A Field Guide to Awkward Silences (3 page)

All this in my mind.

•   •   •

But as I followed my suspect into what I realized with horror was my dorm’s cafeteria it struck me that maybe calling in and saying, “I have the guy, the murder guy, with the bag,” might not be maybe exactly a hundred percent the best idea of all time. Maybe I should get the name, just so I wouldn’t sound like an idiot on what was sure to be the first of many lifesaving calls.

When I got to the cafeteria, my friends were no help. I nudged them, trying to avoid drawing attention.

“Doesn’t that guy there look like the murder bag guy on that recent episode of
America’s Most Wanted
?”

“Dude,” they said, “A, no one watches that but you. B, no one watches that but you. No one. And C, that’s the prelaw tutor.”

“No,” I said. “No, that’s a lie, that’s a falsehood, that’s an alias! I’m going to go look this up on AMW.com, and you are going to see who is vindicated and who is not. Keep a visual on him.”

I rose in a blaze of glory and climbed the stairs to my laptop to visit the AMW Web site and try to find the actual name of this Wanted Felon.

I found his name, all right.

I found the picture. I found the details of the case—the bag, the daughter. And he did look just like I remembered.

There was only one problem.

The crime had happened in 1970. It was unlikely he looked exactly the same thirty years later, unless of course he were some kind of warlock, in which case we had a much bigger problem on our hands.

So that was awkward.

•   •   •

You begin to see the pattern.

Every time I thought I was out, I was only dragging myself deeper in.

But maybe that was all right.

It was one thing to have people around you staring and murmuring and pointing at you. It was another to throw yourself into the awkwardness, wholeheartedly, and see where you could get.

If you leaped into it with both feet, arms flailing wildly, you were invincible, like someone in a video game who had stepped on one of those flashing stars.

But I hadn’t quite figured that out yet.

•   •   •

I couldn’t keep away the nagging sense that all this would have gone so much better if someone else had been writing it. I had more experience with books than people. And when people in books did things like this, they always turned out a little bit better. Logan Pearsall Smith said, “People say that life is the thing, but I prefer reading.” Logan Pearsall Smith was onto something.

My favorite book growing up was something called the
Penguin Dictionary of Modern Humorous Quotations
. It was given to me at a formative age and I read it cover to cover. It was an anthology of humorous quotations taken completely out of context, a sculpture composed entirely of elbows.

Do you want to know what Oscar Wilde said about smoking? I can tell you without even turning on my phone. (“A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and leaves one
unsatisfied.”) Do know want to know what George Bernard Shaw said about self-plagiarism? “I often quote myself. It adds spice to my conversation.” You want P. J. O’Rourke’s advice about when to send funny cards? “Save them for funerals, when their cheery effect is needed.” I’ve got all of this at the tip of my tongue.

Now it makes a kind of sense.

But back then it didn’t.

I read it cover to cover, over and over. I read all the naughty sections, where I learned everything that I knew about sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll. “Sex is bad for one, but it’s good for two,” I quipped. “For three, it’s fantastic.” I didn’t realize why some of it was naughty or why much of it was funny. But I knew that, on the occasions listed, those would be the words called for.

I had the words all ready to go. All I needed were the opportunities to use them. If I discovered love, I was supposed to agree with P. G. Wodehouse, that it “seems to pump you full of vitamins. I feel as if my shoes were right and my hat was right and someone had left me ten thousand a year.”

The quips were like bread crumbs strewn through literature for me to find. As I read along, there, in the middle of the page, would be a quotation that I recognized, beckoning me forward. There was that thing Oscar Wilde had said about marriage. There, on page 89, that Evelyn Waugh quip about sex and dentists. (“All this fuss about sleeping together. For physical pleasure I’d sooner go to my dentist any day.”) All of it made a little more sense when I saw where it fit.

The picture filled in, slowly. The words weren’t always right. They didn’t always defuse the situation with a laugh, the way I’d hoped.

There is a certain awkwardness inherent in coming at life book-first.

Life was a word whose definition I knew but I had never seen used in context.

That tends to lead to mispronunciations. And then someone has to take you aside and say, “No, it’s not Penile-ope, it’s Penelope.” “It’s Rafe Fines, not Ralph Fee-yennis.” (I’m pretty sure that one is on him, though.)

