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An Ode To Small Talk
An Ode To Small Talk
An Ode To Small Talk
By
James Parker
The Atlantic
The correct answer to the question “How are you?” is Not too bad.
Why? Because it’s all-purpose. Whatever the circumstances, whatever the conditions, Not too
bad will get you through. In good times it projects a decent pessimism, an Eeyore-ish reluctance
to get carried away. On an average day it bespeaks a muddling-through modesty. And when
things are rough, really rough, it becomes a heroic understatement. Best of all, with three
equally stressed syllables, it gently forestalls further inquiry, because it
is—basically—meaningless.
Small talk is rhetoric too. Americans in particular are small-talk artists. They have to be. This is a
wild country. The most tenuous filaments of consensus and cooperation attach one person to
the next. So the Have a nice days, the Hot enough for yous, the How ’bout those Metses—they
serve a vital purpose. Without these emollient little going-nowhere phrases and the momentary
social contract that they represent, the streets would be a free-for-all, a rodeo of disaster.
But that’s the negative view. Some of my most radiant interactions with other human beings
have been fleeting, glancing moments of small talk. It’s an extraordinary thing. A person stands
before you, unknown, a complete stranger—and the merest everyday speech-morsel can tip
you headfirst into the blazing void of his or her soul.
I was out walking the other day when a UPS truck rumbled massively to the curb in front of me.
As the driver leaped from his cab to make a delivery, I heard music coming out of the truck’s
speakers—a familiar, weightless strain of blues-rock noodle. There was a certain spacey twinkle
in the upper registers, a certain flimsiness in the rhythm section … Yes. It had to be. The
Grateful Dead, in one of their zillion live recordings. And I knew the song. It’s my favorite Dead
song. “ ‘China Cat Sunflower’?” I said to the UPS guy as he charged back to his truck. A huge
grin: “You got it, babe!”
The exchange of energy, the perfect understanding, the freemasonry of Deadhead-ness that
flashed instantaneously between us, and most of all the honorific babe—I was high as a kite for
the next 10 minutes, projected skyward on a pure beam of small talk.