“We’re the Warblers,” the tuning fork woman said. This time she wore suspenders over her lumberjack shirt. From afar she was probably often mistaken for a man, until she spoke. Her stockiness didn’t match her voice.
“Is that your band?” I asked.
The redhead stiffened and adjusted her lime cuffs, which glared brightly against her white arms. “We’re a registered organization dating to 1950. During our heyday we had over two hundred members.”
“We’re what’s left,” The old man added, toasting a cookie at me. He ate from a box in his lap.
“Why whistling?” I asked.
They stared. I stared back.
“Because it feels good,” the wrestler said. “And it’s free.” He gave a wide smile and shoved his hands under his armpits.
“Whistling’s not my profession,” I told them.
“We know you sang,” the teenager grinned.
“I still do,” I replied.
They shot each other knowing looks before turning back to me.
“We thought you could counsel us for our upcoming Biennial,” the old man said.
I asked for clarification.
“There are local chapters like ours across the country.” The redhead spoke slowly, as if I were a child. “We meet up every second year. There’s a competition and we need help winning. Because Jojo here, despite her family connections, never pulls through.”
“I thought you did this to feel good,” I said.
The redhead stood with her hands on her waist. “I want my trophy. Everyone steers clear of opera for the classical component of the contest. That’s our in.”
“Why would they avoid opera?” I asked.
“Well, It’s so…”
“Loud,” she said.
“She means over the top,” the teenager added.
“It’s the acting that’s unfortunate,” the old man said. “Do they not equip you lot with lessons?”