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I’m not anti-progress by any means. I love my smart phone and the whole new way of communicating thing kind of suits the introverted side of my personality, I just worry we’re hiding ourselves behind technology, or we are creating technology to hide ourselves behind because it’s much easier that way. And then the less we need to do something, the less inclined we are to want to. It’s a kind of reverse evolution on a social scale. We’re going to end up in virtual caves, thousands of years after emerging from them. I suppose at least then I’d have an excuse to draw on the walls. And there’s something hot about cavemen, although I imagine all of the cavemen of the future to look a little bit like Elon Musk, but with bigger heads and thinner bodies.
It’s what I see when I emerge from my cave, the long queue of sour faced girls waiting to get into the cubicle who aren’t likely to appreciate the scene I’ve just left on the brick wall above the paper dispenser, and out into the frenetic buzz of the bar. I want it to be that famous scene from Star Wars but it’s more like the office party of another crowdfunded startup, with way too much facial hair and plaid.
I rejoin Alice in the booth she’s commandeered for us which gives us a perfect view of the rest of the bar. She doesn’t need to say anything, her look tells me she knows where I’ve been.
“I couldn’t resist”, I explain.
I have a tendency to draw on walls. Some people keep eye liners in their bags, I keep sharpies. It’s not an obsession, not in the same way as the other ones, but it is compulsive. I blame my imagination, which I blame squarely on my childhood. In short, it isn’t really my fault.
Oh, and drinking makes it worse.
“I had to put something in there, the wall was bare and white, it was asking for it”, I add.
“You’re wasted in that shop”, Alice says.
I don’t really want to talk about it. Six years in the same comic book shop I used to spend all of my saved up pocket money in. I’ve probably spent more time between those four walls than anywhere else. So much for my bachelor’s degree in graphic design.
“I’m going to quit”, I lie, “just as soon as I’ve got something else lined up.”
“That means you have to apply for new jobs, you can’t just expect something to fall into your lap like that.”
“There aren’t any”, I lie again.
There are, I just don’t have the confidence to apply for them. Plus my portfolio isn’t exactly normal at the moment. Erotic artwork featuring well known celebrities can only get you so far. It’s good, but it’s super niche.
“Then get something part-time so you can spend the rest of the time drawing”, Alice says. “I hate to see your talent go to waste.”
“I’ve got walls”, I say. “Plenty of walls.”
“Walls don’t pay your utility bills, and besides which, you can’t exactly leave your number in case someone wants to contact you.”
She has a point, so I change the subject.
“Have you noticed how there doesn’t seem to be any distinction between the men in New York anymore? They all look like they are related in some way. Same ridiculous facial hair, same clothes, same tattoos in the same places on their bodies, same outlooks and values.”
“That’s just Brooklyn”, Alice says. “Head across the bridge and it’s not anything like that. There are people in suits over there.”
“No seriously”, I say, only half joking. “I’m worried about the future of our men. We used to have punks and skaters, jocks and preppies, geeks and goths. All we’ve got now is a kind of weird sort of weakened down one-cup blend, as though they can’t decide what they want to be.”
“I think it’s kind of hot”, Alice says. “And anyway, it’s just fashion.”
“You mean people like to look like other people?” I say.
“Doesn’t everyone? If you’re going to make a statement about yourself it’s way easier if there are a bunch of other people making the same statement as you, and it doesn’t even matter now if you don’t really believe that statement in the first place. Fashion has always been like that, you know, more about the need to make a statement rather than the substance of it. We’re all the same, even if we think we’re not.”
“It’s making this bar look like a page from Where’s Waldo.”
Alice sniggers. “Maybe it’s just not your thing.”
“That’s my point, there isn’t much other choice”, I say.
“There are a thousand different styles of beard, a multitude of different plaid patterns and some of these men even have color in their tattoos”, Alice jokes. “You’re just not looking at the details.”
“Every tree is different even though the forest looks the same?” I ask cynically.
“Exactly.”
I sip my two drinks and look out at the crowd as though examining amoeba in a lit up dance floor petri dish. Is the father of my children somewhere amongst that crowd, tapping things obsessively, holding two drinks and sipping each of them in time to the beat? Actually, the last thing I’d want to do is find someone like me, that would be way too much to handle. One person with irrational obsessions is enough for any relationship.