•   •   •

I had all the dictionary knowledge I could have wanted. What I needed was context. I had to go out there and live. I had to use all these words in sentences.

Reality comes on with a jolt. The way you imagine that things will be and the way they actually are go gliding toward each other like the
Titanic
into the general vicinity of an iceberg. Growing up is the process of watching them collide.

And that’s plenty awkward.

The only way I could handle it was to turn back around and feed it back onto the page again. On the page, marshaled in words, it made a kind of sense. On the page, I could almost see a logic to it. It had themes. It was awkward but it was also all the other things that life is—beautiful in unexpected ways, full of those strange gifts that the universe sends you on mornings that are otherwise rotten, when you walk past a statue that is supposed to be a majestic lion and notice it looks constipated instead, when you spot an unexpected purple house, when you hear a favorite character’s name being called out over the PA system at an airport and it feels like a private joke. The trick was to notice these parts and save them from the wreckage.

So. I swam out to the lifeboats, and began dragging the words onto the beach, shuddering, with towels around their shoulders, and waited to see what they’d look like when they dried.

• Nobody who actively enjoys middle school is a good person.
  
• Never wear a T-shirt with a picture of someone more attractive than you on it.
  
• “Live like you’re dying” is bad advice. You would never stop skydiving and telling people you loved them.
  
• Nobody saw that.
  
• There is nobody whose browser history, if published, would not fill the world with shock and horror.
  
• “I’m not a [noun], but . . .” = “I’m a [noun].”
  
• Never compare anybody to Hitler.
  
• It’s hard to pass the Bechdel test at brunch.
  
• The smaller and more esoteric the online community, the nicer the comments.
  
• Never read the comments.
  

A Handy Guide Arranged by Age

Talking is awkward. Not always, but most of the time. Not knowing what to say is even worse. At their worst, conversations can feel like a horrible countdown to the inevitable moment when you and the other person have both run out of things to say and, for want of anything better, are forced to start describing the scenery around you and reading, word for word, the signs you pass. Sometimes one or two ideas for things to talk about are the only difference between silence (awkward) and years of lasting friendship. And that’s where this guide (arranged by age) comes in!

Babies: You can tell if someone is a baby because that person is next to you on an airplane emitting sharp ninety-decibel bleats. If you aren’t sure if it’s a baby, try to pick it up. If it won’t come with you, or claws you on the shin, it might not be a baby.

Sometimes people treat their dogs or cats like babies, dressing them up in little Future Princetonian sweaters and buying them expensive organic food. This can be confusing. It is best not to go by how the human charged with their care behaves but to judge the baby itself. If it barks, it might not be a baby. If it wears a leash and collar, it could be your friend’s lover, Dean, although it is considered a little gauche to wear these things out in public.

The key to talking to a baby is not to act like you’re talking to a baby. Speak frankly and use adult words. One advantage of talking to babies is they seldom want to interrupt you with stories of their own, so you can wax eloquent to your heart’s content.

One-year-olds: One-year-olds look like babies, but larger. If one tries to engage you in conversation, “How ’bout that object permanence? Far out, right?” is a safe response.

Two-year-olds: These are called “the terrible twos.” Just to be safe, address them as you would a work colleague, avoiding controversial political topics that might set them off.

Three-year-olds: The difference between a three-year-old and a two-year-old is that three-year-olds scream less—unless they make a habit of listening to a lot of talk radio. They don’t remember much at this age, so it is still safe to insult them witheringly, as long as you keep your tone friendly and use polysyllabic words (“that ensemble is far from pulchritudinous, and you are NOT callipygian, not that I would notice, because that would be creepy, hey, you know what, never mind”).

Four-year-olds: Four-year-olds start to have personality. Some of them can read. They actually remember things that happen, so don’t insult them or say anything sick that might stick with them and warp their development.

Five-year-olds: Like four-year-olds, but louder and a little more mobile. This is the paper birthday. Or is it tin?

Six-year-olds: Don’t baby-talk to them—not because six is too old for baby talk, but because you should never baby-talk to anyone ever. Someone might overhear you speaking with a rising inflection and think you are unfit for a promotion, especially if you happen to be a woman.

