In one town I’ve heard of, they always blink. In another, they always sneeze. In my town, we sing opera under our breaths as we walk down the street. Don’t ask me why. That’s just the way things are here.

Our town’s most legendary villain was Charlie Nosin. He simply refused to sing. When people would pass him on the street, he’d be completely silent. His lips would not be moving. "He must be a tourist," they thought.

One day, Charlie Nosin’s uncle was having his shoes shined when Charlie walked silently by. Charlie’s uncle, of course, knew that Charlie was not a tourist. He informed Charlie’s parents that he had seen Charlie walking without singing. They spoke to their son sternly.

In the course of the argument that ensued, it came out that Charlie Nosin hated opera. He only liked jazz. And he only liked jazz without vocals.

"That may be so," said Merle Nosin, Charlie’s father. "But still you must sing opera when you walk down the street."

"I will not," said Charlie.

"You will," said Marna Nosin, Charlie’s mother.

"I will not," said Charlie, and he ran out of the house.

In the days of Charlie Nosin they didn’t have boom boxes or portable radios of any kind. If they had, it would have made his infamous endeavor easier. As it was, Charlie Nosin had to rig up a car with a phonograph in the passenger seat and the horn-shaped speaker thing stuck on the roof.

He drove through the streets blaring jazz. People got confused. They lost their melodies. They couldn’t find their notes. They forgot their words. Some even forgot whether they were singing in German or Italian.

Everyone was furious. There was a general uproar. Charlie Nosin just cackled and rode on, tapping the steering wheel to the beat. Eventually, pursued by an angry mob, he took the main road straight out of town.

Nobody’s quite sure what became of Charlie in this life, but there’s little question about the next. All too often, mothers are heard yelling grave admonitions, "You’d better behave or you’ll end up in hell with Charlie Nosin and his horrible jazz." That used to scare the bejeezus out of me. Even now, I can’t hear that threat without reflexively humming a phrase or two from Die Zauberflöte.