“It’s always been like that anyway”, Alice adds. “From the dawn of time, there has always been one prominent fashion and several different subgroups. It’s just different as a kid. You notice the differences more, that’s all.”
“Everything’s different as a kid”, I say. “Life is much easier.”
Alice holds up her cocktail. “Yeah, but nowhere near as fun.”
“And you don’t have to worry about finding a partner”, I add.
“We don’t have to”, Alice says. “I just thought-.” She can tell the whole thing terrifies me. “Why don’t we have a look on Tinder?”
“It’s everything I hate about the modern world”, I say.
“Which means I know you secretly love it. It’ll just be for a laugh anyway, we won’t be doing it seriously.”
“Alright, if it’s for a laugh”, I say.
Alice grabs her drink, slides out from her side of the booth and pushes me along the seat so she can sit alongside me. I carefully realign my two glasses of wine, tap the counter with each of my fingers twice and lean into her.
“I guess you haven’t got an account?”
I give her my best what-kind-of-person-do-you-think-I-am-to-sink-that-low look and hope that she buys it. It’s not like I use Tinder often, it’s more for research and image ideas.
“We’ll use mine then”, she says.
This is an opportunity for me to speak up against the wave of communication change spreading through the world but I literally don’t have the balls. Even if I spiritually belong to a different era entirely, one of prospectors and pirates and hidden treasure, I’m way more Rapunzel than I am Elaine Marley, and besides which, emotionally I’m stuck firmly in the modern, digital age. In short, meeting new people terrifies the bejesus out of me, and just thinking about it makes me need to tap the table in sequence again.
“Just for fun?” I feel the need to confirm before we begin our location based search.
“Never say never”, Alice says again, as she watches me nervously guzzle back the rest of my wine like some kind of rampant alcoholic.
“But they can see where we are?” I ask.
“That’s kind of the point”, Alice says.
I can’t help but feel both simultaneously excited and gut wrenchingly nervous. It’s like watching someone get undressed from such an exposed location there is no doubt you’ll be getting caught. It’s like going to a library and watching porn only because you know everyone else is doing the same.
I don’t go to libraries to watch porn, by the way, I just go there to draw on the walls.
“Greg”, Alice says, and turns the screen towards me.
“No”, I say straight away.
“You haven’t even
seen him.”
“He doesn’t have any frames on his glasses”, I say. “It’s way too suspicious.”
Alice swipes left. “Paul”, she says excitedly, holding her cell towards me.
I shake my head. “Definitely not.”
“Look at those abs”, Alice argues.
“Look at the photo he’s taken. It’s way too conceited.”
Another swipe left. “Okay”, Alice says holding the phone against her chest for a moment. “You’re going to like this one.”
“I doubt it.”
“Alex, twenty five, artist.”
She shows me the phone. “He looks normal”, I say, taking it from her. “Normal photos, nice smile, doesn’t look like a serial killer, which probably means he’s a serial killer.”
I swipe left and hand it back to her.
“You are way too picky, you know that?”
“I’ve just had bad experiences with artists before”, I say.
“Casper wasn’t exactly an artist”, she says. “He was a painter and decorator.”
“That was just his day job”, I say, unsure really why I’m defending him. “In his spare time he was an artist, just not a very good one.”
I call the waiter over and order some more drinks. Two more glasses of wine for me, and another cocktail for Alice. I get the expected look of confusion and have to reaffirm my order.
“I thought you weren’t going to get drunk”, she says, without taking her eyes off her phone.
“I’m building up the courage to swipe right”, I say to her.
“This one”, she says, holding the phone in my face. “He looks like a real man.”
“He’s cute”, I say. “But not quite right.”
Alice sighs and swipes left. “I’m going to end up without a single match.”
“I don’t suppose there are any twins on there?”
“If you want to double date, we’re going to need triplets.”
“I’m beginning to think we’re going to need to do this the conventional way.”
“Here we go”, Alice says. “Mike, twenty four, junior doctor. That’s weird.”
