Free A Field Guide to Awkward Silences by Alexandra Petri Page A

whistle
well
, but I do whistle. I can make whistling sounds come out of my mouth. It could be worse.”
    •   •   •
    Not much worse, though.
    Which brings me back to where we started: Franklinton Baptist Church.
    On the contest application form was a box you could check if you wanted to go whistle at area churches after the competition was over. The way it was worded led me to picture a large gaggle of whistlers, standing in neat rows, soberly whistling “Amazing Grace.” I was up for that.
    •   •   •
    “You’re still up for it?” an elderly man with a large yellow pad inquired, the day before.
    “Yes,” I said. “Absolutely.”
    “Great. And you’re staying in Franklinton, right?”
    “That’s right,” I said, wondering where this was going.
    “Good,” he said. “We’ll have you at Franklinton Baptist, okay?”
    “Great,” I said.
    “Amy can’t make it—will that be a problem?”
    “Shouldn’t be,” I said. Dimly I began to wonder why he was telling me this.
    •   •   •
    The next morning, a little hungover from our karaoke revelry, I drove to the Franklinton Baptist Church, parked, and wandered in. I was wearing my Whistler Participation Ribbon to look festive. I glanced around. I didn’t see any other whistlers.
    The preacher came barreling over to me. “Are you our whistler?” he asked.
    Whistler, I thought. Singular.
    “Yes,” I said, “I guess I am.”
    “We are just so thrilled to have you,” he said. “Do you have music, or anything?”
    I swallowed. “No,” I said. “Just the whistling.”
    He nodded sympathetically.
    “You know,” I mumbled, “purity.”
    “Sure.”
    “Purity of sound. I pucker whistle. I’m a pucker whistler. Not palate. BOOOO palate.”
    “Well, we can’t wait.” He handed me a sheet of blue paper and a pen. “Do you have an intro you’d like for yourself?”
    I frowned at the paper. Did I have an intro? What was my intro? “Hello there, Franklinton Baptist! Alexandra is not actually a whistler! Well, she’s a whistler, but she’s not a good whistler. She is so sorry about all this.” “Hello there, Franklinton Baptist! Wow. I hope I make the mouth-noise you are expecting!” “Hello,” I finally wrote. “Alexandra is just blown away by how nice everyone is. She is honored to be here today, in this nice place, where people are so nice.”
    Then I got into the pew and started to think frantically about what I might whistle. Something patriotic, I thought. Something short. Something with not too many notes in it.
    The choir filed in. Parishioner after parishioner filled the pews.
    Who knew this church held so many people? I thought, frantically. Good God. It’s like a reverse clown car. I mean, er, not that,Lord. I mean a respectful metaphor, er, Lord. It’s like a very—beautiful—Eden-place. Er, listen, Lord, as long as we’re chatting, could You let me actually make some kind of sound that resembles a whistle? I’ll give You my firstborn. No, wait. You’ve been known to take people up on that. I’ll start flossing. I’ll—uh—I’ll—start going to church. No, wait. Something realistic. I’ll—give up—soft cheese. No, hard cheese. No, soft cheese. No—”
    The pastor took his place at the lectern. I applied some more ChapStick and took a sip of water. I wished for something stronger.
    “We are so, so lucky to have a whistler with us today,” he said. “A champion. All the way from Washington, DC! She says thank you for being so nice. Come on up here.”
    With nervous, slow steps, I approached the microphone. The congregation leaned forward expectantly. Something patriotic, I thought. Something short. How about “My Country, ’Tis of Thee”?
    I very slowly and breathily whistled “My Country, ’Tis of Thee.” It was not the most impressive thing that has ever happened. I also knew a song called “When I Get Back to the USA” that dated back to World War I and seemed to have roughly