guys!” he began. “Why do we fight amongst ourselves when we might unite against a common enemy?”
Thousands of tiny eyeballs swiveled towards me at once.
For one singular moment, an entire civilization considered their options. They decided I looked like a common enemy.
I ducked out of view just before the first arrow flew through the flap. As I made a mad dash for the Wilco exit, I took one look behind me and saw a thousand little guys flooding the surface of Hirst Lounge, swords in their hands and bloodlust in their hearts.
Ultimately, I escaped, but now, almost a week later, I live in fear. I think they’re in the walls. I’ve taken to wearing disguises around campus to throw them off the scent, but I do not think the little guys will remain fooled much longer. I hear “Careless Whisper” from my dorm hallway as I claw at the memory of sleep. If you’re reading this: consider it a plea for help.
The sounds are getting louder.
