An Ode To Small Talk

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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.

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