A small man discusses small talk

I’m not real big on small talk. I understand that it’s a necessary social lubricant that greases everyday interactions, easing our way through the world. I know that when someone asks “how are you?” that they’re not really looking for a full medical and psychological report. I know the answer can fall into only about four categories: (1) “great”, which means better than average; (2) “fine”, a sort of neutral don’t-bother-me response; (3) “good”, usually said with a downward lilt that really means “not good”; and (4) “pretty good” (with a high-pitched stress on the “pretty”), which means horrible.

But I still think there’s too much of it, and I despise the excess. Much like the wolverine caught in a steel trap, I’d rather gnaw off my leg and leave it behind than continue a trivial conversation much beyond the standard four-phrase convention (“How are you?” “Fine. How are you?” “Fine”). Except instead of chewing off my leg I’d have to chew off the lower half of my face so it could continue the conversation after the rest of me is gone, and it seems physically impossible to gnaw off your own face, so maybe that’s not the best analogy. (This should give you some idea why I’m so poor at small talk.)

As the conversation continues, I shrug and I shift and I lean away, giving every possible body language indicator that I wish to be out of there. I even thought of inventing a fake pager that you could trigger that would allow you to extricate yourself. But this was in the day before cell phones and voice mail came along, and nowadays people would think you’re a Neanderthal to still be carrying a pager. Which I am, but that’s beside the point.

The worst is when you’re in an inextricable situation that nothing short of a stroke is going to free you from. I was at the dentist last Thursday having a crown re-cemented, my mouth numb, my body horizontal and my face half-covered with the nitrous nosepiece. My dentist was a young and recent addition to the practice. I had no concerns for her ability to deliver my care, but she showed she was new to the game by the way she handled the requisite dentist office small talk.

“So how was your weekend?” she asked. How was my weekend? Good lord, woman, this is Thursday. On Monday and Tuesday, you ask about the weekend just past. On Wednesday, you talk about the weather. On Thursday and Friday, you ask about the upcoming weekend. Don’t they cover this somewhere in eight years of medical training?

“Oh, I had a great weekend,” I’d like to say."I conquered Asia on Saturday then went on a three-state murder spree on Sunday.” I could even blame the nitrous. Instead, I kept it together and responded like a good dental patient: “Mmmpphh umph”.

I may hate small talk, but at least I understand the rules. You do have to study your enemy to know best how to deal with it. I’ve developed a number of defenses that I use to get me out of these situations. My best is this semi-permanent scowl I’ve developed that keeps most casual acquaintances at arm’s-length. (At age 54, it’s become such an ingrained part of my face that my smile is little more than a horizontal slit, and anything trending more upward makes me look like psychopathic.) Just now, sitting in a coffee shop and writing this piece, a vague acquaintance walked by the table and the ol’ slit/nod acknowledged her in such a way as to make her keep on walking.

I’m still looking for better strategies to deal with the unexpected encounters you occasionally stumble into. My wife and I were grocery shopping the other evening and I had stepped away to track down the organic cat litter special. When I returned, I rounded the aisle endcap to find my wife chatting away with someone we had gone through childbirth classes with 18 years ago. I was trapped into the ongoing conversation. What could I possibly say or do? They went on about our respective children, how shortly after giving birth she had lost her job with the airlines (who hasn’t?) but got free air travel as a buyout perk and her daughter was looking at colleges in Pennsylvania because that’s where her husband was from; his immediate family is Methodist but there’s a whole branch that’s Mennonite and it’s always strange to see them and how they dress…

Wait a minute, I thought, husband? Oh no, that’s right, I did see this vaguely familiar guy by the hot deli bar earlier, and soon he’s going to stroll up and this encounter is going to explode into a whole other dimension. I gotta get out! Clumsily, I raise my finger, mumble “I’m ‘onna g’get that other thing…” and rudely walk away. Just to be on the safe side, I leave the store and walk home.

The best defense of all, of course, is outright rudeness, best practiced on those you really don’t know at all but feel otherwise compelled to engage. At work, we have this maintenance guy who makes his daily rounds doing maintenance-guy things, one of which is to empty our garbage cans. Around 10:45 each morning, here he comes. My coworkers, most being friendly Southerners eager to show there’s no class divide between their white-collar world and Bobby’s garbage world, routinely chat up this poor fellow. Once when asked how things were going, he made the unfortunate disclosure that his father was sick and in the hospital. Now he’s asked five or six times a morning how his father is doing. Fortunately, the father seems to have recovered; either that or Bobby hasn’t figured a casual way to indicate the elderly gentleman is no more. I, on the other hand, make it a point to appear intently involved with my computer screen when he comes for my trash.

Not sure what he thinks of me, but if he hates me, I’m fine with that. Or pretty good. Or maybe just good.