Seven-year-olds: Just old enough to develop lingering resentments over not winning the class spelling bee or being typecast as a
rock in school plays. Should be able to read, but it may be difficult to find a book you’re both interested in discussing. A safe topic is how they are
nothing
like first-graders and clearly developmentally well advanced.

Eight-year-olds: They should be in third grade. Remember the rule: Age minus five equals grade! (The other rule is that whenever you apply this rule, it will be wrong. See also: when you are
ninety
percent sure you remember someone’s name and use it to address him.)

Nine- to Eleven-year-olds: Ask if they’ve “written any good books lately.” If my own experience is anything to go by, most kids this age have written something that they feel is a good book.

Twelve-year-olds: Middle school. Commiseration is called for.

Thirteen- to Sixteen-year-olds: Some gnawing obsession is devouring this person, infecting her Internet presence and eating the inside of her locker. Figure out what it is and you won’t need to say another word for the remainder of the conversation.

Seventeen-year-olds: Whatever you do, don’t ask about college. (Naturally, this will be the only thing you can think of to ask about.) Instead, try a less sensitive subject like, “Do you still respect your parents?” or “And your sexuality, do you feel that you’ve got a handle on it?”)

Eighteen- to Twenty-two-year-olds: There is something about being confronted with a recently minted adult that fills you with the overpowering desire to offer life advice. Try to resist this urge if at all possible. If you can’t, just quietly murmur, “As Dear Sugar says, don’t be afraid to break your own heart,” as you say good-bye.

Midtwenties: Quick, they are just on the cusp where joking about getting old is funny rather than Too Close to Home. Hangovers still manageable. Complain about yours.

Thirtysomethings: Before you can talk to a thirtysomething, you must identify him or her as a thirtysomething, a feat I have
never excelled at. For women of a certain class, white wine seems like a good signifier, but it’s hard to predict. One way of guessing is to see when they go to bed. Yawn and say, “Boy, it’s about time to turn in!” and see what the other person does. Good things to say to thirtysomethings include “So, do you still feel like an impostor?” and “When Mozart was your age he was still alive, but if I were you I’d avoid any suspicious antimony-based powders.”

Fortysomethings: When people turn forty you are supposed to address them entirely in reassuring slogans in the formula “[noun] is the new [noun],” at least if Hallmark cards are anything to go by (are they anything to go by?). Forty is the new thirty! Forty is the new orange! Forty is the new cupcake! Note that this will get old quickly, so you may be better off searching for common interests.

Fiftysomethings: Say, “How’s your back?” Once people hit a certain age, it is always safe to ask about their backs.

Sixtysomethings: This is about the age when all the technology in the house will turn on you, and cease to turn on for you. Address them accordingly. If you want to rile a sexagenarian, ask him to install something on your TV.

Seventysomethings: The best thing to do when talking to a septuagenarian is to quote, verbatim, the contents of any ominous-sounding forwarded e-mail of dubious veracity that you have recently received. They just love e-mail forwards of dubious veracity. This is about the age when you start to unquestioningly believe e-mails that are forwarded to you. Otherwise sane people will start telephoning their children out of the blue to ask if they know about The Horrible Lizard Thing the Masons have replaced the president with. Be careful that you are talking to a septuagenarian before you begin, though. Seventysomethings often look deceptively young. As a class, they are generally fairly spry, as long as you don’t ask too much of their hips.

Eightysomethings: They know what they like, and what they like is bowls of salted nuts, purses full of tissues, and listening to TV at a high volume. A fun conversation to have here is to urge one of them to retell you the plot of a movie he or she just saw part of on TV.

Ninetysomethings: Good things to say to ninetysomethings are not hard, as long as you speak slowly. If you’ve made it to ninety, you are indestructible, for a given value of indestructible. These éminences grises tend to avoid ice, high winds, and places where there is loud background music. Don’t try too hard to dazzle. Most conversations devolve quickly into volleys of nodding and shouting. You shout and she nods; then she shouts and you nod. Sometimes silence is best.

Hundredsomethings: Don’t ask about the competition for Oldest Living Person. It’s bound to be a sore subject.

Three Hundred Plus: This person is either a brain in a jar or a vampire. Which one is the case should be obvious. Modify your remarks accordingly.