in defence of small talk

death to the “all I want are deep talks in parked cars" notion

Once on a first date, a man spent 20 minutes explaining why I should vote for Jill Stein in the upcoming presidential race. It was a passionate soliloquy laden with buzzwords like “free will” and the “machine.” I stared out the window forlorn––a soldier headed to war. How did I get here? When would I return? The next few hours stretched in front of me like an ocean. His words finally slowed and I interjected:

“What about her vaccine policies? They’re like…not great.”

“Well, you know what vaccines do to our bodies,” he began.

I had been taken hostage.

In moments like these, I yearn for small talk. I wished I knew sports so I could ask him about the mythical “game” from last night. I thought about his untied Nikes, how it was unseasonably cool that evening, reality TV. Small talk was my only form of negotiation.

A 2014 Tweet floating around the ether reads something like “all I want are deep talks in parked cars.” Every other Hinge match’s profile reiterates some version of I hate small talk. Let’s discuss the universe, drugs, and where we go after we die. I imagined this Jill Stein political consultant nodding ferociously; what’s the point if I can’t push my Green Party Agenda? It seems like everybody’s over it. We’re big, celestial beings who want to contemplate the nature of the universe and how we fit into it.

But not me. I love small talk. I could spend an hour recounting how I was meant to take the B26 to work this morning but the bus came three minutes early so I considered taking a Citibike but remembered I was petrified last time of how fast the e-bikes go when you’re coasting downhill so I opted to run fifteen minutes late taking the L to the 4. There’s something intimate in small.

Tell me your favorite color is light green in the summer and dark green in the winter to match the seasons and I’ll hold onto it like a beach shell tucked in a desk drawer. I’ll paste your pointless trivia and your traffic updates in a scrapbook in the back of my mind. I’ll commit your pet peeves, your meanest teachers, the trip you’re taking to Albany next month with your sister to memory. I’ll imagine your Sundays with holes in your socks. The way you always forget to check the weather before you leave the house. I’ll bury myself in the nooks and crannies of your apartment, basking in the sunlight that streams through your window and jostles you awake before your alarm. I will create worlds of the smallness.

If you’ve ever indulged in a “deep chat in a parked car” you know there are limits to the art form.

“It’s crazy to think,” someone will begin, “that we’re just sacks of meat on a floating rock in space.” And now what? We’re all just sacks so why bother with any of it?

It reminds of me why I generally don’t like superhero movies. The problems become so big they are inconceivable and thus, uninteresting. The entire universe is being threatened and thousands of worlds will be destroyed if we don’t xyz. I don’t live in the universe, I don’t mourn for thousands of versions of myself on thousands of timelines. I am from Olympia, Washington. At one point, my whole world could be travelled in fifteen minutes.

On the other end of BIG TALK lies the Jill Stein date and his comrades. The men who bring a notecards and a rehearsed speech to the first date. They are the enemies of small talk because small talk requires a give and take. A what about you that derails the bulleted list of talking points for the evening. But here, big talk creates ripples of distance. I am one of hundreds listening to this carefully drafted speech about the economy and the state of the union.

I’ve found that many people use their hatred of small talk as a virtue signal and a means to undercut boundaries. I don’t have time for your weekend, your quirks, I’m thinking about bigger things. Give me the trauma, the cliff notes of your entire life, and let’s move on. We can’t possibly build trust while I’m contemplating the nature of existence.

But sometimes my whole world is two parties on a Friday evening in different parts of town. Or how my shoes are wet because we don’t really use umbrellas like that on the West Coast. You won’t get to know me by asking what I think about spirituality. Or death. Or what it means to be alive. I have no great philosophy on why I’m here or what I’m doing. But one day, my memoir will be composed of Thai takeout in the evening and a million thoughts on the new season of Love Island.

---

Who wrote this?

Emi is a pop culture writer and future micro influencer based in New York City. She loves dark comedies, backgammon, and Pad Thai. You can read her work on her Substack, bonkemoji.substack.com.