Thursday, December 2, 2010

Whenever the topic of conversation arises, I like to refer to it in grand terms, portraying it as an almost sentient being, a living entity that charts its own course and confounds my tendency to plan things. It ebbs and flows to its own secret music, and efforts to guide it will more than likely grate, resulting in an exchange that’s unpleasant or, even worse, plainly manufactured. But on a good day, left to its own devices, conversation wends where it pleases, resonates at a frequency agreeable to all parties, and turns into a quantity you didn’t know you needed.

This was a rich week, where I heard from Boo Bear, the Professor, and the Chief within days of each other. The exchanges varied in length and nature, but I appreciated them all. I was reminded of how I’m a genuinely terrible correspondent. I state this as fact, with minimal shame attached, and I decided to turn a pseudo-scientific eye toward the evidence. You know how I favor traditional channels of communication over the Book of Faces, which means I’m vested in e-mail, paper-based missives, telephone calls, and flare guns, in the absence of electricity or postage.

An impromptu audit of my outbox revealed, sure enough, that my e-mails were largely replies. I seldom initiate. On one hand, this is the very picture of sloth. Starting a conversation is, from a certain angle, the act of creating something out of nothing, and as such it calls for industry. Courage, even. At the same time, though, my communicative habits form a unique baseline, where I’m afforded a blank slate. I expect as much from you as I do from myself–which is to say nothing. This is why I find those occasional apologies about falling out of touch slightly bemusing. After all, I’m expending little to no effort to stay in contact, and that makes your initial e-mail all the more welcome. Indeed, I’m honored by it, and any communicative debts you thought you may have incurred are paid in full.

Not every conversation this week was engaging, naturally. One from today–a cold call–got downright annoying. The fellow was pleasant enough, and admittedly the deck was stacked against him. That’s because, like an interview or a business meeting, a cold call is usually an exchange that operates under the guise of a conversation, one in which nobody’s fooled. Against my better judgment, I picked up the phone for a blocked number and was promptly subjected to the talking points that are de rigueur for a sales call: Hey, I’m from so-and-so company and you guys are in Charlotte and, well, I happen to be from North Carolina originally, in a town about two hours from you, and would you like to spend money with us? I was rushing to something else, which accounted for a good portion of my impatience, but it was the geographical talk that exasperated the most. It’s, like, oh, you’re originally from the area? Then let’s be best friends, obviously, while you waste my time and I try not to sound like an asshole.